Shit…

Wow…

THIRTY-SIX PAGES…

Oy.

Right off the bat, I'd like to apologize to all those people whom I told that I would be done by the end of last week. Obviously, that's not how things panned out. But, if it's any consolation, this chapter is really friggin' long.

I'd really like to thank two people who've read this story: first, wild wolf free 17, who had so far sent me the spelling and grammar mistakes for each of my chapters that I keep on missing, as well as pointing out whenever I switch Jonathan and Jackson's names. Thanks for the help!

I'd also like to thank hortensio from GAFF, who's been a big supporter, and has helped me shoot down a troll as well as pimp my story to other members. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Dun own 'em.

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The One Warning: I DON'T GIVE WARNINGS. (Though I'm sure that you'll all believe me after that last chapter…)

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A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

Is It 'In Loco Parentis' Or Are the Parents Just Loco?

Jonathan and Jackson had the kind of father that wants desperately to be the best parent ever, yet, because of circumstances beyond his control, can never even come close to achieving that goal.

The Crane family was far from well-off, and Frank Crane spent most of his time on the job as a construction worker in order to support his family. He would spend days, sometimes even weeks on end at various sites away from home. Even when he was home, he would leave early in the morning and come home late at night. Whenever he was home, he was too tired to do anything but plop into bed and get some sleep.

He constantly felt guilty for being unable to spend much time with his family. It was obvious to anyone who talked to him that he really did love his wife and his sons. Yet, at the same time, he seemed unwilling to realize that he had no relationship at all with any of them. The three of them got so used to his absence that they never even noticed him when he was there.

There were times, however, that he would try his best to make up for his constant absences. On the rare night that he wasn't at work or exhausted, he might take his wife out to a restaurant that she hated, give her a gift she's never use, or take her to a movie she'd already seen with another man. She would always smile awkwardly at his attempts at romance, and Jonathan and Jackson would watch uncomfortably as their car rolled out of the driveway, knowing that their night would end in clumsy lovemaking at a local motel before their father returned to his work while their mother returned to one of her more attentive lovers.

Their father's attempts to connect with his sons were just as inept, if not more so. Jonathan remembered being dragged to the zoo when he was eight, starting with a hot, hour-long car ride with Jackson and their father. After a boring forty-five minutes of wandering, the two boys had been led to the monkey house in the hopes of providing at least minimal entertainment. Their father had been rather shocked when Jonathan, seeing that most of the monkeys hid from the view of visitors, screeched loudly, "Get your fucking asses out of the shade, you stupid dipshit animals!"

Their filthy language wasn't the only thing their father didn't know about. For all those years that Jackson and Jonathan engaged in their cruel antics in the woods, their father never seemed to hear a word about it from the neighbors, who'd seen the brothers' handiwork all too often as they grew up. Jonathan never could figure out why his father always seemed to think that he and Jackson were as pure as the driven snow. Perhaps their neighbors never told him what they saw his sons doing when he was gone. It made sense; to do so would potentially anger the man. After all, Frank Crane was six feet tall and burly; even though the man was generally even-tempered, most people tried to not to push their luck around him.

Of course, there was another option: that Frank Crane knew about the rumors and simply preferred to deny that they were true. This, too, made sense to Jonathan. Up until the night that he'd seen Jackson standing over Anna's dead body, he had always done his best to pretend that the Cranes were the perfect, happy, all-American family. He never seemed to realize that there was little to no affection between family members, or that his wife was sleeping around, or that his sons were doing cruel, torturous things to animals and each other. As long as he could delude himself into thinking that everything was alright, that seemed to be good enough for him.

Growing up, Jonathan and Jackson hadn't really cared much for their father. They tended to view him as a pathetic nuisance, preferring to be left alone rather than have him interfere in their affairs. Jackson especially seemed to loathe him. "The man is an idiot," Jonathan remembered hearing him say once. "He can pretend all he wants that he's fucking Father of the Year, but he'll never be any more than some dumbass on the street."

Looking back years later, Jonathan realized that he couldn't really hate his father with the same venom that Jackson did. In the end, he'd just been trying to keep his family afloat, and was doing it the only way he could. But Jonathan also recognized that, even though he couldn't hate him, he couldn't really feel any warmth or affection for the man, either. He may have been doing his best to support his family, but he had never been a father figure to either of his sons. Jonathan didn't look back at his father the way others would look back at theirs. He didn't feel love and affection, or even hatred and malice. He didn't feel anything when he thought of his father. And that was the sad part: in the end, his father meant absolutely nothing.

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Even though it was the middle of the morning, the room in which Jonathan Crane sat was as dark as it would be in the middle of the night. No windows were placed on the walls of the warehouse office, and the only light bulb in the room was dim and bare. It hung directly over where Jonathan sat, like Damocles' sword, making the whole seem more like an interrogation.

Standing only a few feet away was Henri Ducard, pacing the floor as he thought and spoke. Jonathan had never really understood why Ducard would insist that Jonathan sit during their meetings while he remained standing. It was probably a power issue, but all it did was make Jonathan feel like a disobedient pupil whom the teacher would reprimand for drowning the class gerbil.

Ducard was flipping through the contents of a large manila folder that Jonathan had given him, a hungry curiosity evident in his eyes as he pored over it.

"And this file…it has everyone?" Ducard inquired, taking only a second to glance towards Jonathan before returning to the pages in his hands.

"Yes. Every single patient that I've exposed to the toxin is listed in there."

"And you're sure that your toxin worked on all of them?"

"Absolutely. The toxin has been tested on patients of every height, weight, age group, gender, ethnicity, and all of them have succumbed."

"Were there any complications?"

"Different patients seemed to have varying tolerances towards the toxin. Those with weak respiratory systems, such as smokers and very young children, seemed to be the most susceptible. Some patients developed fevers, and a rare few developed violent tendencies."

With a small smile, Ducard inquired, "They attacked you?"

"Yes. They were restrained quickly, but they do their best to escape their confines."

Ducard pondered this for a few seconds, and Jonathan noticed with interest the delight with which he took this news.

Returning to his solemn expression, Ducard continued his questioning. "How have your dealings with Falcone gone?"

Jonathan sighed. "The shipments are being delivered as promised, but Falcone has become more demanding in terms of retribution."

"He's asking for more money?"

"No, favors."

Ducard gave Jonathan a curious expression. "Favors? What sort of favors?"

"He's asked me to testify at the trials of some of his cohorts and claim that they're insane so that they'll be transferred to Arkham."

"Which cohorts?"

"He had me testify at the appeal for Ms. Kyle, the woman who shot Joe Chill several years ago. Then there was Tom Collins, who was responsible for that massacre in the Narrows six months ago. Now he's asking me to testify for a Mr. Zsasz."

Ducard nodded, frowning a little as he turned this over in his mind. After a few seconds, he spoke, saying, "Falcone's aid is essential for this plan to come to fruition. Testify for this man's trial, but do not allow him to bully you into any more. If he tries, tell him that Ras Al Ghul will be arriving soon, and that he will not tolerate any lack of cooperation."

Surprised, Jonathan's ears perked up. "Ras Al Ghul is coming to Gotham?"

Solemnly, Ducard nodded. "Before the last shipment comes in, he will have arrived here with the rest of his men so that the final stage of the operation will run smoothly."

Jonathan arched an eyebrow. "The rest of his men?"

