I'm really, really sorry that this took so long. I was originally planning to have this one really huge chapter ready by now, but it's been taking longer than expected. So I've split it into three, maybe two sections that will be posted as separate chapters. I was also planning on having Lisa's rapist revealed by the next chapter, but that's probably going to take longer than expected as well.

If it's any comfort, I think this chapter came out pretty well. Ray gets to play a more prominent role, which I think is nice. I like writing him a lot more than writing Laurence, since, well…Laurence is an ass.

Once again, I'm really sorry about all the delays. I'm trying the best I can. The next one or two chapters shouldn't take as long, since they're half-written already.

By the way, props to anyone who can spot the section where two characters quote two lines Red Eye dialogue.

-----

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

Unplanned

It was over a year before Guiteau mentioned the Iran assignment again. By that point, Jackson had completely forgotten about it, as had Ray and Laurence. They'd gone about their usual lives, taking regular assignments and earning their keep through bloodshed. By the time Guiteau called them into his office early one afternoon, they had absolutely no idea what prompted him to summon them.

Without introduction or greetings, Guiteau got right to the point. "The reason I have brought you to my office is to fill you in on further information regarding the Iran assignment," Guiteau said calmly and patiently. Even as his three employees stared at him in bewilderment from having forgotten their prior meeting on the subject, Guiteau continued. "I have received confirmation for the assignment by my supervisor, and you three have been sent tourist visas and airplane tickets to Tehran."

All business, Ray asked, "When do we need to be there?"

"A week from today."

Jackson arched an eyebrow at this, surprised by the unusually close launch date. "Why so soon?"

Guiteau gave a light shrug. "I am simply relating what I have been told by my higher-up. My supervisor chose not to tell me why that particular date was chosen."

Jackson wasn't completely sure what to think of that. Ray, on the other hand, asked almost immediately, "Has your supervisor said anything about the nature of the assignment?"

"Such as?"

"Well, what will we need to do when we get there?"

There was a small pause before Guiteau answered plainly, "It is my understanding that you will receive the full details of the assignment upon your arrival at the Iranian headquarters."

Laurence, seeming to be in a somewhat sour mood, noted in a dry tone, "Wonderful. So all you can tell us is that we're going, not what we're going for or what the point is of going."

"Well, that, and you should probably start packing," Guiteau replied as sweetly as he could manage. "Your visas and tickets will be mailed to your rooms. Make sure you pack your passports and all other necessary identification. Any more questions?"

Having finally managed to recall their previous discussion regarding the assignment, Jackson inquired, "Wasn't Sal supposed to be on this assignment with us?"

With a slight sense of distaste in his voice, Guiteau responded, "Mr. Salvador is currently on assignment in South Carolina, but I have passed the information on to him."

"What information?" Laurence muttered before Ray elbowed him in the side.

Guiteau ignored Laurence's remark, stating almost cheerfully, "Well, if none of you have any more questions, then let us adjourn. Have a nice day, gentlemen."

And just as abruptly as it had began, the meeting ended, and the three younger men were shuffled out of the office hastily.

-----

Jackson had known that Jonathan wouldn't react well to the news of Leon's death. It was inevitable that he would grieve and be upset, but that was natural. So the day that Jonathan went back to work, when Jackson knew his brother would learn of his lover's demise, Jackson made a point of going out that afternoon to leave Jonathan some time alone to mourn. He wasn't exactly sure how his brother would react to the news. He certainly didn't expect to come home that evening to find Jonathan sitting still in the midst of the kitchen, surrounded by the shattered remains of half the mugs and glasses in the apartment. However, that was the sight that greeted him upon his return to the apartment.

The floor was a war zone, with tiny fragments of ceramic and glass littering the floor in various patterns, swirling in strange colors like a mutated rainbow. Sitting in the center of the bizarre mosaic was Jonathan, slumped in one of the kitchen chairs. With his elbows firmly planted on his knees and his hands dangled over his feet, Jonathan remained motionless, and Jackson could see droplets of blood falling from his palms onto the tops of his shoes.

The expression on Jonathan's face was unreadable. He stared out tranquilly, his eyes glazed over behind the lens of his glasses. His mouth was drawn tight, as though he'd swallowed something sour and unpleasant. His hair fell over his face in disarray, and Jackson could see that his brother had lost all pretense of appearing professional. He looked deranged right then, from the stillness of his pose to the design of the shards that lay at his feet.

