Rationale

by Sandfire Kat

Denial is one hell of a thing.

1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my second Deception fic I'm working on at the moment- just like my other one, I'm just not sure whether or not enough people would like me to continue it! So! I'm posting it here in the hopes a couple people will like it! This is a very heavy story, though I don't write any explicit material at all! The rating is what it is because of what is to be implied. I hope you all like it and I hope I can hear from you in a review!

This takes place directly after the season finale!

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

Denial is one hell of a thing.

It can make you do anything. Think anything. Believe anything. Simply because you didn't want to believe something else instead.

It doesn't matter that they're twenty minutes late, they won't stand me up.

It doesn't matter they're not answering my calls, they're probably just too busy to talk.

It doesn't matter that they're not breathing anymore, they can't be dead.

It doesn't matter that they broke up with me, they'll regret it and apologize.

It doesn't matter that it didn't work the first two times I did it, it'll work this time.

Pick any one of them. They're all the same. Because they're all stupid.

But maybe not as stupid as this one.

It doesn't matter that my brother left me here, because he's coming back.

It doesn't matter that Jonathan is gone, because he knows what he's doing.

Maybe that's the stupidest scrap of denial that's ever existed. But it was the first thing that occurred when Cameron picked himself up off the floor. When he gathered his thoughts, scrambled and disoriented from the blow that had knocked him out in the first place— the blow that had come from his brother, too fast and too unexpected to dodge. That was the first thing he felt when he woke up: confusion. Wondering what the heck had just happened because it made as much sense as being told Spider-Man was actually the person that had killed Uncle Ben the entire time. It just hadn't connected. The dots were there, but the numbers weren't— he didn't know how to even begin to draw lines between them. What shape they ended up making.

But once he'd stood and looked towards the door – looked down at himself and then back up in growing alarm – the next thing he'd felt had been shock. Just shock. A numbness rooted in the idea that something had to be wrong, just because these dots didn't make sense. He knew that Jonathan had punched him, had swapped their clothes and escaped on his own to leave him here…but he didn't understand it. They'd…they were going to do it together. They were going to leave together, and they were going to solve this…together, like they should have done from the very beginning. He'd come in with everything they'd needed, he'd been— prepared to leave behind everything, to go on the run with his brother, because…because they were going to do it together. So why…how…what he'd said— Cameron knew what Jonathan had said, but…

And once the shock faded, after he'd stood in unmoving silence for what felt like a tiny eternity, then that was when the denial had set it. Fully and officially, settled over his shoulders. He'd turned his stunned gaze down to his hands instead, like he was holding an answer there that he just had to study in order to see. The gears in his brain had begun to turn, stuttering and straining with the effort of piecing together this puzzle that didn't make a coherent picture once it was assembled. It made no picture, so he was attempting to make one himself. And that was the picture his mind had crafted. Slowly, and not all surely, but eventually.

Jonathan had left. He'd left him here. He'd switched their places. But he'd done it for a reason. There had to be a reason. He'd gone out by himself because he had a plan, and this was just a part of it. He was going to go after the woman himself, because he knew exactly what to do, and he just needed Cameron here to take his place in jail until everything was sorted. The gears spun and twisted, picking up speed the longer he stood alone in that room. Jonathan was going out to do something only he could to take MW down. He needed him here, that was why he'd refused to go with him in the first place when Cameron had offered it. That was it— it must be it. His brother was sorting everything out, and he was trusting him to know that. Just like he'd trusted him to know that when MW had broken into the Archive and pointed a gun to his head.

He'd been there for him, then. He was there for him now. Cameron knew that. It was the only way this made sense.

Or…it wasn't the only way it made sense.

But it was the easiest thing to believe.

So he did. He tried. He told it to himself and tried to reap as much comfort from it as he could.

Jonathan would never leave him. He would never hurt him like this— abandon him like this.

Cameron loved his brother. He trusted him. Both with all his heart.

And Jonathan did the same for him…didn't he?

"Black." Cameron's head snapped up at the bark. His stomach fell three nearly three stories. He turned to the door to see the guard that had let him in. The man had greeted him with a polite smile, before. Now, there wasn't even a shred of that left to see. The older man's stare was hard and flinty, and he regarded Cameron like someone would look at a particularly full garbage can that they really would rather not empty. Cameron said and did nothing; for all he was standing, he was a deer trapped in headlights. Apparently, this was the wrong thing to do. "Come on, Black, you've been loitering long enough," the man snapped. "I don't have time for you to waste."

Cameron blinked rapidly. His mouth was dry— he could barely choke back a swallow. Panic and fear and confusion was a sickening cocktail in the pit of his stomach, and he was doing his best to try and stomp it down before it could mutate into anything more dangerous. When he spoke, his voice was horribly small and weak. Unsure. He wasn't sure. "Did—" He cut himself off. He hesitated for a long moment, his eyes wide as he scrambled for what he should do. The guard was only growing angrier with every passing second he was continuing to 'waste.' He forced the question out, trying not to stutter on it too much. "Did…my brother leave?" he asked.

For all the other reacted, Cameron might as well have asked 'Is water wet?' "He left ten minutes ago, and you're still standing in here," he growled. Cameron tried to reply, an apology already building itself on his tongue simply out of instinct. He was going on though before he could. "You don't have this room anymore, it was only given to you to help the FBI. Now that they don't need you, we're clearing it. You can't hang out in here like it's a Starbucks."

"I— I wasn't—" He couldn't remember the last time he was this confused. He couldn't remember the last time he was this speechless. Eventually, he managed to spit something out, but it likely wasn't at all what was appropriate for this specific situation. "This place is too small to be a Starbucks. Which is saying something, because they're usually really small." His words ended in a nervous burst of laughter. Maybe it was the shock and confusion that got him talking like this. He didn't know. Whatever it was, it was stupid. And he knew that as soon as it got out of his mouth. Unfortunately, that was a tad too late to be of any use.

The guard smiled, but the grin was filled with nothing but disdain. It got Cameron to immediately withdraw and sober. "That's funny," they growled. Then they dropped the smile, glowering instead as they stepped to the side and jerked their thumb over their shoulder. "Out," he barked again, and Cameron jerked at the harsh command. "Unless you want to miss lunch, and if that's the case, you can just go back to your cell."

Cameron still stayed where he was for a heartbeat. His mind was racing, sprinting this way and that as he tried to figure out what he should do. His eyes flickered past the guard for a moment, out into the hall. Like some part of him expected Jonathan to be standing there with a smirk on his face and a 'Got ya' on his lips. Just like he always waited for their father to come out and do the same thing, whenever he was particularly cruel. But there was nobody there; Jonathan was long gone. But what was he doing out there? And why hadn't he let him in on what he was going to do?

The map— he took the map, too, didn't he? Maybe he was going there to wait out for MW like Cameron had said before— that would make sense. MW had only wanted to talk to him before with that entire kidnapping case. If Jonathan went out alone and caught her, she wouldn't be as suspecting as she would be if Cameron went along too. That must have been his plan! Cameron could see it, it fit perfectly— that was the picture of the puzzle! He was going to lie to get to her, and that way he could get the evidence he needed, of course he was!

That was why he left him here. He needed time, and he needed the freedom to trick her. Freedom that they wouldn't have had if the police was out looking for him. Jonathan needed him here, that was what was going on. This way, it made sense. Cameron was making it make sense. His brother was— "Black!" Cameron stiffened again at the yell, and he looked back up with a small jump. The guard was scowling now, and it was clear that his temper was running short. If he even had a temper in the first place, and didn't just immediately jump to rage. "Do you want me to drag you out of this room, or do you want to move your goddamn legs?"

Cameron swallowed everything back. The explanations, the questions, the apologies, everything. He clamped his mouth shut and he swallowed hard, clenching his hands into tight fists at hid sides instead. If Jonathan really was trying to do something…and surely that was the case…then it was clear what Cameron's role in this was. He couldn't speak up. He couldn't get Jonathan into trouble. He knew his brother— he knew his brother like the back of his hand. He couldn't get him into trouble by speaking now.

He wouldn't want to, anyway. He loved him.

So…he moved his goddamn legs.

Keeping his hands fisted tightly, Cameron walked out. The guard's irritation was in no way lessened by the compliance— he just slammed the door hard and turned to walk close behind him like a shadow. Cameron took another deep breath and forced himself to keep moving. He forced himself to ignore the sickening feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, as well. As the guard herded him along and snapped at him to keep walking whenever he hesitated. He knew the building— he'd looked at its layout time and again, and he'd visited it enough times to get a bearing on where everything was. But he'd never actually walked these halls. He'd never gone anywhere except the total of about three places visitors were allowed to actually go. The cafeteria wasn't one of these places. That had been off-limits.

He eyed it all as they went. The tiled floor, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead, some of them flickering like they were just about to go out. The walls were concrete and bare, and though Cameron had seen it all more times than he really wanted to admit, somehow it looked completely different now. It felt different. Before now, he hadn't even really thought about the way it looked— he'd really only been focused on seeing Johnny. Now he couldn't really overlook how depressing it kind of was. How oppressive and how…awful. It was awful. That was the only thought that really stuck with him, at first.