Ducard looked at Jonathan with chilly eyes before murmuring, "Come, I have something to show you."

Frowning as Ducard walked to a door in the back of the room, Jonathan followed cautiously, not sure what to expect from the mystical guru. Watching Ducard unlock the heavily bolted door, Jonathan braced himself, as though preparing for an attack.

Ducard swung the door open slowly, and as Jonathan peered inside, he could see only darkness. As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Jonathan could see dozens upon dozens of eyes staring back at him coldly.

"Dr. Crane, these are the first group of men that Ras Al Ghul has sent. He wanted to ensure that the last part of the plan went smoothly, so he sent them here to serve under your command."

Jonathan stepped into the room cautiously, glancing around at the uniformed men lounging around casually, their intense gazes focused solely on him.

"So these men…they're…"

"They are all trained in the ways of fighting, and are capable warriors. Should you ever need them, they are at your beck and call. They have been instructed to regard you as a superior."

Jonathan nodded absentmindedly, still looking at the men around him. Even the smallest among them was easily twice his size. There was an imperious strength in each of them, a hardened power that their eyes, their faces, even their postures reflected. Yet they seemed to look at Jonathan respectfully, a calm kind of subservience in their gazes.

Nodding, Jonathan responded breathlessly, "Alright, then…"

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Although one could argue that Mr. Crane was a good parent in spite of his shortcomings, it would be much harder to make a similar argument for his wife. Although one could say that she was never abusive to her children, that was probably the only good argument you could make. After all, it's rather hard to say that someone's a good parent when they're never actually around their children.

Selena Crane had always had big dreams, even as a little girl. Her parents had taken her and her siblings to Broadway shows ever since she was a little girl, and she knew that she wanted to be an actress. From the age of four, she was confident that she would be a celebrity and star in all of the biggest Hollywood movies. She had begged her parents to let her take acting classes from when she was five years old, and she'd gotten them. When she'd graduated from high school, she immediately enrolled in the drama program in a local university.

Her parents were well-off, and had loved to spoil Selena and her siblings. Every day of her life, she'd been told that she was beautiful, talented, and smart, and that she would achieve great things. She'd believed it from the bottom of her heart, and she had enough confidence to seize every opportunity.

That was, until she met Frank.

He was the sweet-natured man working at the local gas station to pay the rent for the shoddy apartment he shared with two other men. He was twenty, she was eighteen, and she was perfectly willing to flirt with him if he'd give her a discount for oil changes. In Selena's mind, it was light and harmless, not to mention helpful to her bank account.

Of course, she didn't think so when Frank, who had taken each of her flirtations to heart, awkwardly asked her out to see a drive-in movie. She'd stalled, saying that she'd think about it, then drove away with the intention of never, ever talking to Frank again.

That night, she got into a huge fight with her parents and stormed out of the house, planning on doing something ludicrous to piss off her parents. Ultimately, she decided that spending the night at a gas station attendant's apartment would be sufficient. So she drove as fast as she could up to the local gas station, marched right up to Frank, and told him that yes, she'd be delighted to go out with him.

The next morning, when she'd strolled into the house, describing in detail the events of the past night, her parents were horrified and enraged. This only amused Selena, and she couldn't help but laugh at the hysterical faces her parents made as they shrieked at her about modesty and decency.

She hadn't laughed when she missed her period, though.

Selena didn't tell anyone right away, hoping that she could somehow keep it a secret and quietly get rid of the baby once it was born. But she was a skinny girl, and it was only a matter of time before she began to show. It didn't help that Frank kept asking her out, and that she kept accepting for the simple reason that she still wanted to anger her parents. When both Frank and her parents noticed her bulging stomach, they were all able to put two and two together and realize what was going on.

When he found out, Frank insisted on making an honest woman out of her, and her parents agreed that marriage was the best option at this point. Not having much of a choice, she eloped with Frank about four months into her pregnancy. Unable to go to college anymore, she was forced to stay home while Frank worked two jobs to make enough money to support the three of them when the baby was born. As her stomach slowly grew larger, Selena could see her dreams of fame slowly vanish like sand inside a sieve, and she was helpless to do anything about it.

When she gave birth to a baby boy, Selena decided to name him Jackson. It wasn't because she had a fondness for the name, or even that she particularly liked it; she simply remembered hearing of some distant relative who had been named Jackson, and figured it would do.

After giving birth to Jonathan a little less than two years later, the Cranes moved from New York to a small house in Tennessee, where Frank had gotten work with a construction company. It wasn't a particularly nice house, and it was located in the middle of dense forest, away from the rest of town. But it was affordable, and that was all that mattered at that point.

She learned to resent Frank for everything: her unplanned pregnancy, her marriage at a young age, their poverty, their crappy house, everything. It didn't seem to sink in that there was blame on her shoulders as well, that she shouldn't have slept with someone for the stupid reasons that she did. All she saw was the fame and fortune she could have had, the dreams that she would never realize because she was stuck at home with two demonic toddlers.

As he grew up, Jackson would hear this story over and over again. His mother's bitterness didn't decrease with time, and since she had no friends to confide in during those early years in Tennessee, she learned to rant to her two young sons. Jackson was barely able to understand what she was even talking about, but her words impressed themselves into his memory so that he would know them by heart by the time he learned to understand them.

The rantings stopped, however, when Jackson was entering first grade. He didn't really know why, but he did know that his mother seemed especially pleased that Jonathan would be entering preschool. She also gave both of her children keys to the house, "Just in case I'm out when you come home for some reason" she'd said with a happy sigh.

It started as a few scattershot afternoons when Jackson and Jonathan would return home to an empty house until their mother returned, harried and anxious, approximately fifteen minutes before their father was due home. Days such as these increased in frequency rapidly, until it became a major shock to see their mother home more than twenty minutes before their father.

From the very beginning, their mother had made it obvious that her sons were never to tell their father that she wasn't home. "If Daddy asks you what you did today, tell him we all went to the movies" or "If Daddy calls, tell him that Mommy's taking a nap and can't pick up" were just some of the excuses she'd use, smiling to her sons as though this were a fun game to play. And she'd always end her instructions with, "It's a secret, okay?"

It got worse as the years passed. Since they always had trouble paying the bills, their father started to agree to more night shifts and to more jobs that involved being away from home. As their father grew absent for longer periods of time, so did their mother. She'd spend nights on end away from home, and Jackson and Jonathan would vaguely wonder where the hell she was sleeping.

Even when her husband was home, Selena Crane still found ways to escape the house. She would pretend to be dropping off mail at the post office, or going to the laundromat's, and then come back three hours later. She would ask for money, saying that she needed to go grocery shopping, then come home hours later with the smell of alcohol on her breath and her lipstick smeared. On Sundays, she would tell her husband that she'd take Jackson and Jonathan to church, letting him "rest up after workin' so hard all week." In reality, she'd drop the boys off at a movie or the arcade before going off on her own.

Once, when he was ten, Jackson had followed her during one of these "church visits". He'd left Jonathan at the movie theater while he stalked his mother from a distance until she stepped into the local bar. He had run up to the building and peered through one of the dingy windows to see his mother sitting in a strange man's lap, laughing carelessly before she downed a shot of vodka.

Jackson had returned to the movie theater disgusted and angry, not paying attention to whatever movie was playing as he went over the image of mother in the tavern again and again and again.