Jackson stepped into the room carefully, crunching the fragments of glassware beneath his feet. Jonathan didn't even blink, remaining as still as a corpse might. He wouldn't even move when Jackson stood right next to him, looming over and doing his best to look for any trace of recognition in his brother's face.

Eventually, when his brother continued to say nothing, his body stiffly remaining as it was even as the blood continued from his hands to his feet, Jackson attempted to speak. Tentatively, with as much caution as he could sneak into his voice, he asked, "Scarecrow?"

It was as though he'd attempted to speak to a statue. Jonathan didn't react at all, not even blinking. As Jackson stood there, awaiting some sort of sign from his brother, the only noise that could be heard was the faint, shaky noise of Jonathan's breath forcing its way past his teeth.

Making another attempt at communication, Jackson called, "Scarecrow," once more. When he received no answer, Jackson tried a more forceful, "Scarecrow."

Jonathan blinked, but he remained frozen. Frustrated, Jackson bit his lip and frowned. Leaning over, he snapped his fingers in front of his brother's face, calling out more loudly, "Scarecrow!"

Not even a blink this time. Jackson vaguely wondered if it was possible to die sitting in that position, but the rattled breaths that coursed out of his brother's mouth seemed to indicate that Jonathan was, indeed, alive.

Attempting a different approach, Jackson sighed and stated simply, "Jonathan."

Ever so slightly, Jonathan tilted his head in the direction of his brother, eyes wide and emotionless. Jackson, hoping that this was some sort of response, asked, "Jonathan, what happened?"

Jonathan said nothing, looking as though he had forgotten, somehow, exactly what had made him destroy the kitchen. But after a few seconds, his lips parted, and in a raspy voice, he answered, "Leon died."

Jackson felt somewhat surprised, not by the message, but by the tone with which it was spoken. Jonathan had stated it calmly, as though announcing the train schedule. But his voice had been hoarse and harsh, as though all the energy had gone out his throat, out of his entire body for that matter.

Jackson really hadn't prepared a response for that one. For one thing, there was no way in hell he could pretend to be comforting. He was far from the "I'm so sorry, come cry on my shoulder" type. And secondly, there was no way he could muster up faux mournfulness on the part of Leon. He knew full well that there was no way he could feel any kind of regret for the deceased doctor, and Jonathan would know it, too.

After several seconds of consideration, Jackson managed to ask, "How…what exactly happened in here?"

Jonathan, his eyes still staring dazedly at the world, glanced around the kitchen as though he hadn't noticed the mess surrounding him until then. As he took in the sight of the various shards and fragments strewn across the ground, he almost seemed as confused as Jackson was. It was as though he, too, had no idea how the kitchen had become such an unholy mess.

Jackson, still persistent, changed his tactics once again. "What happened to your hands?"

Jonathan, still dazed, turned his wrists so that his palms were facing him, and he could see clearly the pools of blood that had formed. He stared curiously at his hands, as though just noticing the sharp gashes that were dashed into them. As his eyes watched the little rivulets of blood on his fingers, his mouth formed a circle, and he emitted a small "Oh."

As the pools reversed direction and began sliding down towards his wrists, Jonathan tried to remember. He had hurt his wrists…why? Because of the shards on the ground. But how had they gotten there? He'd…he'd smashed them. He'd taken all the coffee mugs and the glasses out of the cupboards and started throwing them against the wall in a flurry. But why had he done that? Because…because…

The coffee mugs had reminded him of something. What had it been?

"Why don't we go grab some coffee…?"

Leon. They'd gone to that coffee house. That was the first time they'd really talked to each other. It had been a catalyst for everything that followed. The dinners, the kiss, the sex, everything. That was what had upset him. The coffee mugs had reminded him of the coffee house, which had reminded him of Leon, which had reminded him of everything that Leon meant. And thinking of Leon made him upset because…

Because…

…because he was dead.

As though the realization had just hit him, Jonathan found his hands shaking violently. Trying to ignore these newfound tremors of grief, he put his hands on his knees, staining the fabric of his pant legs with the blood. This did not go unnoticed by Jackson.

"Jonathan, are you going to be alright?"

"Leon's dead," Jonathan murmured hoarsely, and suddenly his whole body was trembling. Jackson, unsure of what to do, remained silent as his brother started to shake more and more violently. Jonathan, overcome with a fresh wave of grief, hung his head as though in shame.