But the longer they walked and the longer he was given time to think, other thoughts started cropping up. How genuinely angry his brother had looked when they'd been talking. How he'd glared at him and refused his offer of help over and over again. How he'd punched him and knocked him out cold. And as he walked and thought about all of this, the knot in his stomach started to grow more and more. 'If Jonathan had to leave to go through with his own plan, why didn't he just you that?' it demanded. Cameron wilted, but kept walking. The only change was the smallest hunch of his shoulders. 'If he just explained, he had to know that you would agree. At the very least, why didn't he just shoot you a look or something? To let you know it was all a part of some plan and he'd have it all fixed soon? There was nobody listening in. Nobody watching. If this was a plan, he would have said something.'

It doesn't matter that my brother left me here, because he's coming back.

'Yeah, but how do you know that? You don't really know that. He was furious. He was angry. You'd messed up with him so many times, you said it yourself. He found a way to let you know he still had your best interests at heart even when MW was two feet away from you. Here, you two were completely alone…there was no camera, no audience…and he knocks you unconscious and leaves you back here. Maybe it's not a plan, maybe this is just his special 'fuck you.' Not that you don't deserve it, but that's another topic to address at a later time. What I'm saying is: I don't think Jonathan had a plan at all. Unless that plan was to get away from you. I don't think what all he said was for show. I think it was true.'

It doesn't matter that Jonathan is gone, because he knows what he's doing.

Cameron closed his eyes tightly, his nails digging crescent moons in the palms of his hands by now. He kept going where the guard was pushing him along to, and wisely he followed the man's example and kept silent. The longer they walked, though, the more strained his expression became, and the tighter his muscles grew. He tried to push away the other voice and hold tight to the other part of him. The part of him that had existed since he could first remember. That adored Jonathan and trusted him with his entire heart. That always looked up to him as if he was the older brother, even though they were twins. The part that knew without a doubt that Jonathan would never in a million years hurt him, in any way shape or form. He couldn't possibly doubt him. Not now. Not after everything they'd been through.

That's what he told himself, anyway. Over and over and over again, in the hopes that it would stick.

Winding through hallway after hallway that stayed just as dim and dreary as the one before it, they finally approached the cafeteria. Cameron could hear the rumble of voices before he saw it. His steps started to slow and hesitate the closer he got, and by the time he was actually crossing its threshold, he was hardly moving. The knot in his stomach got about twenty times tighter. Suddenly it was a lot less simple to just breathe normally. He felt like he used to get before shows, way back before he was comfortable in the spotlight, or in front of hundreds of people, let alone thousands. Nervous, and unsure, and pretty positive that he was going to make a mistake.

Apparently, the guard had had his fill of him. Which Cameron couldn't really blame him for, because at this point, he'd had a fill of himself as well— he just didn't have the luxury of throwing up his hands and walking away. Even though the sentiment was still kind of there. Without a single word – without the tiniest goodbye – he just turned and walked away, which left Cameron with an odd kind of jolting feeling that he imagined a kid would feel on their first day of kindergarten. But less of 'Mom, wait, where are you going?' it was more like 'I don't even know your name but please come back so I do not die.'

It wasn't the perfect analogy. But he guessed if a kid was particularly anxious, the thought process would pretty much be the same.

He lingered there for ages, just staring like someone who had never even seen a cafeteria in the first place. He never had a first day of high school, or…well, a first day of any kind of school, that he could remember anyway. He and Jonathan were both homeschooled from the very beginning. Can't have something stupid like school getting in the way of tour dates, now could they? It explained two things: why Jonathan wasn't a social person at all (despite the more obvious reason of the fact that he wasn't supposed to exist, of course) and why Cameron had been so bad at it for so long, and was still pretty overbearing when it came to that department. They never really had any wanted socialization aside from themselves for the better parts of their lives.

Which means they never had things like prom, or too-shy first dates, or figuring out homerooms, or picking out/running for homecoming court, and this: finding out where the heck to sit in a lunchroom they'd never been in before when they knew nobody here. Now, bear with the metaphor, because this was not at all the first day of high school as much as it was a moment Cameron wasn't even supposed to be having, in a room full of convicted felons, but analogies don't have to be perfect, do they? They just had to kind of fit, and though Cameron wasn't at all an expert on the subject, he imagined the feeling he had right now could be sympathized at least a little bit with the fourteen-year-olds that were just trying to eat their sandwich in peace.

He looked over the tables and the people that were already there, some sitting down and eating and some in line to get their food. He knew nobody. He was hoping he'd see at least a face he'd maybe seen during his visits, or maybe pluck a name out of the air that Jonathan had mentioned to him. But in the year, he'd been here, Jonathan hadn't ever name-dropped a single person that might be a shining beacon of at least somewhere to go. So thank you, for that, and thank you for everything else happening right this very moment, because I appreciate it so much. He had to take another deep breath to steady himself. To center his thoughts back to where they mattered.

He wasn't hungry, that was for damn sure. He wasn't really keen on asking if he could go anywhere else, or even asking if that was a thing he could do. He was guessing the answer would be no. Or it would be a large inconvenience to the man he'd apparently been a real trouble for up until this point. So, blinking a little faster than normal, Cameron resigned himself to taking the nearest empty seat. The other half of the table had a couple people sitting there, but this half was vacant, and he figured that meant it was a good spot to sit until he could figure out what the heck he was supposed to do.

Beyond the obvious. He couldn't call anyone. Not Dina, or Jordan— definitely not Gunter. He couldn't call Kay, either. They would start looking for Jonathan. And if he had a plan – I don't think he has a plan, I think he ran away, I think he left me here, I think he wants me to rot here like he did, I think he wants to get back — then alerting them to the fact would ruin the entire thing. He'd ruined enough for Jonathan. He'd ruined this entire thing up to now. If Jonathan was doing something right this second, then he would only make it worse. He would only prove his brother's anger right. So no, he couldn't call anyone. That would ruin the whole thing.

So…he just…stayed here?

He didn't want to do that either.

Jonathan hadn't, though, and he had. Jonathan had the means the plans to escape – he said this fact more than enough times – but he never did. He stayed in here and let Cameron go out and try to solve things, staying as patient as possible with every failed attempt. Now…now it was just Cameron's turn to do the same thing. He would wait here and give Jonathan the chance to solve it all, and maybe he wouldn't have to wait long. It would only be a few days…in a few days, Jonathan would come back and visit him and he would say he was sorry, and a bunch of other things, probably. He would tell him that everything was fine and he was onto something, and if he just gave him a little bit longer, he would have the evidence to clear his name and this whole thing could be put behind them.

It would only be a couple of days, before he came back with an explanation and an apology.

Right?

Right.

Of course.

Seventy-two hours. It couldn't be more than seventy-two hours, he was sure of it. He could wait that long. There wasn't much to it, was there? Certainly not. Cameron had once spent a whole weekend at the childhood home of some girl, meeting every single member of her family, and during that entire time – and to this very day even – he hadn't actually known her name. If he could pull that off, this would be easy. Heck, this might even be less awkward than that had been. He just had to be patient. He just had to trust Jonathan.

At the last thought, he cringed, reaching up and rubbing at his injured cheek.

It doesn't matter that my brother left me here, because he's coming back.

It doesn't matter that Jonathan is gone, because he knows what's he's doing.

He took to staring down blankly at the table, finding that it was actually a very good pastime when compared with any alternative he had at his disposal. He stared through the table, not really seeing it in the first place, and he just stared. The only thing on his mind really being wondering how long lunch was so he could wonder how long he had to sit here. He was never good with sitting and doing nothing. He got too fidgety. Jonathan was the opposite— he always used to poke fun at him for the habit. But eventually something leaked through his awareness, and he realized something. Something that was probably fairly important.

People were staring at him. Openly. They weren't even trying to hide it.

Cameron could hear talking, too. Different than the regular buzz of conversation you would expect to hear in a cafeteria. He could hear hissing kind of whispers— hushed mutters that gave off the vibe of something more important than what was on TV tonight, or what your weekend plans were. Once he became aware of this change, Cameron picked up his head, his eyes flickering away from the table as he looked up instead. Sure enough, a majority of the room was looking in his direction. Some choosing more discretion than others. He managed to keep the blank look on his face, thankfully enough, but the knot got about twenty times tighter in the pit of his stomach. In his lap underneath the table, his hands clenched tight.

Did they see something different? It wasn't really a worry that Cameron had ever really had. When he was a kid he did— when they'd first started the whole charade, he was always wondering whether they were pulling off the stunt, or if people could tell there was a difference between him and Jonathan. Eventually the worry had melted, and then it had all but vanished. But now, Jonathan was common knowledge. Everyone knew there were two Black twins, now. Did that mean it would be easier to anticipate a difference? Nobody had suspected for a single second, when he and Jonathan had switched places during the card trick earlier. Nobody had even batted an eye. How could these people be wiser? But if they weren't, then what in the world were they—

Something hit him. Cameron stiffened and jerked, startled as he reached up on impulse to get it off. There was the distinct sound of laughter as he did, and he looked down at his hands with a grimace to see that someone had decided the best use of their spaghetti would be as a missile straight to his face. It was a mess, all over him and all over the front of his shirt, and in his hair. When he realized this, the snickering around him only got louder. Practically burning with self-consciousness, Cameron looked up to try and see who had been the culprit but given everyone's equal attention and satisfaction it was impossible to tell. He just looked down and tried to scrub it off, his eyebrows pulling together in a strained flinch.