Throughout all the years that his wife pulled these schemes, Mr. Crane always seemed blissfully unaware of his wife's infidelity. Just as he merrily denied that his sons would ever do all the terrible things that they built their reputations off of, he never seemed to entertain the notion that his wife could have eyes for another man, even when he was gone from home so often. Jackson would wonder whether he was actually that naïve, or if it was just easier to see things the way he wanted to.

In any case, his mother's reputation as the town slut was far more enraging than his father's naïveté in regards to her chastity. Jackson knew how the other housewives would murmur to each other about the things she did in town, the various boyfriends she kept wrapped around her finger, and the husbands who'd been made adulterous by her charms. And Jackson heard them gossip quietly about him as well when he walked through town, their voices low but clear, and their disapproval as irritating as it was obvious. Every time he passed by, they were always saying the same exact thing:

"Well, what could you expect with a mother like that?"

Jackson hated his mother even when he was a young child. A feeling of disgust welling up inside of him whenever she returned home, tipsy from drinking and her makeup smudged, her skirt stained from the semen of horny men who'd found a cheap slut to fuck.

He hated how obvious she was with her infidelity, especially when she spoke to either of her sons. There were times when she would stand in their bedroom doorway for a few minutes, musing mostly to herself as her sons ignored her. "It's sad, y'know?" she'd remark. "It's like I was never married. You'd think a man would wanna watch over his wife and protect what was his…y'know, make sure that no man would make eyes at your woman. But your dad's stupid that way. You'd hafta be an idiot to think that other men aren't gonna take advantage of the opportunity he's leaving them." She seemed to always forget how her husband could probably work fewer hours if she ever got off her ass and got a job.

Whenever she talked like that, Jackson's blood boiled, and rage would well up inside him. He just wanted to slam her against a wall and tell her what a whore she was, how she was needed to learn to keep her fucking legs together, how she was an ugly cunt that the whole town was laughing at. He wanted to scream at her how she was such a hypocrite for making it seem like a fucking emotional dilemma for her to lie there and let some guy bone her. He wanted to hurt her, to take something sharp and shred her face so that no man would ever find her beautiful, then cut out her tongue so he'd never have to hear her voice, and then chop off her legs so she couldn't spread them for any man that came along. He wanted to violate her a thousand times so that every time she even looked at another man, she'd think of Jackson's wrath and shudder.

Every time that Jackson looked into a mirror, all he could feel was rage. His blue eyes had been inherited from his mother, as well as his pale skin and thin stature. It was obvious that they were related, and Jackson would often wish that he could look like someone else, anyone else, if that meant that she wouldn't have to look like the woman that he despised with such fervor.

She'd abandoned him. Mothers were supposed to love their children and raise them, but she used every opportunity she could to abandon her kids to flee to the arms of strange men. And with his father gone all the time, Jackson was left alone with a little brother clinging to him for support.

Jonathan would sometimes ask Jackson why he hated their parents so much, and Jackson would try to explain, but it always sounded like ranting and raving. Jackson knew that Jonathan would never understand, though, no matter how eloquently Jackson might phrase his reasons. Jackson had been abandoned. He had no mother or father to turn to, so he'd been forced to essentially raise himself during their absences. Jonathan didn't know what that was like; he'd had Jackson to lean on and turn to. He didn't know what abandonment felt like.

Jackson would never understand why Jonathan felt so fucking guilty for killing her in the end. She'd deserved worse. Having a few bullets pumped into her was a light punishment compared to what Jackson would have liked to do with her. When Jackson had poured the gasoline over her corpse that night, he'd delighted herself by imagining her carcass ablaze, that hag face being eaten slowly by the flickering flames. The image had filled him with glee as he struck the match and ran.

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Jackson remembered waking slowly waking up one morning about two months after he and Jonathan had begun their nighttime lovemaking. The morning sunlight beat down on his closed eyelids through the open bedroom window, marking for a very annoying wakeup call. Without opening his eyes, Jackson racked his brain to remember what day of the week it was. It was…Sunday. Which meant no school, and no reason to get up any earlier than noon.

Feeling something that felt like hair tickle his chin, Jackson cracked open his eyelids to see the top of Jonathan's head, his brother's face hidden from view while buried in Jackson's chest. Feeling Jonathan's warm breathing on his collarbone, Jackson tried to remember the events of the last night. Thinking about it, he realized that he and Jonathan must have been too tired after fornicating to remember to sleep on separate mattresses. He did note that they seemed to have had enough energy to put their clothes back on, at least.

In any case, sleeping in the same bed wasn't that unusual for them, even if they did normally sleep apart. Jackson could remember a few other times where lack of energy or sheer laziness had caused them to end the night sleeping each other's arms.

Closing his eyes again, Jackson decided that he'd go back to sleep, not really wanting to get up quite yet. He allowed his mind to wander off in the pursuit of sleep, and he sunk his head into his pillow. Absentmindedly, he wrapped his left arm around Jonathan's back, the younger boy acting as a sort of human blanket as Jackson drifted back into lulling dreams.

Jackson had almost managed to reach sweet unconscious when he heard a quiet creaking noise. He didn't realize the significance of this until it was too late, when the sound of a feminine gasp reached his ears.

Eyes snapping open, Jackson turned his head to see his mother standing the bedroom doorway, her face a mixture of confusion, embarrassment, and curious suspicion.

"I…um…I" she stammered, as whatever words she had meant to say stumbling as they tried to make their way from her mouth. Jackson bolted upright, suddenly immensely grateful that he and Jonathan had actually had enough energy to put their clothes on before falling asleep.

His mother stammered for a few more seconds, obviously unsure of what to make of the sight before her eyes. "I just…um…" Shaking her head a little, she finally managed to ask, "Do you have ten bucks I could borrow?"

Jackson, attempting to act calm as his heart pounded furiously, nodded and said, "There's some money on the desk."

His mother nodded dazedly for a second, obviously no longer focused on the money she needed to borrow. Without even a hint of moving towards the desk, she stood there, stuttering, "Is there…erm…" Taking a second to recompose herself, she asked, "What are you two doing in the same bed?"

Jackson looked down at Jonathan. "Oh," he remarked, as though he hadn't even noticed that there was another human being sleeping next to him. Pretending to think hard, he fumbled, "We…we grabbed some beers from the fridge last night, and we were drinking…I guess we must have passed out or something."

"Oh." His mother nodded absentmindedly before turning around and walking away without the ten dollars, glancing back at her sons every few seconds with suspicious eyes.

"Wha…" Jackson felt Jonathan stir next to him, and Jackson looked to see his younger brother looking around, eyes half-open, a confused expression on his face. "Wha's goin' on?" he mumbled, not fully awake yet.

Jackson looked at him, panicking internally with the anxious air of one caught in a trap. "Mom saw us."

Jonathan's eyes widened as the full force of this statement hit home.

"Oh, shit."

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Jackson felt like a lead weight as he lay there on the couch, his head immobile on the arm of the sofa. As the rays of daylight beat against his face, Jackson felt like grabbing the sun and hitting its snooze button. Since he didn't have that option, however, he chose to pry his eyes open slowly in the hopes that he wouldn't be greeted by the horrific nightmares from before.

