A/N: Sorry about the delay. I'm doing a lot of writing in my grad program, so that's kept me busy. There's always time for Jeremy, though. ^_^ Again, thanks to all the readers! This fic is quite a bit more popular than I thought it would be. I'm so happy I'm not alone in the Jeremy love. :3

Speaking of, his actor, Mark L. Young, has been on the last couple episodes of Heroes, playing a character of the same name. (And the same fate, more or less. Poor Jeremy, no matter what universe he's in, he can't catch a break.) I found to this be totally amusing (and horrifying D:), and it was the first thing to get me to watch Heroes in a long time…

Aaanyway, onward!

4. Domestic Nonviolence

The urge to kill was not as easy to pinpoint as Dexter claimed. For him, it seemed something that arose like clockwork; Jeremy imagined he looked at his watch every two weeks on a Wednesday night at 6:30 and said, This is it. Or something to that effect, anyway.

For Jeremy, it was nothing he consciously understood. He spent four years in juvie without the slightest desire to recreate the carnage he had created in that South Miami park when he was fifteen. The fucker had gotten what he deserved, Jeremy was doing his time for it, that was it. He had never wanted to make a career out of it.

But release him back to society and things had started to get fuzzy. He wasn't sure if anyone could understand what it was like, in a halfway house full of kids busted for possession of weed, for shoplifting, biding their time before they went back to mooching off their parents and doing exactly what they had been doing to get them busted in the first place. Even in a place like that, where he was supposed to be on an even keel with everyone else, he was alone. He was older than them, he was homeless. He had killed someone, see the tattoo on his neck? That was his trophy.

Everyone expected him to be worse than he was, and when he wasn't, he became something of a joke, even before the prostitution thing cropped up. No one knew what to do with him, no one cared. So he didn't care either. That was where it started, in a wandering mind, someone with no anchor, it began like an itch in the back of his brain and grew, without Jeremy even realizing it. Like cancer. Next thing he knew he had bought a knife and was leading some kid through a swamp and still it hadn't dawned on him exactly what he was doing. Not until Dexter had jumped in, scared them both shitless had he realized and been angry enough to break a car window and steal a wallet from the glove compartment just to get some fucking release.

And the kid in the alley, of course, had just been frustration, pure and simple. But Jeremy didn't want to think about that, or the events leading up to it, ever again.

But how to put a finger on the very moment he started craving blood? Did junkies know the precise moment they needed another fix? From his experience with them, things just compounded before they were aware and suddenly they were so desperate they'd do anything to get high. Dexter wanted to avoid getting to that point with Jeremy, so he had to be hyperaware of himself, a self he had never been comfortable being. It wouldn't be easy.

Then there was the four days during the week he was back at Homestead, with kids calling him Downs Goes Down and without the man who was ready to seize him at any moment and drag him away from doing something stupid. He had Dexter's cell phone number, some quarters, and the promise he'd be right there in the case of an emergency. Would that really be good enough? At least Jeremy had gotten rid of his knife, the weapon that had done in the Kid in the Alley. Not that he couldn't buy another in a flea market for another fifteen bucks. If he had fifteen bucks. Which he could earn fast, but in no way he wanted to.

He went to the library.

The Miami Beach Branch Library was big, air conditioned, and didn't mind all day loitering if you had books you were reading. They also had internet, something Homestead felt was fine to deprive their charges, who would just be going back to wireless broadband in their parents' houses in a month anyway. Jeremy used an old school ID from before juvie to get himself a library card and started taking books with him when he left. He figured an idle mind got him into trouble to begin with, so if he had something to focus on a daily basis, maybe – well, maybe he wouldn't feel the need to kill again. Or maybe, at least, it would be easier to tell when his mind started to wander to darker places.