But the second he ducked back down, something else was thrown at him. And then something else, and something else. A tiny yelp escaped Cameron after the third handful of pasta hit him. He staggered and tried to fumble out of his seat, hunching over more and throwing his arms up in front of his face to try and shield it. He felt everything hit him— spaghetti, mashed potatoes, green beans, they all rained down on him in a giant mess. And as he stumbled and tried to get out of range somehow, everyone started yelling and slamming their hands down on the tables for background noise. Cameron's stomach dropped when he realized what they were calling out.

"Rat! Rat! Rat! Rat! Rat! Rat!"

"Alright, alright, alright, hey! HEY! Knock it off! Hey!" About twenty seconds too slow, one of the guards standing along the wall intervened. And it took a few more seconds after his shouting for the effect to finally take hold. Less and less food hit him until eventually it died off completely. When it did, Cameron was left standing in the cafeteria with a look on his face that must have come off as more stupid than astonished. Food was covering him from nearly head to toe. It was seeping through his clothes, and he kept trying to scrub it off, feeling like every single wipe only made it all worse somehow. Like he was just spreading the crap around instead of getting it off. They still kept hitting the table, their chanting breaking off now into laughter.

The guard was still angry. But as he stomped up and grabbed hard at Cameron's elbow, he wasn't sure who he was angrier at: the other prisoners, or Cameron himself. But he hadn't even done anything! "C'mon," the man growled, yanking on his arm to steer him for the exit of the cafeteria. "Alright!" he snapped louder, to everyone still jeering or hitting their table. "You made your point— knock it off, unless you want a shot!"

"Better tell your cop friends!" someone yelled out in Cameron's direction.

"Why don't you go cry to the FBI!?"

"It's a better look for you than a badge!"

Cameron didn't react to any of the yelling, but his eyes were wide and hollow. He looked down at himself, now stained and covered in food. In the thick of the mess, someone must have thrown their drink on him, too. He remembered all the times he came to visit Jonathan and saw that he was sporting another bruise, or a scrape, or a cut. How he'd had a particularly nasty injury after he found out how to get into the museum for him from another prisoner. In retrospect, maybe getting food all over him wasn't such a bad thing. But still, he felt like he was going to be sick. The knot in his gut was only getting tighter, and as he was steered harshly away from the cafeteria to his cell, he had to make the conscious effort to remember how to breathe right.

When they were about halfway there, Cameron finally forced himself to speak. "Can—" He grimaced, trying to move to wipe at his shirt and get a particularly stubborn glob of potato off of him. But the guard was still holding onto him too tight to allow him to move that arm. The reach was awkward, but he knew that if he asked to be let go, it probably wouldn't go over well. But still… "Can I get…new clothes or something?" he asked. The guard didn't even look at him. He hesitated, but eventually tried again with a tiny cringe. "Can I have a change of clothes? …Or—?"

The guard suddenly stopped him in his tracks and turned to open the nearest cell. Jonathan's cell— another place that Cameron had never been to in the year he'd come to visit. Cameron hesitated, just staring at it with an expression bordering on nervousness. The guard wasn't interested in waiting, though, because he practically shoved him inside when he didn't immediately move. Cameron staggered, having to catch himself to keep from falling. Once he righted himself and turned, the man was already sliding the door closed.

"W-Wait!" he stuttered, inwardly cursing at how his voice came out sounding. He had to shake himself and make a purposeful effort to control himself back into that apathy Jonathan usually had. "Can I have a change of clothes?" he repeated, louder this time. He looked like a Picasso piece. He realized in that moment he had no idea how anything worked in here. Did he already have new clothes somewhere? Or did you always have to ask for new ones? When could he take a shower? Where was the shower, how did that even work, why hadn't he asked these questions before?

Well, that's a stupid question.

He shouldn't have had to. This shouldn't be happening.

He waited for an answer anyway, his heart a little bit in his throat. But he wasn't given one. The guard looked him over with clear distaste for only a heartbeat, before he just turned and walked back the way he'd come. Going back the cafeteria and leaving him behind. "Wait!" Cameron called, rushing forward and trying to look after him, hooking his fingers in the bars of the cell. "Wait! I just—!" He bit back the yell, his shoulders drooping as he realized it was pointless. The blank look on his face melted now that he was alone, and his disappointment swamped forward instead.

He looked at the bars keeping him back, sorrow and remorse mingling in his stare now. Reluctantly, he took his hands back to himself, pulling his arms close to his chest instead as if he was cold and just trying to conserve some warmth. Slowly he turned, looking at the tiny space that his brother had occupied for going on more than a year, which was suddenly his now. It was smaller than he anticipated. A few tiny cubic yards of suffocation. He felt strange already, standing inside it. The close quarters just made it even worse.

He looked at the bed, and then back down at his clothes. His chest felt like someone was carving into it with a knife. It felt like his lungs were giving out. Like he was back in the vault, and the room was spinning, and he was going to fall, he was going to lose consciousness, he was going to pass out, he was going to— He started to sag to the side, but at the last second, he threw out his arm and caught himself on the wall. He didn't keep himself from falling, but he did slow it. He hit the ground with a soft thud, and from there he dragged his legs up to his chest and moved to hold his head in his hands.

He tried to keep himself breathing— in and out, even and slow. He closed his eyes tightly and just stayed where he was on the floor of Jonathan's cell, trying to calm himself down before he could get too worked up. He tried to talk himself away from the ledge. He tried to wipe all the food residue off of him and ignore the water that had officially soaked through his shirt. He tried to ignore how the entire side of his face was still stinging— how it had mutated into a deep-seated ache by this point. He tried to ignore the way his eyes began to sting when he remembered the angry look that had been on Jonathan's face. The indifferent anger that had been in his voice right before he'd struck him.

His breathing started to hitch, but he shook his head firmly against it.

No.

No, he wouldn't let himself.

He had to remember. He couldn't let himself forget.

It doesn't matter that my brother left me here, because he's coming back.

It doesn't matter that Jonathan is gone, because he knows what he's doing.

He told himself over and over again. Hoping one of the repetitions would finally make it cement.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

He never got a change of clothes…but that was alright, he was kind of liking the splash of…color. He could ignore the smell and by now it was hardly damp or anything. It was fine, this was all fine. Mind over matter, and it didn't even matter anymore— that's what Dad always used to say. Now wasn't exactly the best time to choose to dwell on advice given by Sebastian Black, of course, but at this specific moment in time, Cameron didn't really have too much else to work with. Beggars couldn't be choosers, and right now he was the epitome of a beggar.

But after a while he was let out of his cell and allowed outside. He hadn't realized how stuffy it was inside until he got back out. He'd just been outside a few hours ago, when he'd been on his way in to visit Jonathan in the first place. To break him out. But crossing the threshold and getting out into the fresh air was significantly more uplifting than he anticipated. Which somehow just made him guilty. Here he was, already wanting out of here so bad that he was grasping at this tiny straw. He'd only been here for a short amount of time. Jonathan had been here for more than year.

So surely him doing anything other than laying low for his brother in here was still wrong?

Seventy-two hours. He kept telling himself that. Already it had been like three or four, right? That made it just sixty-eight more hour, and then in four more hours it'd be sixty-four. If he thought about it – and he definitely was – then the stay was practically already over. He might as well be packing up already. Jonathan might as well be walking through the door right now. But…well, he wasn't right this second, so for now Cameron was just happy to be out here. It was more normal.

He still wasn't sure what he was supposed to— or where he was supposed to go. At least this time he knew that nobody at all would appreciate him trying to speak to them in any way at all. He knew enough from Jonathan to take his own advice. He'd always told him that all he needed to do in here was keep his head down and he would be fine. He couldn't really have done that in the cafeteria, considering they were just angry Jonathan had been out helping the FBI in the first place. Again.

He was on his fifth lap of the yard. Trying to focus on how cold it was, because at least then he was distracted enough not to think about anything else. He was looking outside of the fence, out towards the road as he tried to think of where Jonathan was, and where he was going. What he was going to do, so he could get back to him and sort this all out. Holding onto desperate hope that there was something up his sleeve. An ace, a club, he'd take anything. He'd believe anything. Other than the worst.

He was listing everything possible that his brother could be doing. But after his seventh lap, he became aware of something else. His focus wavered away from the cold, when he heard a new voice over to the side. He picked his head up and wrenched his eyes away from the cement ground, and when he looked in its direction, he stiffened. There was a rather small group of people clumped near the back wall of the prison. A small semi-circle of four people was trapping someone against the secluded corner. The person speaking was at the forefront— it wasn't a hard leap to see that he was the leader. He was tall and overblown— taller than Cameron, and definitely more muscular (he'd always kind of lacked in that department). If Cameron was smart he would have kept walking.

But he was kind of always lacking in that department, too.

"I don't think you understand the position you're in," the leader was growling. Cameron's eyes narrowed. He slowly began to stop, and he leaned over to the side to try and see who was being pinned better. They looked considerably younger than he was. And clearly daunted by whatever this dude was saying. He looked scared— he was practically shaking as he kept his eyes trained on the ground. The look on his face made Cameron immediately bristle in anger. He started to veer over in their direction. The scowl only growing on his face.

