Wow. I haven't updated this in forever. I'm a horrible writer sometimes, but school's been such a bugger that I haven't had much time to power up my old desktop. But now that my parents bought me a laptop (yay 18th birthday!), I can write more often, even at school. I may be able to update more often now! Awesome yes? Well, of course it is. :) Sure, they won't be as long as my last chapter (damn, that was a lot in one section that talked about nearly nothing of much importance the whole time, lol) but hopefully soemthing interesting will happen. Hope you guys like this one. It's the beginning of what I want to have happen later on. You'll see what I mean. ;D Read on, my dearest reviewers/alerters/followers/favouriters/stalkers!

Jason had stood outside of the kitchen window, just beyond the light, to observe the man. He was graceful with most of his movements, something quite unusual for the type of people who usually came to Jason's lake. Also, that man seemed to smile to himself nearly the whole time as he moved about, pouring some reddish glop into a pot and starting up the stove. After that, he did nothing but watch it for a while, stirring occasionally, his lips moving after a few minutes of what came across to Jason as nothing happening. In a matter of minutes the killer became bored with that man and his obvious swearing (at what the killer now thought of as a disgusting sort of food), and walked purposefully to the other lit window of the house.

Inside that room, the little disfigured boy worked happily on unloading a suitcase of immense proportions. It was bigger than the child in every way, and Jason was sure the boy could have hidden inside that case even with their materialistic possessions still within. A surge of rage boiled through the large man's blood; even the boy had to be a sinner if he lived solely with another sinner! He had to be materialistic, swearing, bad tempered, and stupid… just like the man in the kitchen. So why did he have pity on him? He deserved no more pity than his father, no doubt!

When the crate-sized case was opened, the anger left Jason and ushered in the second small sense of guilt that very day. That case was filled with old clothing that looked like hand-me-downs in the sizes of both the boy and the father, old toys the child had obviously played with frequently and had been fixed just as many times, a small television (how they found such a portable version of a television, Jason didn't understand quite fully), and mementos of a better and happier life.

Looking past everything in the case but the memory holders, the little boy meticulously took out a photograph of the father and a pretty brunette woman smiling together within a plain frame. He set it on the small bureau near the closet. The boy then returned to pick up an old music box that said 'Baby's First Christmas' on the side, a small glass mouse wrapped in old newspaper, a picture of a happy dog (also in a plain frame), a few well-read, old books, and a handful of paperclips poured out of a plastic bag. He brought each item over to the little dresser and laid each one reverently in its own spot on the surface, one at a time before returning for another.

Jason marveled at how gentle the boy was.

This boy was unique. He seemed happy with his mundane life, a seemingly single father who was most likely immoral in some way, little possessions, and a look that was far from every little girl's dream boy. He was not only unique, but an enigma. If Jason could have spoken to the boy, he would have. He would have asked how he could be happy with that. He would have asked how he managed to win unconditional love when the undead man never could manage it. He would have asked many questions.

But Jason was incapable of speech, thanks to uncounted years' worth of rot that only attacked such superfluous systems such as speech and digestion. Because who really needed a stomach, intestines, and vocal abilities when one was only killing the sinning creatures encroaching on his domain. One didn't need such things. Frankly, Jason was surprised he even still had the use of a moving mouth complete with healthy (for a dead person) muscles and bottom jaw. At least he had been blessed with that, if nothing else. It was hard to think of life- unlife, really- without a mouth anyway, even if he didn't need it.

Thinking about all that (which was more than Jason had thought about in one sitting for years) caused the man to become inattentive, standing just within the glow coming from the window. Though he never moved, the boy inside the house turned for no apparent reason and looked at Jason. His stillness caught the man's eye, and his whole body tensed, ready to make a menacing motion to scare the child and walk away.

The boy continued to stare at him, his face expressionless only at the beginning. Until he lit up with a smile and waved at Jason. Until he moved toward the window and lay a single palm against the old glass in a form of childish greeting. Until he began to speak to him. Jason could read his lips only vaguely, picking out words like 'daddy', 'playing', and 'funny'. The killer smiled beneath his mask, feeling he should return the tender gesture of trust (even if it was misplaced and the child misunderstood who he was). But he barely made a move.

A nod was all the boy received, and he laughed at it, laying his other hand against the glass with a smile. Did he really think Jason was his father…? Though how the two could be mistaken, he wasn't really sure. After all, Jason was taller, larger, stronger, more imposing, and less emotional. The child's father was probably a good foot shorter than him, of much slimmer form, and always looked like he was smiling, upset, or angry about something. There was no real way the child could have mistaken the two. Never.