Jeremy was not, by his own admission, a very avid reader. Jurassic Park was the only book he had bought for himself, and that was mostly because of the lifelong obsession with paleontology the movie had awakened in him. One of the few memories he had of living with his mother consisted of watching the movie on TV, surrounded by dinosaur action figures, while she… Where was she? In the bedroom, probably, getting high with her boyfriend, but that was the adult Jeremy adding logic to the childhood memory. He did that from time to time, although that was nothing he liked to dwell on, either.

The point was, while not being terribly transfixed by fiction, Jeremy liked the science of things. Paleontology, astronomy, marine biology – at one point he had been certain he wanted a career as a scientist in one of these fields. Before juvie, of course, before he started looking things up and realized how expensive it was just to get a bachelor's degree in anything he really wanted to do. Now the Miami Beach Library carried just as many nonfiction books as fiction books, so he settled for the reachable goal of not letting himself get bored enough to kill anyone and checked out ten books at a time.

Still, it was a confused yet intrigued look he received when Jeremy got into Dexter's car on a sweaty Thursday afternoon and pulled out Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time to read on the ride back to Dexter's place.

"You're into astrophysics?" Dexter asked.

Jeremy shrugged and flipped a page. "Have to fill the time somehow now that I'm not whoring."

Dexter shook his head and started the car. "I knew you were smarter than you look."

***

Strictly speaking, although he was at Dexter's, Jeremy still spent a decent amount of time alone. On Friday Dexter worked, Friday night he went out with his girlfriend, so Jeremy was glad he had given himself the project of expanding his knowledge of areas that weren't related to serial murder. On Saturday they went over details to Harry Morgan's code and Sunday they did something almost disturbingly father and son-like, such as fishing, or watching the Dolphins game, which Deb showed up for with beer, forgetting Jeremy was underage. It was bizarre, and it almost hurt as much as he enjoyed it, because it had been so very long since he had experienced anything like it. The old foster kid fear was still present in the back of his mind; one wrong move and he was gone. If he fucked up and killed someone else who didn't deserve it, he was certain Dexter would be done with him. Probably with plastic wrap and a needle to the neck. (Yet another thing he didn't want to think about.)

After a few weeks of this routine, Dexter returned home on a Friday evening, citing he was taking a shower before meeting Rita for their date. While in the bathroom, his cell phone rang, and from where Jeremy sat at the kitchen counter could see the letters of Rita's name glowing on the front. His first instinct was to answer it, but he wasn't sure if Dexter had told his girlfriend about the underprivileged kid he was sponsoring, so thought better of it. He pointed it out when Dexter emerged from the shower and sat watching as Dexter called her back.

The sitter for Rita's kids was sick and had to cancel was the gist of it. Jeremy could hear her voice through the phone, she sounded sad and a little overwhelmed. Dexter was in the middle of saying they should reschedule for the beginning of next week when Jeremy said, "I can do it."

Dexter blinked at him, as if noticing he was there for the first time.

"I've babysat kids before," Jeremy said, and he had. It was one of the most popular reasons to take in teenage foster children. That and a free housekeeper. "It's easy."

"I… think I might've just found a replacement," Dexter said to Rita. "Remember the boy I'm sponsoring? He's here right now … totally trustworthy," he confirmed, giving Jeremy a stern look as he spoke. "Great. We'll leave in a few minutes. See you soon." He hung up and narrowed his eyes at Jeremy.

"What?" Jeremy said.

"Why would you volunteer for something like this?"

Jeremy shrugged. "Maybe because I'm not paying rent? You've been doing me all the favors lately, I might as well try to return one here and there."

Dexter seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of the situation, then said, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell Rita that I'm letting an ex-con watch her children."

Jeremy rolled his eyes. "Because that's a fact I so proudly flaunt to everyone I meet."

"All right, wiseass, get in the car."

***

Rita Bennett's house wasn't big but it was cozy; it felt like a home, more so than Dexter's pristine apartment. Rita herself was a sweet little blond, who smiled often but just as hesitantly as Jeremy did. Something haunted her, he could tell right away. He had spent enough time as a broken spirit to know.