"P-Please, I don't want any trouble," the cornered prisoner stammered. "I-I just— I don't want—"

"Oh, you don't want any trouble?" the leader asked scathingly. It shut the other up at once, and he cringed backwards. One of the others that were surrounding him reached over and gave a hefty shove to his shoulder. The younger yelped and flinched backwards. Cameron gritted his teeth and quickened his pace. "I don't want any either. So why don't you just—"

"Hey!"

Everyone turned immediately at Cameron's call, and the quick turnaround was enough to get his steps to slow the tiniest bit. But still, a nervous smile instinctually spread over his face. It was kind of his go-to whenever he realized what he was doing was a little bit stupid. So he often had this look on his face. In the moment, he wasn't even worried about the fact that Jonathan never did. "Hey," he repeated, the leader of this whole thing currently staring him down. "He don't, uh— we don't need to do this, do we?" he prompted. The younger prisoner was looking at him with huge eyes, shaking. Cameron flashed him a softer smile, brief and quick. They straightened. He looked back at the antagonist of the situation, and his smile turned cooler. "C'mon, we're already in prison, we don't need to make it any worse."

The man scowled. "I would keep walking if I were you," he growled.

Cameron kept himself steady. "Look, I'll keep walking when you leave that poor guy alone," he insisted. "I don't know what's happening, but let's not do something we'll regret. Something we'll all regret— right?" He shook his head. "C'mon, just leave him alone," he encouraged. "I'm sure whatever it was isn't important enough to get into trouble over."

"I don't need some rat magician telling me what to do," the man spat. He turned and advanced on Cameron— his goons stepped closer together to meet in the middle and keep their victim trapped where he was. Cameron stayed where he was, though he stiffened a bit when the distance between them was shrunk. And he quickly looked off to the side when the man whipped something out of his pocket only to put it up close against Cameron's neck. It was a shiv— some scrap of metal that this guy had apparently taken the time to sharpen into a weapon. And pretty well, too. Though the compliment only came in the form of a nervous awareness. "I think. I would keep walking if I were you," he repeated, slower this time.

Cameron sighed through his nose. He closed one eye in a grimace but he looked back with a smile all the same. "I will," he offered. "If you leave him alone. Between you and me, I don't think anything is worth twenty more years. Now, I don't claim to know what trouble you've got going on with him, but I know that if you stab me and get that added time, that'd be a real slap in the face. It'd be kind of pointless. Because I just walked over here."

The man glowered at him. "Into a situation you know nothing about."

He shrugged. "Enlighten me," he invited. "Because right now I don't see a reason to bully someone that looks half your age." He hesitated before he tacked on: "Unless you're just really bored. And if you are, I'm sure those guys over there could invite you to play in their basketball game." He nodded towards the court, with a shrug. "Although I'm not too sure you're a real 'team player' you know what I'm sayin'?"

"Looks like you've already gotten into trouble once today," he spat, looking at Cameron's cheek which had slowly begun to bruise and blacken over. This was effective enough to wipe Cameron's smile away. His eyes flashed in pain, and his lips pressed tighter together as he looked away again. The prisoner smirked. "Now, unless you want a slice through your cheek instead, I'd suggest you shut the fuck up and walk the fuck away."

Cameron hesitated. His eyes flickered over to the victim again, and his hands clenched at his sides when he saw how scared they looked, still. And at the idea he might actually give into the intimidation and back off, they looked like they were ten seconds away from having a full-on breakdown. Cameron still had no idea what in the world was going on between them. But he did know that four against one wasn't fair odds at all. He was more than aware that he had just finished telling himself that he needed to keep his head down. And that this was quite literally the exact opposite of that. But right now he didn't care. He had been useless enough, up to now. He hadn't been able to help Johnny. This wasn't the same, but he couldn't turn his back on this person. Not peacefully.

"I think you should leave," Cameron said instead. And he held the man's stare even as it clouded with anger. "I think you should leave him alone, you should put that thing away, and you should give up on this entire thing. Because I'm not really in the mood to let it keep going." He raised his eyebrows, watching him expectantly. And waiting. For what he knew was probably going to come.

Sure enough, the swing came fast. Cameron barely had time to react at all. Right before the knife made contact, though, he ducked and weaved to the side, reaching out and grabbing hard to his arm as it swept by him. Before the unnamed prisoner could shake him off, Cameron twisted hard. The yank caused the man's hand to go slack for the briefest of seconds, which Cameron took to snatch the shiv away from him. The second he started to turn and rush for him, fury absolutely flooding his face, Cameron stuck out a foot and tripped him with a heavy kick. He hit the ground, and Cameron took a few steps back, his eyes narrowing. The second he started to turn to look at the prisoner who had needed his help in the first place, one of the others grabbed at him, trying to wrench him around.

He scowled and acted instinctually, jerking his elbow back and ramming it right into the other's stomach. They fell like a rock, and he turned to the next attacker, punching them in the face before they could do the same to him. Delivering the same exact blow that Jonathan had used to knock him unconscious. The knowledge put an unnecessary weight on his heart, and in the moment, his mind went blank for a heartbeat. He found himself freezing as they fell; he watched them collapse and felt an unexpected sense of intense guilt. If he was aware of himself and what was going on, he would have realized the guilt had nothing to do with the actual person. It was simply what he wished Jonathan had felt when he'd watched him capsize. Nothing more.

But the hesitation was his own, and it was all the time that was needed for the last person to rush forward and catch him off guard. With Cameron looking the other way, they were able to swoop forward and deliver a hard punch directly to his stomach, knocking the wind out of him completely. His eyes flew wide and he doubled over at the waist— it was the perfect opportunity for the other to not only wrench the shiv back out of his hand, but to also punch him on the same side of his face that his brother had and knock him clear to the ground. He hit it with a dull thud, still struggling to make his lungs work again, and breathe. However, once he fell, the other goon had recovered and was there to deliver a kick to the same exact spot in his stomach. Making recovery impossible.

Cameron tried to get up and regain his upper hand, but the very second, he started to try, the leader was back up and he was there to stomp him back down. Cameron gagged as he made heavy contact with the pavement yet another time, and this time he was too disoriented to try and get up. Or he knew that if he tried, it would just be worse. The next phase was just trying to make sure that any injuries he got were minimal. He curled up as best he could, ignoring the pain wrapped tightly around his stomach. They kept kicking him, each one harder and angrier than the one that came before. By the time they stopped, he was biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from screaming.

Eventually they backed up, and Cameron cracked his eyes open, feeling like he was going to throw up. Before he could even do anything, though, a hard grip was latching around his arm. The leader of the group (at this point maybe Mystery just belonged in front of everyone's name— this could be Mystery Prisoner…sounded less 'superhero-y' than Mystery Man) dug his fingernails hard into Cameron's arm as he yanked him off the ground and forced him to meet his eyes. He looked furious. He had a scrape on the side of his face from falling, and Cameron might have felt a little success in that, had it not been for the fact that he probably looked a million times worse.

"You just made a terrible mistake," the man spat, Cameron cringing away groggily.

Still, for some reason he was still literally the stupidest person on this planet. "Yeah, I got that part," he groaned, the words barely getting out in the first place. Given that he couldn't really breathe still, they were flimsy and barely there at all. But the guy was so close to him it didn't even really matter. "I think it really started to set in after the fifth kick…the eighth one might have been a little overkill, though," he wheezed.

The man scowled and shoved him back down to the ground. Cameron hit it with the tiniest of whimpers, but he kept his teeth as clenched as he could. "You think you've got some kind of immunity in here because you're the FBI's bitch," he snarled. Cameron wasn't listening so much as he was finally managing to get an actual gasp of air. It stung hard on its way down, like it was made of poison. But at least it was there. "You act like your shit smells better than everyone else's, and you put yourself places you don't belong." He crouched down over Cameron, and before Cameron could do anything to get away, he lined the shiv up against his neck, in clear warning. Cameron did absolutely nothing, just staring up at him tensely. "You walk around here like you own the place," the man growled. "Someone should teach you a lesson."

Cameron's breathing was still weak and hitched. His eyes flickered from the makeshift knife to the person currently holding it. For once he was wise, and he kept his mouth shut. But after a moment, he did look over to the side, where the younger man had been fenced in. He was gone, now. He must have run off in the thick of things. Without thinking, Cameron's lips twitched upwards in the tiniest of smiles, as he realized that he had successfully helped this person. It wasn't Jonathan— heck, he didn't even know his name, just like he didn't know the name of the person threatening him right now. But he'd helped someone. That had to count for something, right?

The man caught his smile and he followed his stare, realizing a second after Cameron that the target had gotten away. He scowled, and his fingers clenched tighter around the shiv he was still holding to Cameron's neck. The magician looked back and quickly wiped away his grin, remembering himself too late as he went back to Jonathan's blank expression. The man hesitated over him for a long stretch of time, like he was debating on what he should actually do. Cameron waited, every second putting a harder lump in his throat. It was only a handful of them, but it certainly seemed longer.