And yet he was saying daddy and laughing. Jason thought the idea of being a father was partially repulsive, partially frightening (and barely anything ever frightened the Jason Voorhees), and made him feel a tad happy inside. After everything he'd seen of the child so far, he knew he wouldn't suffer any worse rejection than a naïve child does to their mother or father on a daily basis… or so he had read in a magazine once. He hadn't understood a handful of the words, though, so it may have been a misinterpretation… maybe.

Jason backed up slowly, seeming to glide effortlessly over the ground, and the boy smiled one more time before returning to his work. Odd child.

Within less than ten minutes, the little one had finished his work and laid himself on the bed with a monstrous yawn. Again, Jason was actually tempted to smile at the sight. He was so carefree and happy with his life… so why couldn't Jason have been equally as happy when he was that age?

He continued to watch for yet another space of time, wondering about why the child was so happy- and why he slept with the light on like that, silly boy- when the father came rushing in. The look on his face was one of true panic, eyes wild, mouth partially open to allow for an increased air intake and higher heart rate (hey, Jason knew the look of fear and hyperventilation better than anyone, along with what accompanied that look on the inside). What had he been so worried about? The boy was doing nothing wrong.

Unless that man had seen him. Anger welled deep in his chest, curling around his muscles in angry, tense ropes. That man had to have seen him watching outside of the house, but being the deceiver he was, he had given no sign of knowing. Had he wanted to lull the killer into a false sense of invisibility just to attack him later, unawares? Surely that was why he was frightened. He thought Jason had attacked his little boy! The mass-murderer growled loudly, the sound inaudible to the man inside the house, and cracked his knuckles into fists at his sides.

But the man didn't look much longer than a few seconds at the gaping maw of the window before looking upon his child. A look of pure serenity colored his features, accompanied by love and relief, when his gaze finally found the sleeping child. Jason watched the man enter the room all the way then, approaching the bed, sitting on the edge and glancing at the darkness of the outside.

That look felt as if it pierced Jason's mask, and he stiffened, not knowing why that nearly black gaze troubled him at all.

But when the man lay upon the bed, curling into his son and holding the child in his arms, and closed his eyes (also ignoring the light that left the two open to Jason's gaze), Jason didn't feel affected anymore. Not as much at least. It still felt like the man had looked at him, not the dark, and that was on the verge of awkward. But the killer didn't dwell on the thought for very long. It was just a side effect of leaving the man alive on purpose. It was making him paranoid.

Now that he thought of it, Jason found the idea of being paranoid more awkward and enraging than the man looking at him ever could be. And that just stirred more rage inside him against the stranger. This needed to end soon.

...\/...\/...

The next morning was pleasant. Well, pleasant enough.

Laurent and Kiran enjoyed the Spaghetti-O's from the night before, now congealed and no longer smelling as burnt. As they sat on the couch in the living room, both focused on eating (as males are wont to do), listening to a little bit of music playing on small portable radio Laurent had brought in the car, the two of them looked at the forest. The beauty of it struck Kiran as magical, wondrous, and extraordinarily gorgeous (quite the thoughts for a six year old). The only thought about it that drifted through Laurent's head was that, if the man even existed, a stranger was lurking out there ready to hurt him and his little boy.

"Daddy," Kiran finally spoke after about half an hour of silence filled with Journey, Foreigner, and other assorted older groups. "Can we go play at the lake today?"

Panic surfaced momentarily, churning Laurent's stomach more than any amount of day old noodles ever could. But he couldn't keep focusing on a bloody delusion. He needed to be strong. Normal, even, for his little boy. Act like nothing was wrong— real or fictional.

"Sure, kiddo."

Kiran grinned and jumped off the couch as soon as his wish was granted, racing away to the bedroom without a second glance at his half-eaten breakfast. His father didn't really mind it though. The sooner little Kiran was out of the room, the sooner Laurent could lose that fake smile. He frowned at the window, the scenery, wishing his brain would just let him know if he was acting normal or not. Because really, feeling like a mental case wasn't the most pleasant of sensations.

Maybe five minutes later, the six year old rushed out of the room, clad in shorts, flip-flops, and a tee. In his little fists were his Transformer and his father's shorts. "You have to change, too, daddy," he said giddily, practically throwing the articles of clothing at the man.