Jackson stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to say or do. He wondered if it might be better to leave Jonathan alone, but as he surveyed the remains of the coffee mugs that now lay on the ground, he decided that this was probably not a good idea. Finally, he stepped carefully towards the sink before crouching down. Reaching inside the cupboard underneath, he pulled out a dustpan and a brush, and began to sweep up the mess.

Jonathan didn't even seem to notice the activity going on only a few feet away from him. Instead, he remained as he was, trembling in his limp pose on the chair.

When Jackson had finished with the floor, he put away the dustpan and walked back over to his brother. Jonathan didn't respond, still caught in whatever reverie he had trapped himself in. Without any formalities, Jackson grabbed his brother's hands and examined them.

The palms were still wet with blood, and Jackson cringed. These must not have been narrow, shallow cuts, or else it would have congealed. Even as he held them right in front of his face, he was unable to see exactly where each gash lay, as both hands had half-congealed pools still sitting in the two palms.

He sighed slightly. Jonathan had managed to do quite a bit of damage to himself.

Letting go of his brother's hands, Jackson strode over to the bathroom, where Jonathan housed all of his first aid equipment. About twenty seconds later, he emerged carrying some gauze bandages and a damp washcloth.

Kneeling in front of his brother like a penitent sinner at confession, Jackson took the washcloth and began washing his brother's hands slowly and carefully, trying not to reopen and of the cuts. Even as he kept his gaze only on those hands, Jackson could tell that Jonathan was watching him. Trying his best not to notice it, Jackson merely continued to cleanse his hands as best he could.

It wasn't until Jackson was in the middle of wrapping the gauze around his brother's fingers that Jonathan finally spoke.

"I was angry."

Looking up, Jackson asked, "What?"

Jonathan, his gaze calm and unemotional, murmured, "I was angry." Shutting his eyes, he continued, "I threw all the glasses against the wall. And then…when I'd finished smashing all of them…I picked up the shards and tried to crush them. Against the wall, the table, in my hands, anything." He paused. "I didn't stop until I was too out of breath to do anything. So I sat down, and…" He shrugged slightly, as though he knew of nothing else to say.

"I see," Jackson said quietly, not sure what to say. With that clipped reply, Jonathan returned to his resolute silence, and Jackson finished wrapping the bandages around his brother's hands.

With that task complete, Jackson stood up and walked to the sink. His own hands had been stained by his brother's blood, the crimson liquid making a sticky mess on his fingers. He needed to wash it away, to clean off the discoloring on his palms.

Well, weren't they two regular Lady Macbeths.

-----

Sure enough, Jackson found himself in the throngs of people milling around Miami International Airport a week after the meeting with Guiteau. As the crowds swarmed their way through various terminals, their incessant babbling painful to his ears, Jackson silently hoped that he would never have to deal with the hassle of air travel again.

Eventually, he made his way past security to the correct gate, where he spotted Ray easily. Relieved to be in the correct location, he plopped into a seat next to his coworker without a greeting.

"Glad you could make it," Ray stated casually, watching as Jackson shoved his carry-on bag under his seat. Jackson, scanning the crowd, asked, "Are Sal or Laurence here yet?"

"No, not yet. I don't know about Sal, but Laurence'll probably be the last passenger to show up."

Jackson shrugged, unconcerned. "His loss."

Ray eyed Jackson's carry-on curiously for a second, sizing it up before asking, "About how much stuff did you bring?"

Jackson shrugged, trying to remember what he'd packed. "Probably enough for about a week. You?"

"Probably enough for two." Shaking his head slightly, Ray inquired, "Guiteau didn't tell you how long we'd be staying, did he?"

"I asked him, but he wouldn't tell me." Smirking slightly, Jackson noted, "Makes you wonder what kind of assignment they gave us. No info on what we're doing, or why we're going, or how long we'll be staying…must be something big."

Ray shrugged. "Either that, or Guiteau lost a fax somewhere along the line."

Settling into his chair, Jackson ran over a list of what he'd packed for the trip. He had clothes, toiletries, his passport, his visa, his ticket, some books to read. He'd even converted a fair chunk of money into rials, a process that had involved more paperwork than he'd have cared for. But still, he was all set for the assignment at hand…well, he was as prepared as he was going to get, given the lack of information on the subject.

Glancing next to him, he saw that Ray was poring through a thick paperback. Curious, he asked, "What're you reading?"

Showing the cover, Ray explained, "Traveler's Guide to Iran. I figured it wouldn't hurt to read up on where we're going."

Jackson nodded. "Good thinking. Anything I should know?"

"Don't plan on boozing while we're there."