Astor and Cody were cute but much too quiet. They too reminded Jeremy of himself. They were used to upsets and trauma, of being afraid to make noise or the anger would be turned on them. No one mentioned where their father was. Jeremy knew better than to ask questions.

Bed time was 8:30, pizza had already been ordered. Rita asked Jeremy what he charged and he gave her a horrified look until he realized she meant for watching the kids. He sputtered something about not needing to be paid but she insisted on at least $10 an hour, like she gave their regular sitter. It sounded absurdly low and wonderful at the same time. He finally pressed his lips together and nodded, hoping she didn't notice how pink in the face he was getting. His former coworkers used to tell him he'd never want to go back to a straight job, not after knowing how much his mouth could earn him. Now the innocence of his sittees and the paltry pay that accompanied it was nearly enough to dissolve him into relieved tears.

When Dexter and Rita left, they played chutes and ladders while munching pepperoni pizza in the living room. Jeremy let himself lose. Then Astor put on CNN and appeared to be genuinely interested in what was going on. Cody asked him where he got his neck tattoo.

"Friend of mine," Jeremy said, which was only a slight stretching of the truth. "He was learning." Also fact. Enrique had been planning to go to work in his brother's tattoo parlor when he got out of juvie for drug possession.

Cody nodded solemnly, believing the story with the intensity of a seven-year-old. "Well, it's badass!"

Jeremy struggled not to laugh but Astor turned away from the TV and scolded, "Cody, we're not supposed to swear."

"Sorry, but it is!" Cody said, then scrambled off the couch to find his Legos.

Jeremy decided he liked them both.

The kids more or less put themselves to bed when it was the designated time. Jeremy made sure they were comfortable and didn't need anything and then flopped back on the living room couch, the news still droning on the television. Although it was early, he felt tired enough to sleep, a rarity. There was also an odd feeling inside him, which took him awhile to pinpoint. It was something like contentment. He tried to remember the last time he felt that way. At least a decade. At least.

He must have started to doze because suddenly he was jerking awake, heart hammering, as someone pounded on the front door. Jeremy blinked blearily, searching the unfamiliar room for a clock to tell him what time it was. Five past nine. Much earlier than Dexter and Rita's estimated time of arrival. Despite his hesitation, the knocking continued undeterred.

Jeremy stood and stumbled a bit on the way to the door. By the time he opened it and found himself staring at a tall blond man with a bowl cut he was fully awake. Strange men made him nervous, especially when it looked as though they could overpower him. This man was taller than him, with well-muscled arms covered in tattoos looking as crudely drawn as Jeremy's own. He already had a bad feeling he knew where this was going.

"Can I help you?" he asked with as much authority as he could muster. He could tell the guy was sizing him up as a pitiful opponent, and oftentimes the deepness of Jeremy's voice was the only indication that he was closer to twenty than ten.

Ignoring his question, the man demanded, "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the sitter," Jeremy replied, equally flippant. At least there they were evenly matched. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the father," the man said. "Paul Bennett. You're not the normal sitter."

"She's sick. I'm a replacement. Look, Astor and Cody are already asleep, and Rita's not here, so can I just take a message or something?"

Paul Bennett's smirk and the way he leaned into the doorway made Jeremy nervous, added to the fact that no one had mentioned his existence. It gave Jeremy the overall impression that Bennett was not welcome here.

"Dammit, kid, can't a man see his own children?" Bennett cried, pounding the doorframe with his fist, making Jeremy jump.

It was also the first time the outside light really illuminated Bennett's face and Jeremy could see how sweaty it was. A second later he caught a whiff of something alcoholic. Whiskey, maybe. Jeremy swallowed hard; drunks were another variety of people he didn't like. Too unpredictable in their actions, and so many of them turned mean. He'd had a foster parent or two with that particular failing.

"I think you should leave," Jeremy said, trying not to look intimidated. Show a moment of vulnerability and people like Paul Bennett seized it. "I don't think you wanna make me call the police."