Until the man finally withdrew with a disgusted snort, and that look still on his face. He glanced at the others, who had been just standing there waiting. The one that Cameron had knocked out was recovered— he could take a punch better than Cam could, it seemed. All of them looked just as angry as their leader, but when he jerked his head, they all departed immediately. Anything more, and it would be a miracle if they would keep going unnoticed. But all Cameron was focused on was that they were leaving. It was a huge wash of relief, and he started to push himself up, grimacing deeply as his body immediately ached and screeched in pain. Every part of him felt like it was hurt.

The lesser ones were making off quicker, but at the last second, the leader of them looked back, scowling at first at the spot his victim had been in before Cameron had butted in, and then down to Cameron himself. By now he was sitting up, one arm propping himself there to make sure he wouldn't fall, and the other wrapped around his side gingerly. One eye was closed in pain, but he still looked up to meet his stare, and he found himself holding it. Something that he probably shouldn't have done, if he was thinking. Not that he wasn't thinking, but he was thinking about all the wrong things.

He was thinking about how his brother had left him without a single word, other than "I don't want to escape with you." He was thinking about how he was stuck here until Jonathan either came back or— don't say it don't say it it's not true don't think it. How he was still covered in the mess of food from this morning, and he still had no idea what he was going to do about it because he wasn't even sure he could do anything about it. How he was getting yelled at and judged for something he didn't even do, that he wasn't even the person everyone thought he was and everything they were thinking about him wasn't even applicable and how this is exactly what Jonathan must have thought every single day of his entire life because he had forced him to be someone he wasn't for his own personal gain because he was too stupid to see how much he was hurting.

He was thinking plenty, he just wasn't thinking about anything that would help.

So before he even really knew what he was doing, he was growing angry. Worked up, at himself, but letting it come out to someone else on accident. He found his eyes narrowing just the tiniest bit as he stared at the man that had knocked him to the ground, anger flashing raw over his face. Sure enough, the man's rage only seemed to multiply. It looked like he was five seconds away from abandoning wherever he was going to go and just doubling back to him, to put that shiv right through his chest.

But he didn't. He just scowled hard, something changing in the very back of his gaze. And he turned on his heel to keep walking. He left Cameron behind, still sitting on the ground because he felt too sick to get up the rest of the way. Cameron closed his eyes tightly and exhaled, hanging his head and trying to collect himself.

Trying not to get too angry at himself for messing everything up.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

It got dark at night. Which was obvious. But it was also lonely.

He tried to count the positives. It had been twelve hours…that meant that there was only around sixty left before Jonathan came back…or at least got into touch with him. He could call him— maybe he was going to call him instead. But either way, there weren't as many hours as there had been. And he was given a new set of clothes to wear that wasn't covered in lunch, so that was good too. And now he could sleep, so that was good too, because he was exhausted.

But it seemed like he was too exhausted to sleep. Or maybe he was just too busy thinking about all the negatives that vastly outweighed the positives. Aside from the most obvious fact that Jonathan still hadn't called him and that with every passing hour he was starting to weaken in his denial more and more, and wonder if he really did have something up his sleeve, or whether he was just screwing him over because he had the right to. Aside from that one— which was a big one. But there were others that just stacked on top of it and made it all even worse.

His body felt like one giant bruise. Every movement, even just breathing, hurt. He'd stopped trying to find a comfortable spot in bed, not only because he was just starting to assume that there wasn't one to begin with, but also because the simple act of twisting made him hiss and cringe. He was starving…but just the thought of food made him want to vomit. He hadn't eaten lunch, and he hadn't even gone back to the cafeteria for dinner, he'd just gone back to his cell. And he'd stayed there up until now…he was pretty sure it was midnight. It had to be, going by how dark it was. And how cold.

Cameron was laying in bed, his heart heavy and his eyes slowly beginning to sting, the longer he stared at the wall opposite him. He tried to reassure himself. Like he had been ever since he'd gotten back inside. Trying to persuade himself that everything would turn out okay and that Jonathan still had his back, wherever he was. That he was doing the right thing here, and that he would get through it somehow. He could do it for Jonathan. He owed him that much. Right?

He closed his eyes tightly, feeling a tear trace down the side of his cheek. He quickly reached up and swiped it away, biting down on his bottom lip to ignore the pain that went down his sternum when he did. He turned his head away into the pillow that felt more like plastic than anything else. The blanket wasn't doing much at all for warmth either, and every time he shivered it caused even more pain to lance up his body. All the same, he buried away into the pillow, bringing the blanket up over his nose and cringing hard as he tried to see whether or not he could smell Jonathan and try and fool himself into thinking he was just back home.

Jonathan has a plan. He always has a plan. He had a plan for the freaking Empire State Building.

He wouldn't leave me back here. He wouldn't. He couldn't.

He loves me. He still loves me.

It doesn't matter that my brother left me here, because he's coming back.

It doesn't matter that Jonathan is gone, because he knows what he's doing.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

He felt even worse the next morning. He'd managed to fall asleep sometime around three in the morning, but everyone was forced to get up at six. Because apparently that's the only proper time there is to eat your Frosted Flakes. Which Cameron would have killed for, because whatever it was that was on all the trays looked more like vomit than it did actual food. Coincidental, because that's all he wanted to do. He skipped breakfast again, taking instead to a seat in the far corner and hoping that nobody would even look in his direction. And mostly that there wouldn't be a repeat of lunch from the day before.

He was exhausted, and he was sore. He was tired physically and mentally, and he just wanted to go home. He wanted Dina to greet him with coffee like she always did, and he wanted to see Jordan stagger downstairs at noon because he finally decided to get himself up. He wanted to listen to Gunter rant about the latest political scandal, and snicker about how worked up he got, because he was always worked up. He wanted to get a call from Kay— to see the word 'Partner' light up his phone screen and know it was because she needed his help with some case. He wanted to see Jonathan sitting at the kitchen with a coffee mug in one hand and a book in the other and see him look up from the page only long enough to flash him a welcoming smile.

He wanted his old life back. He didn't want this.

That's how Jonathan's felt every day for the past year. And that's why he stuck you here.

Cameron closed his eyes tightly. He felt them start to burn all over again. Felt his throat swell.

He looked up from the table in just enough time to catch movement in front of him. It was the person from the yard— the young prisoner that had been harassed. Cameron straightened a little bit, his face falling. The young man had a whopping black eye, and a wrapping of gauze around his arm. He was limping a little bit, and the look on his face was something that hurt Cameron to even look at. Like every scrap of hope had been drained out of him and he was left with absolutely nothing. They must have felt Cameron's stare on them because they roused and turned to meet it.

Out of habit, his expression pulled into one of concern. He tilted his head to the side, and the silent question might as well have been screamed. 'Are you alright?' To hell with whether or not Jonathan would have done the same. He knew that he wouldn't have. Jonathan probably wouldn't have even tried to help in the first place. But Cameron couldn't bear to see the look on this person's face. He didn't even know their name and yet he knew that much. But at the look, they only seemed to weaken all the more. They wilted and crumbled…before Cameron could get up and walk over to them – because the idea was certainly there – they were quickly turning away. Their expression crumbled even more and they ducked away without getting any food. Cameron lost track of them.

His face fell even more. His eyebrows drew together and his hands fisted tightly on his knees. He was about to get up and try to give chase – it wasn't like he was doing anything else, and he wanted to be sure they were okay – when he became aware of something else. The distinct feeling that someone was staring at him, and when he turned towards the pressure, he found himself locking eyes with the man that had threatened him yesterday. That had likely been the reason for those injuries on the younger boy. He was sitting a few tables away, but he was staring coldly at Cameron without a single blink. The look on his face was too difficult and foreign for Cameron to describe, but it made his blood run a little colder than what was normal. It made him stiffen, and even more so when he realized all the people that had been backing the man up yesterday were staring at him in the exact same way.

Cameron's chest constricted and the knot in his stomach grew ever tighter. He had to drag his eyes away from them all and force them to fix solely on the table instead. He felt angry and indignant, but mostly he just felt like he was way in over his head. Helpless and confused, like he had been when he'd turned to Kay in the office and announced that maybe some people just got away with everything, no matter what. That maybe there was never a point. He was starting to think that was truer and truer. Or maybe he was just the problem. Maybe he was just shit at trying to help when it came to anything, because he had all the failures to back it up. Mystery Woman…this younger man who looked like he hadn't even done anything wrong…maybe even his own brother.

Maybe, when it came down to it, the other person wasn't the problem.

Maybe it had nothing to do with whether or not they were too cunning, or too smart.

Maybe he was the problem.

Maybe he was just useless.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

He got the opportunity for a call. He held the phone in his hand for what felt like forever, wracking his brain on who to contact. Because he wanted to call everyone. He wanted to call Dina and listen to her complain about something and smile because she called him 'Darling' which he'd never really addressed outwardly before, but always made him feel warm inside. He wanted to call Jordan and listen to him tell some long-winded joke that wasn't funny at all in its punchline or listen to him say something stupid and be totally oblivious to it. He wanted to call Gunter and listen to him tell him how stupid he was and how it was a good thing his head was connected to his shoulders otherwise he'd lose it. He wanted to call Kay and ask her if she was alright. If she was happy.

But he knew who he wanted to call more.

He called himself.