Spaghetti-O's nearly became the decoration for Laurent's clothing, but he ripped his son's half eaten bowl out of his lap just in time. He smiled at the boy, and Kiran smiled back before scampering off to the bedroom again.

"Lord, help me," he laughed to himself.

The dishes were cleaned out (Laurent ate what was left of Kiran's breakfast), Laurent changed (they clashed with each other, but seeing as there were no real people to impress, the man didn't really care), and they were off to the lakeside again. Nervousness ate at the young father's gut like a half-crazed rat was fighting to get out, but he ignored the feelings of unease. It was just a side effect of having seen something that wasn't proven to be real or… well, not real at all.

As little Kiran enjoyed his time splashing in the shallower parts of the shore, his father approached the Camaro. It was still unlocked, as it had been the day before, and looked untouched. He slid into the driver's seat, relishing in the reality of it's groaning under his rather slight weight, the feel of the old leather beneath his legs, and the absolute normal vibe it gave off. The keys had been left in the ignition the night before, and Laurent reached for them then in plans of turning it on and blasting some old rock like at breakfast.

But the keys were gone. The Native American inspired keychain with the beads and the feather. The goofy little Mickey Mouse charm his son had given him two years ago. That damn jade heart his ex had given him on their anniversary when she had still been in love with him and pregnant with their son. Everything was gone.

Laurent looked under the seat, thinking that maybe it had fallen down (if Kiran had crawled across the driver's seat to grab anything when the man hadn't been looking yesterday), but they were nowhere to be seen. The man was firm in the thought that nothing devious had happened during the night, so he stepped out of the vehicle and waved to Kiran, getting his attention.

"Hey, buddy, did you happen to hide daddy's keys anywhere?"

Kiran stayed where he was, looking at his father as if he really was insane. The man didn't like that stare.

"I didn't do anything!" He looked about ready to cry.

"It's okay, I'm not angry. I just want to know if you played with the key chains and wanted to play a game with me yesterday." Laurent smiled just to reassure the boy. Kiran thankfully smiled back, no longer looking so tense. That could be a good sign.

"Nope. I was playing with my Transformer yesterday."

"Okay, squirt. You can keep playing."

Once the boy began splashing about again, Laurent ran both hands through his hair. This was not a good thing. How was he supposed to drive out of here for groceries if he had no form of transportation? His gaze trailed downward, finally looking at the ground. Where he saw some very auspicious boot prints leading up to and then away from the Camaro.

Maybe it was the same man, and he wasn't crazy after all? The very thought made him feel like singing ridiculously loudly to the air. But then another thought hit him. If that man really was… well, real… then he was going to be just as really dangerous as yesterday. He was bound to have that damn weapon on him again, too. Unless it had never been retrieved from the water.

He was holding up hope that the man had remained fearful of the water; though he was really hoping, wishing, praying that the man wasn't real at all. Of course, wishing and hoping rarely ever make anything true.

After one more glance at his son, Laurent began to walk slowly into the edge of the woods. He followed the prints easily— large, heavily made, and obviously the print of a pair of old boots—even once in the shadows of the trees. He looked around as he went, watching for the stranger even as he enjoyed the beauty of nature. Little birds were hopping around and calling each other, the sun dappled through the foliage to create dancing pictures on the ground, and the coolness of the shade dulled Laurent's senses.

Almost to the point that he didn't even notice the sparkling of his keys sitting in a moderately high branch above his head. But it did dull him to the point where he didn't realize that his little boy couldn't have done such a thing and not to notice the large man standing a matter of yards away, watching him.

"There you are," he grinned, reaching up to pluck the keys from their crevice. Of course, they were stuck in there quite well. He tugged at it for a bit, pushing himself onto the tips of his toes to get a better grip on the key chains.

Crack.

Laurent froze. In most cases, if one wasn't worried so much about big men with machetes in the woods, that sound wouldn't have been such a big deal. But the young man was worried about a big man with machete showing up unannounced. He tugged once more on the keys hurriedly, and when they didn't give, he dropped his arms to his sides.

Now there was heavy breathing from nearby, almost inaudible. Laurent released a heavy, slightly shaky sigh, clenched his fists, and whirled around. As he expected, that overly large man from the previous day was looming a couple yards away, practically oozing a nasty sort of hatred, with no machete. At least Laurent could thank God for small favors like that… he wouldn't be killed with a rusty blade.