Bennett laughed. "You won't call the police. You like 'em as much as I do. Ya know, you've got a lot of nerve to bring yourself near my children and act like you've got any sorta power over me, sporting a big ol' prison tat on your neck."

Jeremy froze, which just made Bennett laugh harder. "Yeah, you really didn't think I'd notice, you little shit? It takes one to know one."

Jeremy's hand, still on the doorknob, tightened its grip until his knuckles were white. His other hand, at his side, began to tingle with nervous energy. "You're right," he said. "I won't call the cops. I'll call Rita. And I'm gonna bet she'll listen to me more than she'd listen to you. And you'll probably lose whatever little claim to your kids that you've got left. How's that?"

Being a foster kid had its advantages; you got a sense of what shitty parents could and couldn't do to be able to stay around their kids. In this instance, it seemed to have worked. Bennett scowled, pushed away from the doorframe, and started to drift away. Then he abruptly turned back and said, "The kids, you know? They're innocent. They're so innocent. I can't believe Rita'd keep me away but let scum like you watch 'em."

"You don't know anything about me," Jeremy said, voice cold and even. "Get out."

Bennett disappeared up the walkway and Jeremy slammed the door and locked it. His head was buzzing slightly, with adrenaline and something else, something he ignored because he was too busy trying to decide if he should call Rita anyway. He sat down on the couch and weighed the pros and cons. Rita should definitely know what had happened, but interrupting what was probably her few hours of unfettered freedom the entire week for something he'd been able to diffuse himself seemed unnecessary and a little cruel. And Jeremy liked Rita. He liked her soft maternal smile and he liked her kids. He wanted to let her have the extra couple hours. He'd tell her when they got back.

He was on the way to the kitchen to get some water and clear his head when he saw it. There was a shadow on the window by the back door, in the shape of a silhouette. Jeremy went immediately for the door knob, to lock it in case it wasn't. He turned the lock at the right second; instantly there was pounding on the other side, and shouting. "Open up, asshole! Lemme in to my kids! They're safer with me than you, you piece of shit!"

Jeremy wasn't sure if Bennett was strong enough to break down the door. He backed away from it, the buzzing in his head getting louder. He could feel the pressure building in his chest, hands tingling electric. In a flash he was in the kitchen, drawing the biggest and sharpest knife from the block on the counter. He stood in front of the door and waited, imagining Bennett walking through and which slice he'd make first, in his head daring the big lout to do it, do it now and see how sorry you'll be.

He didn't know exactly what it was that clued him in. Maybe the mental awareness that Dexter had instilled in him had worked. But after a few more seconds of banging outside, Jeremy looked down at the knife in his hand and realized what was happening. And he knew this wasn't going to work, even if it was technically self-defense, his MO was too distinctive, everyone would know. He let out a big gasping breath, drew in another, and retreated, tucking the knife into his belt and grabbing the cordless phone as he went back to Astor and Cody's room. He pressed his ear against the door; miraculously, they seemed not to notice the commotion. Some kids slept like the dead. He was jealous.

Jeremy held up the phone and stared at the dial pad. Bennett had said he'd never call the police. And it was true that the very sight of an officer in uniform sent waves of panic through him, but this was home invasion. Bennett was right, there were two innocent lives here, lives already disrupted by the monster that was Dad. There was Rita, paying him ten dollars an hour and feeding him pizza without knowing or caring what his last source of income was. There was Dexter, demented doting Dexter, probably the best father figure Jeremy had ever had.

He called 911.

"Yeah, I'm babysitting two kids and their estranged dad is drunk and trying to break in…"

***

Jeremy's call sent a flurry of swirling red and blue lights and uniformed cops upon Rita's small, cozy house. Sometime between his call and the arrival of the police, however, Paul Bennett had apparently given up his quest and disappeared. Rita and Dexter came home immediately, of course, and Rita talked to the police in low, lilting tones as Jeremy sat at the dining room table and gave his statement, waiting for someone to recognize him and announce that he needed to be brought into the station, just for being Jeremy Downs. Luckily, no one said such a thing.