He called his cellphone and he waited tensely with every ring. Every ring, and he waited for it to be picked up. He waited to hear Jonathan's familiar voice, for something to tell him he was in the right here. And with every passing ring, his hope died more and more, until he was simply met with his own voicemail. A bright and bubbly plea to please call back later because I'm too busy to answer the phone right now. Hearing the canned recording caused his heart to twist and pull in severe pain. He closed his eyes and leaned forward to press his forehead into the wall. He cringed and reached up to pull the phone even closer to his ear. Some part of him wanted to just hang up. And hang up as hard as he could. Take the phone and slam it down on its holder as hard as he could— break it, even, if that was even possible.

But he didn't. He waited until the ending of the message. For the tiny pause, and then for the tiny beep.

When he opened his eyes again, his vision was blurred through a sheen of water. His lips trembled as he listened to the radio silence on the other end. Hoping that Jonathan would still answer. That he was there, and he hadn't actually left him alone. And again, his wheel desperately tried to turn. He's doing something right now. He's talking to MW, he's pulling off whatever trick he has up his sleeve, and he just can't talk. He can't give himself away, that's why he isn't answering. He saw me call, he just couldn't answer, but he wanted to, he wanted to, he's thinking about me right now, and he's regretting what he had to do, and he's promising himself that he'll finish this even sooner, and that—

"I…uh…" He cleared his throat, barely even whispering into the receiver. The smile that traced over his face was watery, and wavering. Conveying nothing but sadness. But he still forced a tiny laugh out as he edged even closer to the wall. Practically cowering against it. "Sorry, I just— I had a question," he managed, his voice hitching. He coughed again. Still only getting silence. "And I guess…you don't have to answer, I guess…I'm not going to get an answer, because—" Words failed him. His voice got higher and higher until it gave out and he flinched, his expression crumbling for just a second.

He took in a large gasp and smiled again as he snapped his eyes open. "Because I don't know how this works!" He tried to pass this off into another laugh, but it was more like a sob. He shook his head and swallowed hard. "Sorry," he chuckled. "I don't…I mean, I did have a question though, a tiny…not really important one, so if you're busy…" He kept smiling, wider and wider, and somehow it just made his sorrow all the clearer.

And sure enough, his voice was practically in pieces when he whispered next: "I was just…going to ask how long you've hated me," he croaked. He paused again, like he was waiting for Jonathan to answer him. To at least give him this. But nothing came. He nodded, still grinning. "Sorry, it's— like I said, it's not…I was just wondering." He sniffed and reached up to wipe at his eyes, his shoulders hunching like he was in pain. "Where…it was exactly I messed up, because…apparently that's all I do. So…that's a new…thing for me, in case you were…wondering what I'm up to. 'Cause I've been wondering what you're up to."

Listening to the silence just made it worse. It just made more tears rush forward, and it just made breathing harder. Cameron ducked his head and held it in his hands. He gasped another inhale and pleaded under his breath: "I'm…I'm staying here for— for you…please don't…please don't actually be doing this." He flinched again, and he shook his head fast. "Please don't actually be doing this," he repeated. "I know I messed up, I know you deserve more— I know you've always deserved more, but I just—"

'Thank you for leaving a voicemail! If you are satisfied with your message, please hang up! If you would like to re-record your message, please press one!'

Cameron looked up, gasping again. He was frozen. His chest yawned with pain, and another tear traced down his cheek. For a while he just listened to that dead silence, knowing it was all he was going to get. Knowing that there was nothing on the other end. No hope of an answer, no reassurance that everything was going to be okay. No Jonathan. He wasn't there. He had his phone – Cameron knew he had his phone, he was one hundred percent certain – but he didn't answer him. And the knowledge may as well have been another kick to his stomach.

He didn't say anything. He couldn't even breathe.

All he could do was turn around and numbly hang up the phone.

Stare at the bricks as they smeared in his vision more and more and try to keep himself from breaking down right in that hallway.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

He had a visitor. He had no idea who it was. He was just told he had one.

And he had very quickly declined them.

Apparently, that was a right he had. "No, I don't want a visitor," he'd rasped to the guard who came for him in the first place. For good measure, he'd even said: "Please. I don't…really feel like talking to anyone. Right now." Of course, the guard hadn't given one single crap. He hadn't even really needed the second part; he just shrugged and took it, walking back the way he'd come to take the news back to whoever was about to be rejected. Some part of Cameron wanted to follow, if only just to see who it was who'd come. Maybe just a tiny glimpse of them…maybe it would help make him feel better. Just to see.

But he told himself no. He knew himself better than that; he knew that if he saw anyone he'd have an even harder time keeping up the guise. He'd mess up, or they'd see right through him. Dina and them always knew how to tell them apart. They'd tested them one morning, just to see if they could pick up on their switch. It had taken a couple hours, but they had. And in here, they'd probably take one look at Cameron and know it was him. That was just if Jonathan wasn't back with them. Which Cameron wasn't sure that he was anymore.

There was only one visitor he wanted, and he'd asked, as soon as the guard came to fetch him.

"Is it my brother?"

"No." That was where the explanation had ended.

But Cameron hadn't really wanted any more information. It'd just hurt worse than the 'no' had. If that was even possible.

He didn't eat lunch or dinner. He was shaky and weak now, but still the thought of food just made him ill. And he was sure forcing whatever slop they were offering would just make him do it immediately. So he didn't bother with it. What he did do was try and find that younger prisoner again. It was all he had at the moment. He literally had nothing else in the moment at hand. He wanted to find him and make sure he was okay, maybe offer to help in some way if that was even something he could do. This was something for him to do. Something to focus on so he didn't go crazy or spiral, both of which he was at serious risk of doing right about now.

After dinner, everyone was kind of allowed to go wherever they wanted. Or…probably not wherever they wanted, but Cameron had no idea where they were supposed to go if there was an assigned place. He'd holed himself up in his cell yesterday. But he couldn't find that younger guy hiding out in the corner. He had to figure out where he might have wandered off to. He hadn't seen him in the cafeteria at all for the rest of the day. So once dinner was through and everyone split off, Cameron brought to mind the layout of the building and set to trying to find him.

He kept Kay's voice in his mind.

'Are you done?'

He could feel sorry for himself somewhere else, but not here. Not in headquarters, and not in here. He had to concentrate, and he was going to concentrate on this. He walked through the halls and kept to himself, knowing by now that was the best course of action. He kept an eye out for the other prisoner – the one with the shiv – but mostly he was just trying to keep track of where everything was, and marking them off when every location came up empty. It was a no on commissary. Nope for the gym, too. Hard pass at the lower level bathrooms. Nada in the kitchen. Every attempt was met with absolutely nothing, but by this point the failure had kind of lost its sting.

Nice try, universe, but you've literally fucked me over too many times to have this one hurt, too.

Eventually he found him. He was in one of the common rooms, playing checkers. Or…he wasn't playing checkers so much as he was setting up the game over and over again. The instant Cameron found him, he lit up like a Christmas tree, because that was literally where he was in terms of emotional gain. But all the same he let himself inside and skirted around the other inmates until he could stop at the table. "Hey," he greeted, and though his voice was a normal level, the younger immediately went into a spasm of shock, their eyes flying wide and their head snapping up instantly. Cameron was rushing to apologize. "Oh— oh, no, I'm sorry, I didn't— didn't mean to sneak up on you, I'm sorry." He offered him a bright smile. The younger said nothing; he just stared at him tensely. They were completely rigid, like they were ready to dash off if they needed to.

Cameron blinked a few times, before he looked down at the board. "You need a partner?"

They looked down. Their voice was a mere mumble when they replied. "I'm just setting it up."

Cameron paused. He nodded once. "Okay," he said simply. "That's fine." Hesitant, the other started to go back to arranging it all. But his movements were slow, and he kept glancing at Cameron like he was fit to snap and shove him off his chair. He let a few seconds pass in silence before he cleared his throat. "Listen, I was…just wanting to make sure you were alright," he tried. It was difficult to ignore the strange look the other flashed him. "I…saw you this morning," he reminded. "And you looked a little…worse for wear."

"I'm fine," they objected softly. When he reached out, Cameron saw there was blood in the gauze on his arm.

He studied the board. The crisscrossing squares, alternating and organized. He leaned in a bit closer and lowered his voice. "It's okay not to be okay," he proposed. Again, they threw him a nervous look. Their eyes flickered around to all sides, like they were trying to make sure that there wasn't anyone listening in on them. It just made Cameron even more pained. "I'm sorry," he said, and they went even stiffer. "I tried to help you yesterday, but…apparently I wasn't much help." He paused before he prompted: "Did that guy do this?"

"Please stop," they begged in nothing more than a hiss.

"What's his name?" Damn it all to hell if he didn't know this person's name.

"Leave me alone," he implored.

"Look, nobody deserves to feel like they're stuck. Like they're…hunted down like some kind of animal. You don't deserve this; I want to help you," Cameron pressed. They grimaced and ducked away. "Let me help you. You think he should be able to feel like he's got the whole world in his hand? He's a bully. And he looks like he can't even tie his own shoes. That's probably why he's got so many people behind him— he needs one person for each shoe. And then a backup if that guy can't do it, because they all look like a sketchy bunch." This got a tiny smile to crack over their face. And a brilliant one to spread over Cameron's. "I've dealt with people ten times worse than him," he insisted. "And I've come out on top every…" His eyes flashed. He looked down and drummed a hand on the table. "Nine times out of ten, I've come out on top," he amended, a bit weaker. "Let me get you out of this mess."