As his eyelids lifted, the image of Jonathan's bland, uninteresting apartment met his eyes. When Jackson realized that there were no corpses or demons or rivers of blood in his field of vision, Jackson immediately decided that Jonathan's apartment was the most beautiful thing in the world, and that he would never again hate the fact that it was so fucking ugly.

Moving his head slightly, Jackson glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. Twelve-thirty. Jonathan had left about five hours ago, and Jackson had been asleep ever since.

Turning onto his side, Jackson looked down and saw the cup of coffee that Jonathan had given him before he'd left. Even knowing that it would be cold and would taste like crap without milk or sugar, Jackson grabbed the milk with his right hand and began to sip at the weak-tasting coffee. At this point, he needed some caffeine is his system.

After a few more gulps of the stale beverage, Jackson felt somewhat more awake. Slowly, he sat up on the couch, aching all over and a migraine pounding inside his skull.

Groggily, Jackson made an attempt to stand up, his legs feeling like dead weight beneath him. Tentatively perched on his feet, Jackson managed to stand for about two seconds before crashing face-first to the ground.

Feeling much more awake once the jolts of pain shot through his face, Jackson pushed himself up into a sitting position. Now aching even more than before, Jackson's head pounded as he surveyed the room around him in annoyance.

Remembering the vivid hallucinations of the previous night, Jackson felt a surge of curiosity and skepticism. Whatever Jonathan might say, those visions were most definitely not the result of a bad drinking spree. He'd been drunk before, and he'd never gone through hell like that. And he'd had hangovers as well, but this was much worse than any he'd had before. Jackson felt like he'd been beaten to death with a tire iron, and he was so dizzy that he almost couldn't see straight.

Grabbing the mug holding the remains of the coffee, Jackson gulped down the rest of the shitty beverage in one fell swoop. Not feeling better for having done so, Jackson carelessly tossed the mug off to the side, not really caring if the dregs got on Jonathan's floor.

Turning around, Jackson grabbed the arm of the sofa and pulled himself back onto the couch. As soon as he had done so, he lay back down with his head on the arm of the sofa. The mystery of the hallucinations could wait. Jackson felt like crap, and all he felt like doing was getting some sleep.

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For the rest of that day, Jonathan and Jackson had felt completely on edge. Even without saying so out loud, they both knew that they were in really deep shit. If their mother figured out what they were doing all those nights they spent alone, then there was no doubt that they were completely screwed.

Jonathan spent the rest of the day racking his brain for all the possible things their parents could do to them. Grounding them for life seemed too minor, and it wasn't like they'd ever be able to enforce it. Major therapy seemed like an obvious result, but how in the hell would they afford it? Maybe they'd send them to boot camp or something to try and straighten them out. Or maybe it'd be like when a teenage girl got pregnant, and one of them would be sent away to a relative so that they'd never see each other again.

Wait, wasn't incest illegal? Realizing this, Jonathan started to feel ill. Their parents could send them to jail for years if they wanted to. And not just for the sex, either. They'd already admitted to drinking, and they were both underage.

Jonathan felt nauseous, and his head began pounding with an awful migraine. This was not good.

That night, when the two brothers heard the sounds of a car driving away and their mother's heels clicking up the driveway, their hearts sank in dread of what was to come.

She didn't confront them right away, as they had silently expected. Instead she went into her room and changed out of her sleeveless top and short skirt in to the more casual outfit of jeans and a blouse. As soon as she did so, she walked into the living room and sat quietly on the sofa, hands in her lap as she waited.

After about twenty minutes more, they could all hear the crunch of gravel as Mr. Crane's car pulled into the driveway. An onlooker would have been amused at the way that all three members of the family stiffened as they heard his footsteps coming up the stairs to the door. An onlooker would have also enjoyed the desperation with which Jonathan and Jackson scrambled to their closed bedroom door and pressed their ears tightly against the wood so as not to miss a syllable of the conversation that would ensue.

As their father swung open the door, they heard the cheerful call, "I'm home!" resonate throughout the house. Jonathan checked his watch. 9:18 PM. Armageddon had begun.

The two brothers listened to their father's plodding footsteps as he trod over to their mother. They heard a wet smacking of lips as he gave her a chaste kiss before asking, "And how are you?"

"Oh, fine. How was work?"

"Same old, same old. Where are the boys?"

A sigh. "They're in their room, as always."

"Alrighty. I'll just pop in and say hi to them…"

"Wait."

A pause. Jonathan could clearly envision the almost pained expression on his mother's face as she bit her lip in frustration, his father giving her a curious yet worried expression. But maybe that was just him being melodramatic.

"I need to talk to you for a minute."

"…what's wrong?"

A pause. Jonathan and Jackson exchanged a glance, and Jonathan could see that the urgency he felt was reflected in his brother's eyes. They both held their breath, as though doing so could help them pass safely through the flames.

"I know I might be making too big a deal out of this…I mean, it's probably nothing, but…"

"Yeah?"

"Well, this morning, I went into our sons' room…"

"And?"

Jonathan rolled his eyes. He knew that his mother's pauses were deliberate. After all those years of acting classes, she knew how to create some major dramatic tension.

As though a metaphorical bubble had burst, their mother blurted out, "I saw the two of them sleeping in the same bed."

A pause.

"Did you ask them why?"

"They said that they took some beer from the fridge and must have passed out from drinking."

A sigh. "I'll talk to them. I've told them before not to touch the liquor in the house. But I guess boys will be boys."

There was an incredulous pause as three members of the family seemed frozen from disbelief. Jonathan was overjoyed, his heart pounded in relief. He mentally offered thanks to every deity he could think of for making his father a gullible fool.

Of course, Mrs. Crane was far from finished. "And…?" she asked expectantly, clearly not believing what she was hearing.

"And what?"

"Well, don't you find that a little strange?"

"That they were drunk?"

"That they were in the same bed!" their mother shrieked, and Jonathan couldn't help but giggle a little at how hysterical she sounded over the whole thing.

Sounding taken aback, their father asked, "Jackson said that they passed out, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then what's the problem?"

There was a pause in which Jonathan could only assume that his mother was gathering her thoughts. He mashed his ear up against the door not sure what she was going to say or even what he wanted to hear. Looking over at Jackson, Jonathan could see that his brother was trying to do the exact same thing.

After a few seconds, their mother replied calmly, "The way they were lying there…well, they had their arms around each other."

There was a clink and a pouring sound. Their father must have gone to the kitchen and poured himself a drink.

"Look, when you're asleep, you're not sure what you're doing. It's like how someone'll grab a pillow or a blanket in their sleep, and they don't even realize they're doin' it."

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"The way they were holding each other…it almost seemed intimate."

"So? Selena, this isn't some grand mystery. They got drunk. They passed out. They happened to pass out on the same mattress. That's all there is to it."

Jonathan listened to their father's plodding footsteps as he left his wife to go to their room. When their mother's lighter treading didn't follow, Jonathan breathed a sigh of a relief and sat back from the door.

Looking over at Jackson, Jonathan grinned a little. "It's over."

Jackson leaned back on his palms, staring curiously out into empty space. "Not for her, it isn't."

----------

Jackson's prediction was proved sadly accurate. Their mother, who hadn't spent a single second she didn't have to with her sons in the previous decade, had decided to take it upon herself to monitor their every movement., from rising in the morning until they went to sleep at night. It was a complete one-eighty degree change for Jonathan and Jackson, and an irritating one at that.