"Duly noted."

The terminal speakers suddenly began projecting a woman's voice, announcing loudly, "Flight 815 to Tehran will now begin boarding passengers. All parents and families with young children may begin boarding first."

Jackson glanced around the seating area, searching for familiar faces. "Shit, where the hell are the other two?"

Ray, not seeming particularly perturbed, stated, "No idea. Relax, we still have a few minutes before we need to board."

"We can't go to Iran missing half our group."

"Well, we can't exactly miss our flight to stay and wait for them, either." Glancing over at Jackson, Ray sighed. "Look, even if they don't make the flight, they can just get tickets to the next flight out. They might piss off the Iranian officials a little, but they won't do anything to them without Guiteau's say-so. And the worst Guiteau will do is give them a harsh talking to and maybe take away their weapons."

Jackson sighed. "Whatever you say."

The speaker flickered on again, and the woman's voice announced, "All remaining passengers may now begin boarding Flight 815 from Miami to Tehran. Thank you for choosing Iran Air, and have a pleasant flight."

Ray stood up, closing his book as he did so. "I guess that's us." Jackson, struggling to pick up his carry-on bag, muttered quietly, "Wonders never cease."

A minute or so later, the two men found themselves trudging to their seats with their bags in tow as their passengers around them chattered in Farsi. They had checked their ticket numbers already, and were scanning the plane for their seats. Jackson was situated in Seat 12B, while Ray sat directly in front of him in 11B.

After they successfully managed to squeeze their way past the other people through first class, they happened into the coach section. Strangely enough, when they happened upon their seats, a familiar face was sitting in seat 12A, donning sunglasses as he read over the flight magazine.

"Sal?" Jackson asked, an incredulous tone sneaking its way into his voice.

Sal, looking up to see his current team members, smirked happily. "Long time no see."

"How'd you get onboard before us?"

"Oh, that?" He shrugged. "I showed up when they first started boarding. I did what any truly rude American does and snuck aboard when they were calling on the families with kids." Glancing between Ray and Jackson, he inquired, "Aren't there supposed to be three of you?"

"Uh…" Jackson and Ray both glanced up and down the aisle in the hopes of seeing Laurence appear from thin air. And by pure luck, the two of them could faint hear a recognizable, "Excuse me!" above the din from the other end of the plane. A second or two later, Laurence emerged, striding his way past the other passengers towards them.

Ray, seeming both relieved and irritated, welcomed him dryly. "You made it."

"That would appear to be the case," Laurence commented, already opening the overhead compartment and shoving his carry-on bag inside. Sal, still smirking, put on some earphones before commenting, "Hail, hail, the gang's all here."

Within a minute or two, all of them had successfully stored their bags, and were seated comfortably. Takeoff went smoothly, and soon they were soaring through the sky.

-----

"Did you know?" Jonathan asked abruptly, staring down at the bloody bandages strapped across his hands with something akin to fascination. It had been fifteen minutes since Jackson arrived, and he was only just beginning to come out of his daze.

Jackson, who was rummaging around the kitchen, asked, "Know what?"

"That Leon died." Even as his head hung limply on his neck, Jonathan attempted to recreate the scene in his memory. The crunch of the metal and glass as the car landed, the heat of the sparks on his face, the loud crackle of bright flames rising from the wreckage, the cries for help that no one would ever hear, the unbearable pain as blood oozed out from piercing wounds as the fire began to consume all that it touched…

"No." Jackson's response from the kitchen snapped him out of his visualization. Jonathan blinked for a second, attempting to recover from the potent daydream. From the kitchen, he could hear a clinking noise and the sound of the faucet running.

"It was in the paper," Jonathan stated weakly, remembering the blurb in the local news section from last week's paper.

"You know I don't read that shit," Jackson answered, and from the footfall that grew slowly louder, Jonathan vaguely registered that Jackson had entered the room. A second later, a glass of water swam into his field of vision, as well as a hand bearing two pills in its palm. Jackson's voice rang in his ears, saying, "Take these."

Without even asking what they were for or why he needed them, Jonathan took the pills and clapped them to his mouth, swallowing them dry. It didn't occur to him to check their markings for any sign of what they were. He was simply past the point of caring or being curious.

Jackson withdrew the unused water and sighed before heading into the kitchen to dump it in the sink. He'd found some mild sedatives that might keep Jonathan from having another destructive outburst and, hopefully, help him get some sleep.