They smiled for a few more seconds. Before it fell from their face and they looked back down. "There's no use in fighting Decker," they mumbled. "I've tried. There's no point."

"Decker," Cameron echoed. He pursed his lips and nodded once. "That is a pretty stupid name."

Again, there was a smile. Every time he managed to conjure one, Cameron felt a rush of success. "Stupider than Jonathan Black?"

Cameron's smile fractured. He cleared his throat. "So you've heard of me."

"Everyone has," they murmured. "I mean…you have a…reputation."

"You'd be surprised at what people end up doing instead," Cameron offered, weaker. He took in a deep breath and shook his head. "How about you tell me your name?" he prompted. "Seems unfair you know mine and I don't know yours."

A pause. Then: "Sawyer."

"What's Decker's problem with you, Sawyer?"

Sawyer quieted. His face fell and he looked down at the table. Uncomfortably, he hugged himself. Cameron's chest tugged as he realized that tears were watering their way to life in his eyes. It caused Cameron's to narrow and his expression to pull in concern. He gave Sawyer time to speak, but eventually he just shook his head. "I don't know," he croaked, and he moved a red checker piece into place. Cameron watched intently. "But it doesn't matter," he repeated. "There's nothing I can do about it. There's no way out. It's impossible."

He sat there for a moment or two, silently contemplating. Looking at the cut on the young man's arm, and the bruises that littered his skin like sprinkles. He had no idea what he'd done to get here. He looked young. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe it wasn't. But it was clear by the look on his face that he'd more than done his time. There was no telling how long it had been that this had been going on. The resignation on his face seemed to speak volumes. Cameron blew out his cheeks. He resigned himself to it, and the smile grew back over his face again.

Sawyer stopped short, confused as he looked over the board. All the pieces were arranged, but there was a black piece missing. He started to turn back up to Cameron, maybe to ask him once more to leave him alone. When he stopped short as Cameron leaned over and reached out. Sneaking a hand behind his ear and pulling back to reveal the missing checker pawn. His eyes flashed, confusion and amusement mingling on his face. Cameron flashed him a smirk, playing the thing over his fingers expertly as he sat back and declared: "Nothing's impossible."

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

It was a shock to wake up in the morning to an escaped prisoner.

Really? Someone escaped last night? No way— that's impossible. This is prison, that's the opposite of this place's goal! That's so unfortunate. And who was it? Him? Really? Hm. Nobody expected that, did they? Cameron Black certainly didn't, no sir, not at all. But there it was: Inmate Sawyer Johnson had escaped their lovely little prison during then night, and they were really worse for wear of it. There will now be a Sawyer-sized hole in everyone's heart, that's for sure. But live and let live. That's his motto. Right up next to 'Nothing's Impossible.'

Cameron was quietly on cloud nine. He'd done something good. He'd managed to make someone's life better, not worse. He'd written it all out for Sawyer, down to every last little step. The exact plan he was going to use to help Johnny leave. Or, one of them, anyway. He had multiple. This one was just the one that Sawyer was most likely to be able to pull off by himself on the fly. And apparently it worked. Cameron had never been so happy to wake up to a blaring siren, before. He'd never been so happy to be put on lockdown, and to see all the officers rushing this way and that trying to figure out where in the world one of their prisoners had gotten off to.

On the inside, he was celebrating, but on the outside, he remained as blank as he could. Until lunch rolled around. They were all on lockdown still, because of course Sawyer had not yet been found – spoiler alert, he would continue to not be found, if Cameron's well-drawn out plan had anything to say about it – but they were all still shepherded down for meals. Not that Cameron was any hungrier than he usually was. But he was starting to feel even sicker, so the temptation was actually there to eat something this time. But standing in the cafeteria waiting for the chance, Cameron once again felt someone staring at him, and he turned to see that Decker was trained on him again.

He looked completely enraged, like he was fit to kill. He was staring right at Cameron. Again, not even blinking. At first, Cameron wasn't sure what to do. He probably should have just ignored him and looked back front. Minded his own business. But he didn't. Instead, he gave him a brilliant smile, and he raised up his hand in a nonchalant wave. Decker's face twisted in even more range, but Cameron was already turning away. He'd helped Sawyer; that was the end of it. That was all he'd wanted from the very beginning.

Nothing else mattered.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

How many hours had it been? He tried counting them. It had to be…near forty-eight, right? Somewhere around there? He didn't know, he didn't have a clock. It made it kind of hard to discern. However much time had passed, he was still here, and Jonathan still hadn't even called, or answered his phone. Much less come in to apologize about what he'd done. Cameron was doing the best he could in here, but it was only getting harder. He'd managed to choke around seven bites of something down at lunch, but that was around his limit. Now he was just wandering around trying to figure out what he should do until he had to return to his cell. He hated that he was starting to figure out the schedule and actually organize it. He hated this entire situation.

What would be his breaking point?

If seventy-two hours passed and there was still nothing…what then? Was he still supposed to wait?

The only answer to his questions were his own footsteps echoing back to him.

He was alone, but it didn't really count, considering his thoughts were more than enough unwanted company.

As he walked, he got slower, his expression becoming more clouded.

He wanted to go home…

And it would be easy, wouldn't it? A simple scan of his fingerprints— bam, he's out. That would be all it took. And maybe he could convince Kay not to set out a manhunt for Jonathan. They could go find him together— him and her! And the rest of the team, of course. Jonathan had been given enough time to establish something, if he really did have some secret plan— if Cameron left right now, there might just be a chance of it all working out regardless. He'd called Jonathan, twice now, and twice he had given him the opportunity to explain himself. And if there was no plan, then didn't that mean Cameron had to get out as soon as he could? To help track his brother down before he did something he'd regret?

Cameron didn't want to believe Jonathan was actually siding with MW. But if he was…

Maybe he didn't have to wait seventy-two hours. Maybe forty-eight was enough.

He came to a stop, his heart heavy in his chest. His shoulders hunched.

He couldn't keep waiting. He couldn't. He needed answers, and if Johnny wasn't going to give him any…

Who would he even talk to about that? Just walk up to some random officer? 'Sorry, I know it's been a couple days, I just thought I should let you know that I'm the wrong twin. Please don't scream at me, because I'm also the sensitive one.' That'd really hold up. But they couldn't just ignore him, right? They had to at least—

Something hard made heavy contact with the back of his head, cutting his thoughts off completely.

He barely even had time to register the pain before his eyes were rolling back into his head, and his knees were buckling out from underneath him.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

When he came back to, he was lying on his side. It took a second for him to drag himself awake in the first place, but when he did, it took even longer for him to get his bearings. He had no idea where he was; he'd never been in here before. It looked like some kind of bigger supply closet. With brooms and mops and a shelf of stuff like bleach lined up on the other side of the room. Cameron roused and tried to push himself up, before he realized that was impossible. Well— he realized two things. One being that both his hands and ankles were restrained. Two: he had duct tape fixed over his mouth. He could only breathe through his nose. And that was nearly impossible to do properly once you start to panic like he did.

"You're awake." The voice was flat, but Cameron recognized it immediately. His eyes narrowed as he twisted his neck to see Decker lounging against the wall. He tried to get up, but someone standing behind him stomped down hard on his shoulder, forcing him back down with a cry of pain. He scowled into the floor as Decker continued smoothly. "I don't appreciate when things go wrong, Mister Black." Cameron seethed, setting to work on getting his hands free. They were tied in front of him, so it was less undetectable than he'd like. But still, he started automatically. "And I don't appreciate it when people put their nose where it doesn't belong."

Cameron was almost done untying. He could worry about his ankles later, if he could just—

He screamed against the tape on his mouth as another foot came down on his hands the second he got them loose, even harder. Pain made his blood run hot, and his eyes close tightly. The shoe stayed down hard, planting there to pin his hands against the floor. Trying to fight it would just make it hurt more. Decker went on like nothing happened. "You've been a problem in my prison for too long, Jonathan Black," he mused. Cameron flinched. "Talking to the FBI…stealing weapons back for other prisoners…helping people escape…you think this is your prison. You think you're on top. But you're sorely mistaken." He stomped closer, and Cameron scowled up at him, fighting to take in enough air. Decker's eyes were dark and angry. "It's my prison," he growled.

"You can have it," Cameron tried to say. But the words were lost behind the tape.

Decker ignored him. "But now the FBI doesn't need you anymore. Your little palace is being taken away…along with all your trips out and about. You don't have any more protection, and yet you're still causing trouble. You're still messing things up, just like you were before." Whoever was standing on his hands pushed down on them even harder, grinding them into the floor, and Cameron screamed again. Decker crouched so he was more level with him. Cameron's eyes were watering, but he still glared daggers at him. "I've been waiting for you to wise up on your own, but it seems like I have to teach you a lesson, now."

The shoe removed itself from Cameron's hands, but as soon as it did, Decker grabbed his right one and yanked it out so his arm was straight, the force behind it nearly dislocating his shoulder. "You should know by now, Jonathan, that there's no room for snitches in a prison," he growled, and Cameron started to hyperventilate as Decker lined up his knife against his skin. He tried to twist and break free, but too many hands were suddenly on him, keeping him flush against the ground. "I heard you were asking Sawyer about me last night— were you wanting to offer your friends at the FBI some information?" Cameron shook his head fast, but the effort was useless. "Maybe I should give you a little bit more to tell them," he went on to muse. "Or maybe this can be your warning to keep quiet for once."