Once the police left, Rita came over to Jeremy and put a hand on his shoulder. He tensed a little but forced himself to look up at her. She smiled her soft smile and said, "Thank you for doing what you did, Jeremy. You were very brave."

Jeremy did not feel brave. He chewed his lip and said, "If I knew he was just gonna stop and leave, I wouldn't have caused this mess."

"Don't you worry about it. You did the right thing. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Paul. I was just hoping he'd leave us in peace. He's got regular visitations with the kids; I don't know what else he expects from us."

She pulled out her purse and gave him sixty dollars from her wallet, which was almost double what he should have been given. Jeremy tried to give it back, but she refused. "Believe me, it's the very least I can do. Who knows how bad things could have gotten if you weren't here."

Jeremy swallowed hard and didn't mention how bad things could have gotten with him here. The mental image of Astor and Cody seeing him bloody and manic over their dad's mangled corpse skittered through his mind.

"Thank you," was all he could manage.

Rita went to check on the kids and Jeremy got up, for the first time facing Dexter, who had played the part of concerned boyfriend well, was now in the kitchen with his arms crossed, watching Jeremy like a hawk. Jeremy approached him and tried to look him in the eye, but was having a difficult time lifting his gaze that high. After few seconds of silent confrontation, Dexter moved away from where he was leaning against the counter, revealing the knife block with one slot empty.

Jeremy said nothing.

He had been lucky enough to be wearing an open plaid shirt over a more form-fitting t-shirt, which had provided concealment for the weapon he had kept with him, he had told himself, just in case. The police, with no reason to search him, hadn't found it. In a swift movement, Dexter pushed aside the plaid shirt, revealing the knife handle still tucked into his belt. Dexter seized it and pulled it out, holding it up in front of Jeremy's face.

"Explain."

Jeremy looked at his shoes.

"Dammit, Jeremy."

The disappointment in his voice hit Jeremy harder than he thought it would.

"That's not the reason they can't find him, is it?" Dexter asked, low and harsh.

For the first time Jeremy's gaze snapped up to meet his. "No!" he said, a little too loudly. Struggling to control his volume, he said, "I thought about it, but… but I didn't. I called the police instead. I just… if he got in, I didn't want to be defenseless. I know what drunk dads can do to their kids, okay?"

The passion in his voice must have convinced Dexter, because he replaced the knife in its block and said, with the stereotypical sternness of a parent, "We'll talk about this in the car."

Rita reappeared and Dexter's demeanor changed, his entire posture relaxing and his tone going lighter, good-natured, harmless. He seemed the least threatening when he was around Rita.

"Are you sure you don't want extra enforcements tonight, in case he comes back?" Dexter asked her.

Rita put her arms around him and kissed him briefly. "We'll be fine. He's probably collapsed someplace to sleep it off." She disentangled herself from Dexter and turned to Jeremy, taking his hand and squeezing it once. "Thank you again. You deserve a medal."

It was rare an adult looked at Jeremy with that much trust in her eyes. It was even absent in Dexter's, who knew entirely too many of his secrets. Jeremy had a strange and foreign urge to hug Rita, which he did not indulge. He just swallowed painfully and tried to smile.

Dexter did not speak for much of the ride back to his place. Jeremy, never one to start a conversation, kept his face turned away, watching the various lights of Miami coast by.

Finally, Dexter said, "Paul Bennett's enough to awaken anyone's inner homicidal maniac."

Surprised by the humor in his voice, Jeremy turned to face him.

"Not a nice guy, is he?" Dexter said.

Jeremy shook his head.

"And don't think the thought hasn't crossed my mind, either." Dexter shook his head. "But it's not a good idea, for a number of reasons. I'm glad you recognized it, too. It's a step forward for you, Jeremy."