It all started the next morning, when their mother swung open their bedroom door at 6:15 in the morning, an hour and fifteen minutes before they needed at school. She cheerfully shook them awake, acting as though this were a ritual she'd performed every day of her life. Little did she realize that her sons had never given a shit about making it to school on time, and had no qualms with showing up late or unprepared.

After making them eat pieces of burnt toast (a culture-shock to two brothers who'd spent years eating potato chips for breakfast), she marched them off to the bus stop. The other kids waiting there were rather surprised, since they'd never seen either Crane brother on the bus before. Their mother, trying to be as maternal as possible, stood and watched as the bus pulled away while her two sons wondered what in the hell they had just experienced.

She was there that afternoon, too, when they arrived home from school. She was sitting in the living room, reading a magazine until they entered. She had greeted them warmly before asking them pleasantly about their day. The two boys had answered gruffly before going to their room and shutting the door behind them.

That evening, at around seven o'clock, she called them out of their room brightly so that they would come have dinner. "It's been so long since we all sat down to a meal together," she remarked, adding, "You know, just the three of us."

Dinner consisted of stale, reheated pizza and some soda pop. Throughout the meal, Jonathan and Jackson were forced to endure awkward questions about various topics. Mostly, though, she tried to focus her questions around girls: girls at their school, girls they thought were pretty, girls they talked to, and girls that might potentially make good wives. Their answers were short and bland, until Jackson had a stroke of brilliance and decided to start listing every female he had ever considered even slightly attractive, describing certain aspects of their anatomy before rating them on a scale of one to ten. He was about to go into a recollection of a particularly vivid wet dream when his mother stopped him, saying that she'd throw up if he said any more.

After dinner, the two boys retreated back into their room, lounging around until ten o'clock, when their mother burst once more into their room. This time, she cheerfully announced that it was time for them to get some sleep if they wanted to wake up on time for school. Jackson promptly responded with, "Go away, you ugly cunt," which led to some squabbling over the next hour. The last thing Jonathan remembered before falling asleep was hearing Jackson ask if she'd rather have him be anatomically correct and refer to her as a vagina.

----------

Jonathan was slowly beginning to learn that the job of a psychiatrist could easily drive a person as insane as the patients they were trying to help.

It wasn't the patients themselves that bothered Jonathan; far from it, in fact. Deciphering a person's mental state was like a game to Jonathan, a cruel game in which you could learn a person's greatest fears and deepest secrets. No, it was Jonathan's colleagues that were slowly driving him to the brink of madness.

"Oh, Dr. Crane, I just wanted to let you know how much I admire/respect/worship you/your work/the ground that you walk on. Is there anything I can do to help you/make your life easier/get you in bed?"

Honestly, their kiss-ass behavior did nothing but irritate him beyond all measure. All those backstabbing infants wanted was a good reputation…and his job. It seemed that in their years of medical training, no one had ever told them that sucking up was not the only way to get their boss's attention. There were times that Jonathan just wanted to scream at them to get back to work already before he did some very drastic things to their faces with a scalpel.

Besides, their praise over his intelligence or talent was all bullshit, anyway. Most of them weren't under any delusions about how to attain authority in Arkham. The majority of them had gotten their jobs the same way that Jonathan had: connections to Falcone. There were a few, however, that had gotten in because of rich benefactor families who were willing to make rather generous donations. Those scattershot few remained blissfully unaware of their colleagues' Mafia ties, accepting their higher-ups' empty talk of "skill" and "knowledge".

All in all, Arkham's staff was made completely out of the corrupt or wealthy. After all, it was the most renowned asylum in the state; it was too proficient to allow doctors who got by on talent.

In any case, Jonathan should have known not to get thirsty in the middle of the day. Getting thirsty was a dangerous thing to do in the middle of a work shift, because that meant that your thirst would have to be quenched. And to do that, you needed to go to the water cooler.

Jonathan was a fairly practical person, and he had a tendency to view the water cooler as an item used to fill a small plastic cup with cold water. Apparently, he was mistaken in this assumption, since absolutely everyone else on the Arkham staff used the water cooler as a place to tear into each others' reputations.

Jonathan wasn't under any delusions that the other doctors didn't tear into him while he wasn't around. He honestly didn't give a damn what those jealous, malicious hacks thought of him. No, it was the fact that the water cooler was the place where his underlings took the time to pass on to him the most vicious rumors they could muster, in the hopes of knocking all others out of Jonathan's favor.

Sure enough, as Jonathan walked over to the water cooler, three of his colleagues were chatting animatedly about some other doctor's extramarital affair. He knew all of them: Mark, a middle-aged doctor who shouldn't have graduated high school, let alone medical school; Harley, a brutal blonde with an annoying giggle; and Raymond, a semi-senile psychologist.

Nearing them, Jonathan could hear snippets of their conversation, and fully dreaded what he was getting himself into.

"…I mean, just look at a picture of her! She looks like something my dog threw up, and he's actually fucking her!"

This statement was greeted by a chorus of giggles. As Jonathan came closer, he silently hoped that he would somehow go unnoticed. But as soon as he came near, the three other doctors greeted him with a chorus of, "Hey there, Jonathan!" Inwardly, he groaned at the supposedly friendly abuse of his first name. Nodding a hello, Jonathan grabbed a plastic cup as quickly as he could, hoping to get this painful experience over with as soon as was humanly possible.

But, of course, this was not meant to be. Crowding around him like moths to a candle flame, the three doctors smiled as though they and Jonathan were as chummy as could be. The first to open his mouth was Mark, who established himself as head gossip the second he let out idiotic word after idiotic word.

"Did you hear about the new doctor? The one the board of directors chose to replace Robert?"

Harley nodded, squeaking in her high-pitched tone, "I heard he was supposed to start today."

Jonathan racked his brain as the water filled his cup. Now that he thought about it, he did remember hearing that the board had selected a new doctor to work at the asylum. However, the rest of what he'd heard had been relentless monotone as Jonathan imagined what his superior's head would look like on a pike.

Raymond asked Mark with suspicious curiosity, "What's he supposed to be like? I heard he's coming straight from med school."

Mark rolled his eyes with an undeserved haughtiness before replying. "Jackass has one of those rich fathers that 'persuaded' the board to take him on. I mean, really: he's supposed to be one of those rich, hoity-toity mama's boys from frigging Long Island. Can somebody scream 'pussy' for me, please?"

A chorus of laughter ensued, with Jonathan trying to make an escape, until a high-pitched, somewhat nasal voice noted, "Wouldn't it be really awkward if you turned around and the new guy was standing right behind you?"

All four doctors turned their heads to see a young-looking man with an annoyed smirk on his face. He was fairly short, about 5'6", 5'7" at most. His skin was pale, and his face came off as somewhat effeminate, as though the doctors were dealing with an irritated pixie. He had shoulder-length black hair, which was tousled in a way that wasn't nearly as attractive as the wearer probably thought it was. What was most striking about the young doctor, however, were his icy blue eyes, which looked like marbles sitting in his sockets and peering closely at each of them.

Right then, he seemed to be either annoyed or bemused. In either case, he seemed to enjoy the deep shade of red that the three jabbering doctors turned when they figured out exactly who was addressing them.