As he poured the water down the drain, Jackson could hear Jonathan's voice ask softly, "Did you…?" before trailing off.

"Did I what?" he asked without looking up, stuffing the glass into a cupboard. From the den, there was a small creak.

"Did you do it?"

A thunk.

"Did you kill him?"

Jackson turned around, and he saw that Jonathan had stood up and was walking slowly and clumsily in his direction.

Before Jackson could respond, Jonathan was already speaking quickly, a manic tone in his voice. "You used to kill people for work, you'd know how, and Leon wouldn't have done this, he wouldn't have let himself crash his car, and you would've known how, you'd have known how to make it look like an accident…"

By this point, Jonathan was only a foot or so from Jackson, and without warning, he grabbed Jackson's arms with his hands.

"You didn't like Leon, you never liked him, and he wouldn't have let this happen, he wouldn't have…"

Jackson, startled by Jonathan's agitated behavior, answered calmly, "Do you realize how paranoid that sounds?"

Jonathan seemed not to hear him. Instead, his nails started to dig into Jackson's arms, harder and harder as he asked feverishly, "Did you have anything to do with it? Did you?"

Trying to pull his arms away, Jackson hissed, "No, now let go of me…"

Jonathan was persistent, asking him in a slightly louder voice, "Did you kill him? Did you kill him, Jackson?"

"Scarecrow, you're hurting my arms…"

As Jackson looked at the unstable man in front of him, all he could look at was the eyes, the icy blue eyes that were just like Leon's that were just like his that were just like their mother's. And even as he stood there with his brother bent on causing him bodily harm, he could feel no regret for Leon's death, just as he felt no regret for what had happened to their mother. Growing slightly desperate, Jackson added, "I've already said that I didn't, now stop it…"

Eyes wide enough that Jackson could see their tiny red veins crisscrossing madly, Jonathan asked one final time, "Did you kill Leon?"

"No!" Jackson shoved his hands hard against his brother's chest, surprising Jonathan and causing him to topple backwards. As he fell to the floor, there was a loud crack! as Jonathan's head hit against the kitchen table. A second later, Jonathan flopped limply to the ground, silent and unresponding.

"Scarecrow?-!" Jackson asked the second the crack hit his ears. Jonathan didn't answer immediately, and Jackson inwardly panicked.

Shit!

Hoping that he hadn't just given his brother a concussion, Jackson crouched next to Jonathan, who was slouched against the kitchen table stiffly. Scanning his brother's face for signs of consciousness, Jackson asked, "Scarecrow?-!", the urgency apparent in his voice. When Jonathan gave no answer, Jackson's mind raced, and he wondered if he'd need to take Jonathan to the hospital and how long it would take to get there. He was about to go hunt for Jonathan's car keys when he heard a faint noise, and he realized that Jonathan was speaking.

"Why'd he do it?"

Instantly relieved and irritated, Jackson sighed. "Scarecrow, you just gave me a heart attack."

Not responding to Jackson's statement, Jonathan murmured, "Why'd he let himself die?"

Deciding to simply placate his brother, Jackson answered, "I don't know. Maybe he didn't have a choice."

Jonathan didn't say anything, seeming to lose himself to another daze. Jackson considered whether or not to leave him there, and the aching nail marks in his arms eventually told him to leave his brother be. So Jackson went to the den and sat on the sofa. He picked up one of his books and began to read, glancing up every few seconds to check that Jonathan was alright.

After about a half-hour or so, Jackson looked up to see that Jonathan had fallen asleep. Somewhat relieved that the sedative had taken its desired effect, Jackson walked over to his brother. Grabbing him by the wrists, Jackson dragged him across the kitchen floor and into the living room. Once there, Jackson heaved him onto the sofa brusquely, where he would let him stay and get some sleep. Having done that, Jackson retreated to the kitchen to pour himself a drink, having garnered a massive headache from the events of the evening.

Jonathan, who was only half-asleep behind his closed eyelashes, could barely make out Jackson's receding form through the blur of his eyelashes. In his strange, deluded mindset, he didn't remember who it was or realize that he was walking away from him to the kitchen. Instead, the blurry form changed shape in his mind's eye. The head grew long, black hair, and a grin shone out in the dim light. Cool blue eyes stared at him with glee, and a doctor's tags hung around a pale neck while long fingers shook the ashes from a Capri cigarette.

Leon smiled at him casually, as though this were just another day at Arkham. Icy eyes shone at him happily, and a pleasant voice greeted him with warmth and humor. "Hey there, Jonathan."