Unsure of what else to say, Jeremy just mumbled, "Thanks."

"You felt it, though. The need." It wasn't a question.

Slowly, Jeremy nodded.

Stopped at a light, Dexter turned to look him in the eye. "Is it still there?"

Deep in his chest, the pressure had eased, but the more he concentrated, the more he felt it, hard and heavy as a stone, pressing. It would flair again, he realized, the next time he was threatened or angry. Would he be able talk himself out of it then?

"Yeah," he said, quietly. "It is."

Dexter nodded. The light changed; he turned the wheel, looking casually out at the street. "Then we'll fix it."

***

The next night, it was another abandoned warehouse, more tarp, more pictures on the walls. It was someone Dexter had been tailing mostly on his own, with a few bits of input from Jeremy in their study sessions. A small Cuban man who had killed his child when she was eight and was steadily working up ages in other people's children. Dexter had dumped him, drugged and stupid, on a table, but that's not the way Jeremy wanted to do it. Dexter had looked incredulous, but in the end agreed to wait outside the kill room, guarding the inside of the warehouse door, just in case.

Dexter had gotten him a small but sharp hunting knife, not unlike the one he'd had until recently. When not in use it was to stay with Dexter's tools, for safe-keeping but also because Jeremy knew Dexter didn't trust him with unlimited access to a weapon like that. Jeremy wasn't sure he trusted himself either, so that was all right, he supposed.

He sat cross-legged on the floor and waited for the man to wake up. He ran the knife's blade sideways across his thumb, feeling the friction of its sharpness, even through the latex gloves. He wished he didn't have to wear them, but that damn thumb print was what had gotten him in trouble the last time, so it was foolish to tempt fate again, even with Dexter's meticulous clean up efforts.

The man, Jeremy hadn't bothered to learn his name, stirred and sat up. He wasn't bound, either. That's not what Jeremy wanted. Killing someone tied to a table seemed like a let down after all that, like hunting an animal that was already limping. Of course, the drugs in his system still had him sluggish, but it was better that than giving him a real chance to escape.

"What the fuck is this?" he muttered in heavily accented English. He saw Jeremy, still on the floor, stance almost that of a meditator. "Who are you?"

Jeremy stood without a word. Dexter seemed all about the conversations with his victims, when they were rational enough to speak to. Jeremy only wanted to utter the correct amount of words to get someone within his reach, and then let the rest be silence. Considering this man was already caught in the web, there was no reason to speak.

"I dunno what kind of prank you're pulling here, kid, but I got stuff to—"

Jeremy probably should have pointed out the pictures of his victims, but as the man hadn't noticed them, it just seemed like an unnecessary step to him. As the man slid off the table and tried to make an exit, Jeremy was in front of him, moving faster than the Cuban could have guessed. In the next second the knife was moving, swishing through the air and skin and arteries, each one giving against his blade with another notch of pleasure. He always did love red.

With the final stroke he hit the aorta, twisting at just the right angle to draw the man up slightly, look him in the eyes, which were fading from life fast. Jeremy fixed him with his own calm stare and said, "I'm not a goddamn kid."

He pulled out the knife and the man fell to the floor.

Jeremy emerged from the kill room minutes later, having cleaned and replaced the knife among Dexter's tools and taken off the plastic body suit now covered in blood. Dexter raised his eyebrows, because Jeremy's stride was a little affected, his head tilted to the side as if too heavy to hold upright.

"You look stoned," Dexter told him.

Jeremy shrugged.

Dexter sighed. "Fine, sit down and don't touch anything. I'll take care of the rest."

Jeremy did as he was told. The pressure on his chest was gone, replaced by lightness and euphoria. He was almost dizzy with it. It wouldn't last; it never did, but he wanted to savor it while it was here without the harsh reality of What have I done? and What will they do if they catch me? whispering in his ear.

He looked at his hands and counted his fingers and found it all so very fascinating. Even the sound of Dexter's bone saw couldn't penetrate his high.