Speaking in that slightly haughty tone that people adopt when they feel insulted and smiling with false sincerity, the young doctor extended his hand in a gesture of mock friendliness. "Name's Leon Warren, clinical psychiatrist. And I'll wager that you're my new coworkers, correct?"

Awkwardly, the three gossipmongers nodded before shaking his hand in turn before mumbling their names. As soon as they did so, they quickly scurried away, hastily making excuses as they scampered back to their offices. Jonathan, too, was about to use this opportunity to escape, and had made it about five feet when Leon's nasal voice called out, "I didn't quite catch your name."

Jonathan stopped and turned to see Leon watching him, the haughty annoyance gone and replaced with curiosity. Jonathan walked over to him, resigned to introducing himself to yet another coworker that he would learn to loathe over time. Extending his hand, he stated dully, "I'm Dr. Jonathan Crane. I'm the head doctor at this asylum."

Shaking his hand warmly, Leon remarked with a grin, "So, you're my boss then? Do I need to bow down or do I just lick your shoes?"

Mentally groaning at the prospect of yet another suck-up for an underling, Jonathan replied, "That'll be unnecessary."

Pulling his hand away, Leon arched his eyebrow in amusement. "I was joking." Smiling, he continued. "In any case, I suppose I'll be seeing you around."

"I would presume so."

"Well, then, I'll see you later, then, Dr. Crane."

Nodding, Jonathan began to walk away, leaving Leon back by the water cooler. Relieved to be able to finally return to his office, Jonathan noted that at least the new guy had the decency not to call him by his first name.

----------

For the next week or so after that first day of their mother's meddling, Jackson and Jonathan were forced to endure the same daily ritual of irritating intrusion.

Their mother soon began hovering around her sons as though they were explosives that could detonate at any minute. Rather than letting them spend their spare time in their rooms, she would insist they sit in the living room where she could keep an eye on them. Whenever they set foot out of the house for even a second, she would demand to know where they were going and why. And she seemed to spend every minute of the day asking them probing questions.

"How're your grades in school? What kinds of kids do you hang out with? Are you in any clubs? What're your classes? Do you like any of your teachers? What kind of food do you eat there?"

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

After so many years of having to fend for themselves, the relentless intrusions into their lives were beyond irritating for the two brothers. Since before they could remember, they'd been given free reign to do as they pleased, and to suddenly switch to a strict schedule was a huge transition, as well as an unwelcome one.

The part that irritated Jackson the most was the insincerity of the whole thing. She wasn't switching to supermom because she wanted to become a good parent, or because she felt some kind of guilt for never having been around before, or even because she loved her kids. No, it was because she caught her sons sleeping in the same bed, and she wanted proof that her assumptions were correct. Even worse, she seemed to think that the constant supervision would somehow "straighten them out". It was just abhorrent; she didn't give a shit about her own kids until she realized what messed-up little fucks they truly were.

One night, after a week of such torture, Jonathan and Jackson were lounging around their living room when heavy footsteps trod up the front steps, the door swung open, and a familiar voice boomed, "I'm home!"

Jackson and Jonathan didn't even look up as their father made his way into the room, beaming as he shed his jacket. A second later, Mrs. Crane entered the room as well, smiling awkwardly. "Hello, honey."

Grinning ear to ear, Mr. Crane wrapped his arms around his wife in a bear hug before giving her what was probably a very uncomfortable kiss.

After pulling out of their lip lock, he brightly asked, "And how're you doing, dear?"

Smiling as though forced to do so at gunpoint, Mrs. Crane replied, "Doin' just fine. And you?"

"Peachy!" her husband replied jovially, not seeming to notice the lack of enthusiasm behind his wife's voice.

Hoping that his parents were sufficiently distracted, Jackson quietly made his way towards the front door. He was desperate to escape his mother's hovering, and she hadn't let him out of the house all day except for school. If that didn't constitute cruel and unusual punishment, nothing did.

He wasn't sure what he'd do once he got out of the house. Probably, he'd go into town and terrorize a few people. All he knew for sure was that he had to get out of that house as soon as was physically possible.

As fate would have it, though, he only made it about a step outside when he felt a hand grabbing the collar of his shirt and heard his mother's voice asking, "And where are you going?"

Sighing, Jackson replied flatly, "The woods."

"Why do you wanna go there?"

"Because I'm bored as all hell. Can I go now?"

"Why don't you just stay here? Your father's home, so why don't you tell him all about your day…"

Turning around, Jackson practically spat, "I've been stuck in this fucking house all fucking day for the last fucking week! If it's not too much of a frigging problem for you, I'd like to go outside!"

Trying to be placating, Jackson's father said calmly, "Honey, just let him outside for a while. I'm sure it's no big deal…"

Turning to her husband, Mrs. Crane hissed under her breath, "Frank, I don't want him going out alone at night."

Replying in kind, her husband hissed, "He's sixteen years old, for crying out loud! Nothing's gonna happen to him!"

"That's not what I'm worried about!"

Sighing, Mr. Crane turned to Jackson and asked calmly, "Could you and Jonathan go into your room for a little while? Your mother and I need to talk for a minute."

Grateful for the excuse to not have to listen to his mother's shrieking, Jackson walked to his room, Jonathan following him along the way. As soon as they had locked themselves inside, they pressed their ears against the door so that they wouldn't miss a single syllable of the ensuing conversation.

"Selena, what's this about? Why are you acting so crazy lately?"

"It's our sons. They're doing things behind our back, Frank. They're hiding things from us."

"So what? They're teenagers! Of course they're not going to tell us everything that goes on when we're not around."

"It's not like that! It's not girls or parties or drugs, or anything that other kids hide from their parents."

"Then what is it?"

There was a long, distinct pause, and Jackson strained his ears trying to listen for what his mother would say next.

Surprisingly enough, it was his father who broke the silence instead.

"This is about last week, isn't it? When you saw them passed out?"

"…yes."

There was a deep sigh, and when his father responded, Jackson could sense a hint of irritation in his voice.

"Look, there are better ways to get them to stop drinking than to treat them like prisoners…"

"That's not what I'm talking about!"

"Then what!"

There was another pause, this one longer than the last. When their mother finally replied, her voice seemed solemn and suspicious.

"Have you heard the rumors around town? About our sons?"

"Selena…"

"People are saying that they do things in the woods…That they dissect the dead animals they find, and that they take people's pets out there and take out their organs. Like the O'Reilly's dog. They found it in their backyard, and it was missing its tongue and its stomach. And…and I've heard that they do other things, too."

"Other things?"

"Someone…someone mentioned to me once that neither of them seem to look at girls, or anything like that. And that…well, they spend an awful lot of time with each other…"

The anger in his father's voice became more evident as he shouted, "Selena, do you hear yourself?"

"I didn't believe it, either, until I saw them together in that bed!"

"Selena, you can't be serious."

"Frank you can't just deny that they're up to something. I'll admit, maybe I'm wrong. But the least I can do is keep an eye on them"

Throughout all of this, Jackson had felt rage welling up inside of him, his temper flaring at the utter hypocrisy of everything she was saying. That ugly slut was worried about him lying about what he did between the sheets!


Angry enough that he could barely see straight, he swung open his bedroom door with a bam. Without hesitation, he stormed down the short hallways while Jonathan practically squeaked, "Jackson!"