And now he didn't feel so insane, either. The man had to be real, or else he wouldn't have shown up twice in such a short time period. And he wouldn't have been able to make that branch snap if he wasn't real.

"Um… hello again," the words sounded weak, unsure. He felt a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck and his upper back. "I, uh… um…"

The man didn't respond, merely breathed. He was shivering with barely restrained rage, giant fists clenched much like Laurent's were. A deep, growling sound came from him as soon as Laurent looked ready to say something else. The young father snapped his mouth shut again, slowly backing up until his back rested against the tree.

...\/...\/...

Jason cocked his head to the side, studying the man. He wasn't as graceful anymore; there were no more seamless movements to make him seem like he was floating rather than walking, and he smelled like sweat. Sweat and something else just as nauseating. Was it that stuff he had eaten with his son earlier?

The thought of the little boy made anger surge once more, boiling his blood. This young man had left the little boy all alone, and in the water no less! He would drown if unattended, much as Jason had… painfully, his lungs filling with sour water, the burning, aching, fading feeling. Jason wished he could scream at the man for doing what he did, for evening trying to talk to him. As if he was a friend of his!

Another thought popped out of nowhere. He couldn't get angry with this man for what he did. He seemed to know the little boy more than the child knew himself, and Jason had no right to kill the one person who brought the little one so much joy. Who could keep him normal, unlike Jason's own mother had. A man whom the boy loved with his whole being. Jason couldn't take that away from him… he couldn't do to that poor boy what had been done to him.

He watched as the young man swallowed, his jugular bobbing and pulse pounding. It was fascinating to watch so up close, knowing he wasn't going to slit that throat. The way the man stared at him was interesting as well. Those huge, dark eyes were still fearful but no longer enraging; laced with long, black lashes, too. Jason actually wanted to touch those lashes to see if they were as soft as they looked.

No!

That would be disgusting. He was an evil sinner, but not quite evil enough to be killed, yet. Because of the boy and his normality, Jason was willing to let him live a bit longer.

Ignoring the man's tensing, Jason walked forward swiftly and stopped just in front of him. He felt a sort of pride in the way the man shrank away from his own looming form, the way his eyes didn't leave Jason's mask, the way his pulse pounded even quicker with the close proximity. Leaning ever closer, one of Jason's arms reached above the man and ripped the keys from the niche. Jason's eye never left the younger man's face, and the younger man's eyes never left his mask.

Jason dangled the keys in front of the man's uplifted eyes, growling ever so slightly when he didn't move to take them. Finally, when a single olive toned hand reached up tentatively, Jason gripped the writ with his free hand. He leaned in closer to the young man, glaring as powerfully as he had ever done before, and saw the way it frightened the father. The young man blinked once quickly, looking nervous as Jason shoved the keys and the multiple key chains into the hand of the caught wrist.

With a nod of dismissal, Jason let him go and backed away a step. He wanted to laugh as the man nearly scurried away, glancing behind him once when he was a good distance away and close to the tree line. At that point, he stopped, staring intently at Jason before flashing a huge smile very similar to that of the little boy's smiles.

That was… confusing. Why would he smile at the man who had been so close to killing him? Maybe he wasn't so much evil as a bit crazy. That must be why the little one was so happy with him and felt normal. Just weird. It would be easier to think he was crazy if his eyes hadn't been so… intense. With a snort of derision, Jason turned away from the smiling man and disappeared in the shadows of the forest.

Outside of the cover of the trees, Laurent was finally feeling as if he was no longer crazy. And it felt damn good if he said so himself.

See what I meant back up there when I was prattling on? It's starting between them! Well, not so much between them as it is happening to them as individuals. But that's only for now... soon there'll be something a bit more spicy, though not too much since I favour this T rating over an M rating. There wasn't as much tension as I would have liked when Jason was getting all up in Laurent's bubble, but it's hard to write that stuff when your parents are watching idiotic reality shows in the same room, lol. They kept distracting me, honest! Next time they 'encounter' each other, it'll be better. And there'll hopefully be much more sensuality going between them. It's just hard to create that wityhout any sort of dialogue between them. -Feels like a masochistic write again, always picking a mute or nearly mute character as once half of a relationship-

Anywho! Thanks for reading, loves. You're all so wonderful to me, and I'm sorry I didn't name each of you, I just didn't think I could remember all those names without a pen and paper handy. :) THANK YOU!