Jackson could see the looks of surprise on his parents' faces as he entered the room, unaware that he had heard everything that had escaped their lips. Fury pulsing within him, Jackson turned to his mother and stated, as calmly as he could manage, "You're worried what we do behind your back? Is that what it is?"

Taken aback, his mother pleaded, "Jackson, go back to your room…"

"You, of all people, are worried what other people are doing behind your back? You're concerned that we're doing depraved things in bed?"

Glancing back and forth between her husband and her son, she begged quietly, "Jackson, please…"

"FUCK. YOU." Even as he saw his father flinch, Jackson bristled with anger, his hands balled into tight fists.

"You're such a fucking hypocrite, do you know that? You're on some fucking high horse when it comes to your kids, but it doesn't seem to matter that the only reason you don't seem to know a damn thing about them is because you run away from them as fast as you can whenever you get the chance!"

His eyes closed and his expression pained, Jackson's father murmured, "Jackson, don't…"

"And what do you do when you leave the house? You hop into bed with first set of balls you can get to. And you get drunk or high and you go fuck some more men, and you come home and pretend that you're just the perfect little housewife, instead of the ugly slut that you really are."

Panicking and angry, his mother hissed, "How dare you say…"

"How dare I? How dare you come home with men's cum all over your skirt? How dare you spend every second you can with other men who just fuck you because you're easy? Did you know that everyone laughs at you? Everyone in this town hates you. Those women whose husbands you're fucking hate you! Their kids hate you! Even those men you're screwing hate you! I hate you! The only person that doesn't hate you is the guy you've been cheating on for over a decade!"

His mother's mouth moved wordlessly, whatever reply she had meant to say lost on its way past her tongue. A river of tears poured out of her eyes, her mascara becoming a trail of black down her cheeks. Her husband still said nothing, his eyes closed and his face expressionless.

Feeling somewhat calmer from his outburst, Jackson coldly hissed, "You're a hideous little whore. You aren't worth shit to me, or to anyone else in this town. You're an embarrassment. And I would do anything just so I wouldn't have to call you my mother."

Jackson stood there for a few seconds, watching his mother's shoulders move jerkily as small sobs arose from her throat. Looking pale, she collapsed onto the sofa as she buried her face into her palms. Feeling disgusted with the hysterical woman in front of him, Jackson marched to the front door and left, vanishing silently into the darkness of the woods.

----------

Jackson had been wandering through the forest for about an hour or so when he could hear a familiar voice faintly call, "Jackson?"

He stood still for a moment, listening. Once again, there was the quiet call. "Jackson?"

"Scarecrow?" Jackson replied, peering around blindly in the darkness of the woods. A crunching of twigs came from nearby, and Jackson vaguely saw Jonathan emerge from some foliage about five feet away.

"Hey," his younger brother stated quietly, a small, reluctant smile on his lips as he made his way towards Jackson.

"Hey," replied Jackson in a tired voice. "What're you doing out here?"

Staring at the ground, Jonathan said, "Mom and Dad are still trying to figure out whether they're arguing or not. Dad's not saying much, and Mom's apologizing a lot, even though she keeps saying that you were lying."

Leaning against the trunk of a tree, Jackson sighed. "Figures."

Sitting down on the ground next to his brother, Jonathan continued. "Mom's been sobbing a lot and telling Dad that I'll back her up and say she's not a whore or something, so I climbed out the window in our room before they got the chance."

Jackson arched an eyebrow and looked over at his brother. "And would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Lie for her?"

Jonathan sighed and shook his head. "No. But I don't want to have to listen to them anymore. If I get dragged into it, it'll be all night before they stop. Besides…" Jonathan stopped abruptly, quickly swallowing the words that were about to escape his lips.

"Besides what?" asked Jackson curiously. Jonathan shook his head. "It's nothing."

"Oh, c'mon. Just say it already."

Jonathan paused for a second and then let out a sigh. "It's not gonna change anything. You know that, right?"

Jackson stared into space, his face expressionless. Jonathan adjusted his glasses awkwardly before adding, "They're just gonna go back to how things were before. Dad'll have to go back to work, and Mom'll just go back to her men."

Jackson nodded slightly, as though mournful of how true Jonathan's statement was. "Yeah, I know." He sat down next to his brother, dried leaves and twigs crunching underneath.

Frowning a little pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Jonathan asked, "You gonna sleep out here tonight?"

Jackson nodded. "If I wake up in time, I'll catch the bus to school tomorrow. If not, I'll just wander around until the time we'd normally be home. Mom'll have calmed down by then."

Smiling a little, Jonathan noted, "You'll have bugs crawling all over you tomorrow morning."

Jackson shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

Smile fading, Jonathan picked up a twig, looked at it for a second, then tossed it as far as he could for no apparent reason. "If you want, I'll sneak a pillow or blanket or something out here for you."

Jackson shook his head. "I'll be fine. It's warm out tonight."

Jonathan nodded a little, and there was a long silence as the two brothers sat together in the woods, barely moving or thinking. They stayed that way for several minutes, hearing nothing but the distant sounds of nighttime critters in the trees.

After awhile, Jonathan stood up and broke the silence, announcing, "I'm gonna head back. They'll probably have stopped fighting by now."

He began to walk away when Jackson grabbed his wrist, commanding, "Wait."

Jonathan stopped and turned around to look at his brother, seemingly unsure of how to respond.

"Um…okay."

He sat back down, this time across from Jackson as he leaned against the trunk of a tree. Jackson watched him for a few seconds, quietly observing, before he crawled over to his younger brother and gave him a rough kiss on the lips.

Pulling out of the lip lock, Jonathan murmured, "They'll come looking for us."

Kneeling up right, Jackson responded, "Let them."

He leaned over and kissed him on the neck, holding his lips there as Jonathan's fingers became entwined in his hair. He sucked a little at the flesh before moving his lips along Jonathan's jaw bone, eliciting a small moan from the younger boy.

Jonathan leaned back, looking up at his older brother with curious eyes as he moved his hands down Jackson's back. Jackson moved his hands to underneath Jonathan's shirt, pulling the fabric upwards to expose his brother's chest. As soon as the shirt had been removed, Jackson leaned down to roughly kiss the boy's neck lowering himself onto him. Jonathan's face became buried into his shoulder as he slowly undid the boy's belt, knowing full well that he would not sleep alone amongst the trees.

Inside the house, a husband and wife had finished arguing and were now engaging in carnal acts between the sheets in a desperate act of reconciliation, unaware that not very far away, their two sons were doing the exact same thing. All four were blissfully unaware of what the future held. They didn't know that the next day, the wife and mother would soon be in the bed of a different man, trying her best to forget about her husband. They were unaware that their eldest son would go to a bar in a few day's time and meet a man who would give him an offer that he wouldn't dare refuse. And they were oblivious to the fact that in less than a week, both mother and father would lie dead, their house would be in flames, and their sons would be separated as they both pursued futures of crime and violence, murder and torment.

----------

Even with closed eyelids, Jackson could feel the brightness of he lights in the room turning on. Lying on the sofa, he could hear a faint tread of footsteps entering the room.

Jonathan was home.

Jackson could hear the footsteps coming closer, but he kept his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. He listened as Jonathan crouched next to him, checking to see if he was still asleep. Apparently satisfied, Jackson heard retreating footsteps moving away from the couch.

Jackson's eyes snapped open as he reached for the kitchen knife hidden under the blanket before lunging at his brother. Jonathan didn't even have the chance to turn around before he was knocked to the ground, the steely blade pressed against his throat.

The knife quivering over his brother's neck, Jackson crouched over him, panting, "Surprised…Scarecrow?"

Jonathan, visibly shaken, tried to act nonchalant as he dryly replied, "Do you greet everyone like this, or am I just special?"

Pressing the blade against the skin of Jonathan's throat, Jackson quietly told him, "Don't act too cocky, Scarecrow." He angled the blade so that a trickle of blood formed, running down to Jonathan's collarbone. Jackson hissed at him menacingly, "What the hell did you do to me?"

Jonathan feigned ignorance, muttering, "What are you talking about?"

Angered even more, Jackson traced the tip of the knife roughly along Jonathan's jawbone, tiny beads of blood appearing in its wake.

"You did something last night…I felt like I was being tortured for hours. You did something to me last night."

"Jackson, you were drunk."

"Bullshit." Jackson held the flat edge of the blade against the side of Jonathan's neck, enjoying the slight trembling that he felt from Jonathan underneath him.

"You were wearing a mask. You sprayed something into the air."

Frowning, Jonathan replied flatly, "Jackson, do you realize how ridiculous you sou-…"

He was cut off when Jackson slammed the butt of the knife across his face, making the younger man cry out in pain.

"You son of a bitch," Jonathan hissed as he struggled to get up. Jackson, undeterred, slammed him back onto the ground. Holding his shoulders down, the knife momentarily tossed to the floor, Jackson grinned cruelly.

"Well, doesn't this seem familiar. Me on top, you on the bottom. Just like old times, right, Scarecrow?"

The anger that flared up in Jonathan's eyes was unmistakable. Jackson felt something akin to triumph when he saw it, which was probably why he didn't see Jonathan grab the knife until it was too late.

A split second was all it took for Jonathan to slice across Jackson's shoulder, leaving a shallow gash. Jackson gasped in pain, falling onto his side. Jonathan used the opportunity to spring up and hold the tip of the knife against Jackson's throat, holding the older man's hair back by yanking his hair.

Jackson looked at Jonathan, the tip of the blade about to pierce his Adam's apple. "Not bad," he remarked cheekily. "Pretty clear thinking, given the circumstances."

"Shut up," Jonathan growled, the blood on his jawbone now slipping down his neck to join the small pool that had already formed on his collarbone.

Kneeling on the ground, Jackson looked up at his brother's face, which was contorted with fury.

"Touché," he remarked, only to have the pressure from the blade increase.

"Why did you come here?" Jonathan asked coldly, his hand shaking as he steadied himself to the point where he was standing firmly on the ground.

"What do you mean?" Jackson asked with as much innocence as he could muster. Jonathan was not amused, and slapped him hard across the face with his unoccupied hand.

This pissed Jackson off. Here he was, simply trying to threaten his brother at knifepoint, and he had to go and copycat his idea. If one could plagiarize acts of violence, Jackson would drag Jonathan all the way to an electric chair.

Jonathan crouched down, his chilly smile indicating that he enjoyed the reversal of power.

"I believe…" Jonathan murmured tauntingly, "…that I asked you a question."

Jackson glared at his brother, a snarl about to escape from his lips. Undeterred, Jonathan asked quietly, "Why did you come here?"

Not one to submit to authority, even authority wielding a knife, Jackson replied with saccharine sweetness, "What, can't brothers pay each other social calls?"

"You waited thirteen years for a social call?" asked Jonathan incredulously.

"Maybe I didn't know where you were."

"You must not have looked."

Clutching his bleeding shoulder, his face still stinging, Jackson decided that he didn't like this game anymore. He wasn't sure if Jonathan actually knew how to handle a knife, but he wasn't willing to risk his neck to find out.

"I'm on the run," he stated frankly, the blood from his shoulder oozing outward and staining his shirt.

"I know. You tried to kill someone in the government."

Jackson shook his head a little. "I'm not running from the cops. I could handle them if I needed to."

Jonathan arched an eyebrow. "Then who are you running from?"

Jackson smiled a little, humorlessly and ironically. "My bosses."

Jonathan gave him an odd look, prompting Jackson to explain. "I'm a liability. I got caught trying, and failing, to kill the head of Homeland Security. If the cops found me, then I could sell out my higher-ups for a lesser sentence. My bosses don't like that idea, so it's better for them if I just disappear."

Jonathan smiled a little, coldly and cruelly. "And you thought you could hide here?"

Jackson shrugged. "Maybe."

Jonathan chuckled a little. "Well, that was smart. You run from men trying to kill you and end up with a knife at your throat."

Jackson arched an eyebrow. "You really think the two situations are similar?"

Jonathan grinned evilly, sliding the blade across Jackson's throat. "Yes. Think hard. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you now."

A defiant gleam in his eye, Jackson paused before shaking his head. "I don't need to."

Jonathan slid the blade slowly and carefully under his brother's chin, making the older man wince and shudder. Calmly, he inquired, "And why not?"

Even while wincing, Jackson managed a small, cocky smile. "Because you won't kill me."

Jackson could see that Jonathan was angered by this answer, as well as visibly taken aback. Trying to compose himself, Jonathan dug the blade into Jackson skin, making blood dribble down his neck. Jackson didn't respond, except to murmur: "You're not going to kill me. You never could, and you never will."

There was a long pause after this statement, the silence almost unbearable in the stifling air of the room. Jackson gazed calmly at Jonathan, whose eyes seemed to hold immeasurable depths of rage as the knife's edge slowly dug deeper into Jackson's flesh.

After what seemed like hours, the knife's pressure decreased until Jonathan pulled it away, a dose of self-loathing now mixed in with the previous fury.

"Get out," he hissed, still clutching the knife firmly, the blood on his throat having become a congealed river. Standing up slowly, Jackson looked at his brother carefully for a moment before stumbling towards the door and out into the hall.

His shoulder still bleeding, Jackson leaned against the far wall as he made his war out the hall and down the stairs, leaving a long streak of crimson in his wake. Only dully feeling the pain, Jackson could sense Jonathan's eyes following him, even though he knew that he was still inside his apartment.

Walking down the front steps of the apartment building, Jackson felt the nighttime chill hit him like a crashing wave. A light snowfall had begun, and every breath that Jackson let out would hang in the air as a puff of smoke before vanishing quietly.

Shivering without a jacket while he clutched his bleeding shoulder, the warmth of the blood seemed like an odd contrast to the cold air around him.

After walking a few feet away from the building, Jackson looked up. Sure enough, there was Jonathan, watching him from the window of his apartment. Seeing him, Jackson lowered his eyes and continued to walk, making his way down the block at a slow pace.

He had reached the street corner a minute later, and he was waiting for the streetlight to turn green when he heard the distant sound of running footfall. The sound grew louder for several seconds until it stopped, replaced by heavy panting as the runner caught their breath.

Jackson didn't turn around. He didn't need to. He merely stood still and said calmly, "I knew you'd come running."

The heavy panting continued for a second or two more before Jonathan said in a resigned tone, "Jackson, just come on."

Silently, Jackson turned around to look at his brother, whose face was a mixture of desperation and self-loathing.

Without a word, Jonathan began the march back to the building, Jackson following obediently. If anyone had seen them at that late hour, they would have said it looked a man leading himself to his own grave.