"I'm not Jonathan, I'm not Jonathan!" he was trying to scream. But it was intelligible.

Decker wasn't listening anyway. And Cameron's screams heightened in volume and desperation when he pressed down on the knife, digging down into his arm. Cameron screeched as Decker started to drag the blade down through his skin, carving into him like he was a pumpkin on Halloween. Blood was quick to gush out, hot as it ran down over his wrist to the floor. His body went into spasms of pain as he desperately tried to wrench himself free and yank his arm away from the knife. Decker cursed under his breath and as soon as he did, one of his goons kicked out and caught Cameron directly in the forehead. It scattered his brain immediately, and he sagged, the shock from the blow enough to render him still for a brief period of time.

Decker finished in this time, and when Cameron dragged his head back forward, expression disoriented and unfocused, his stomach immediately heaved. He felt like he was going to puke. Blood was everywhere, and it only kept coming. It was practically covering the entire lower half of his arm, already. He could barely see anything under it, but given how ragged the wound was, he could make it out. The pain was already making his head fuzzy, but he could see a sloppy 'S' that had been carved into place. He closed his eyes and groaned, another wave of sickness crashing against him. The tiniest twitch of his fingers made his entire limb screech in agony.

Decker was watching him with undisguised delight. "How's that for a memento?" he crooned.

Cameron was dizzy. He felt like the entire room was spinning. He was losing too much blood too fast. Something else intelligible leaked out of his mouth. He wasn't sure it would have made sense even if he hadn't had the tape on. The others were snickering, entertained by the sight. And at Decker's command each one of them grabbed onto Cameron and forced him up. They yanked him into a sitting position and shoved him back against the wall. His eyes were half-lidded by this point. Dully, he was staring ahead trying to keep his head on straight. Mind over matter. If you didn't mind it, it didn't matter. He tried to come back to himself. To get out of this. There was always a way, there was always a way out— nothing was impossible, nothing was—

"I know you were the one who helped Sawyer escape," Decker proposed, slowly following so he could still stand in front of him. Cameron's head started to dip forward; he had to force it back. Force his eyes to stay open. "You thought you could get the better of me. But like I told you before, Rat…you made a terrible mistake. And I think you're going to pay for that right now." Cameron tried to bring his legs up more to his chest, so he could push down and maybe get up to his feet somehow. But the effort was too misguided. He couldn't manage it. "I think it's only fair you replace him."

Cameron tried to stand again, and this time he almost got it. But someone else quickly shoved him back down. Another stomped hard on his arm, right on the 'S' and twisted the toe of their shoe hard. It almost made him pass out on the spot. His throat was going hoarse from screaming. Tears were rushing down his face, and his expression contorted in agony as his back arched. Like electricity was shooting through every inch of him.

Decker drew back and stood. His next instruction was stiff. "Get him on his knees."

This snapped Cameron right into motion. His eyes flew open the very second, he was being grabbed again, and despite the fact his throat was already raw, he started screaming even louder than he had before. "No!" he shrieked, forcing himself to start thrashing and flailing the second they started to force him up. "No! Stop! I'm not Jonathan! I'm not Jonathan, I'm Cameron! I'm Cameron, I'm not supposed to be here! Stop! Stop! Stopstopstopstopstopstopstopstop—" He was cut off with a kick to the stomach. A kick hard enough not only to stun his lungs, but enough to send him slamming back down to the ground. Before he could even wail in pain, there were more kicks and punches. Enough to bring him on the verge on unconsciousness— he was almost there, almost there, he was close, he was—

They stopped right before the blackness could swarm his vision entirely. He was trapped in a haze of pain. When they pulled him up again, he couldn't fight them. His head drooped forward as they forced him to kneel. Someone else wrenched his head up by his hair, and the tape was ripped off his mouth. He didn't even notice the stinging it left behind— the rest of his pain was too great in comparison. Blood immediately gushed out of his mouth as he choked and spluttered weakly. He was swaying back and forth unsteadily. Decker grabbed him by the chin and yanked his head up to look at him. Cameron could hardly even see anything. "You're not in charge here," he growled. "And you'll take what I give you."

He tried to get his lips to move. "'Mmmm not—" Blearily, he cringed. His mind was too scattered. All he could land on was a pathetic: "Please."

But there was no way out.

It was impossible.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

He hurt.

He couldn't move.

He was stuck here.

He didn't even know if he was still bleeding. He didn't care anymore. He just knew it still hurt. Just like everything else did. They left him on the ground, having the decency to stop and untie his ankles as they did. He wasn't even sure when that had been— he might have lost consciousness once or twice in the meantime. Or maybe he'd just stared into the dark and just couldn't tell the difference. It was ages before he could force his body into motion. Before he could weakly push himself up to his feet, his arms trembling with the effort and his right one screaming as it was forced to hold weight. He managed it. Cameron got up to his feet and started to stumble forward, holding his stomach because he was five seconds away from vomiting.

He felt along with one hand until he could grab the doorknob of the closet. Until he could stagger out into the hallway. And head blindly in one direction, because he had no idea where he was. In the moment, he couldn't think clearly. It was all he could do to just put one foot in front of the other and try not to gag with every step. He was crying, not even trying to hide it like he had when he was at the phone trying to call Jonathan. He had to find the nearest wall and lean against it as he walked— his legs were refusing to support him properly. Shock was setting in, and it was setting in hard. Nothing made sense. He tripped and stumbled more and more the further he walked. The entire place was spinning like a top. He kept trying. But eventually it was too much and he fell.

He hit the ground hard. He stared to push himself up, but as soon as he did, his shoulders curled sharply, and his body pitched forward. It finally caught up to him – the sickening feeling he'd had this entire time – and he vomited. Weakly, he choked and gagged, only able to force out mostly water. He wished there was more, though. Even when there was nothing left to give, he still spluttered like there was, attempting to force out absolutely everything. Once it passed though, he couldn't hold himself up anymore, and he collapsed, his head ringing where it had been kicked. He went numb and limp. Lifeless. He was fading into unconsciousness – it's all I want, please let me, please just let me – but weak sobs still bubbled out of his hoarse throat.

His thoughts were a mess. Disjointed. Crazy.

It doesn't matter that my brother left me here, because he's coming back.

It doesn't matter that Jonathan is gone, because he knows what he's doing.

It doesn't matter that my brother left me here, because he knows what he's doing

It doesn't matter that Jonathan is gone, because he's coming back.

It doesn't matter that Jonathan is me here, because he's doing.

It doesn't matter that my brother left gone, because he knows what he's coming back.

It doesn't matter that my brother Jonathan is gone left me because here he's because knows he what coming back—

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

"You have a visitor."

"Is it my brother?"

"No."

"I don't want them."

"Can't refuse this one, Black."

He was staring dully down at his arm, his expression devoid of anything as he stared at the gauze wrapping that was there. And the blood that was spotting through from underneath. He dragged his head up at the reply and blinked slowly, trying to figure out whether he'd heard him right. "Why not?" His voice was in pieces, barely worming itself out of a throat that was much too scratchy. He could barely speak above a mumble.

"I don't have time, Black, just come on," the guard exhaled.

Cameron stayed put. Until he figured there wasn't a point, and he dragged himself up. Pushing off his bed was absolute hell— his face twisted in severe pain, and a pathetic whimper escaped him as he had to hold onto the wall. The guard just watched him blandly, waiting like this was a huge inconvenience for him. Cameron had been found at four in the morning and taken to the infirmary. He'd stayed there until well past noon. He'd just come back to his cell to hopefully never move again for the rest of his life, and yet here he was, already being disappointed.

Which might as well be a thing, because apparently, he couldn't have a single fucking thing for himself.

The guard turned once Cameron got out of the cell, and he led the way to the visiting room. It was slow going. What should have been a five-minute walk was more like fifteen. Cameron was numb to the snaps to hurry up, though. He just struggled on, clenching his teeth hard on the screams of pain that were trying to get through. By the time they got to the visiting room – Cameron recognized it as one of the rooms he'd met Jonathan in – there was a sheen of sweat on his face, and he was shaking from head to toe. He'd be liable of getting sick again, but there wasn't anything to offer. He just had to sit with the nausea and know there wasn't any getting rid of it.

The guard stepped to the side and took his position by the door. Cameron hesitated against the wall, trying to catch his breath. When he look up, though, the effort went out the window.

He didn't know what he expected when he'd heard 'You can't refuse this one.'

But he'd considered everyone but her.

Kay was sitting at the metal table, already looking at him by the time he finally brought himself to pick his head up. His eyes widened. His stomach fell. She was looking at him with clear concern, and before he could do anything, she was standing up. "Jonathan!" His heart fell ten stories. She looked him up and down in growing alarm. "Are you okay? What happened to you!?"

She made a move as if to rush over and help him, but Cameron quickly flinched, lifting his hand to stop her. He lingered where he was for a second, like he had a chance to turn around and reject her. Stupid hope fostered in his heart, achingly reluctant. Maybe she was there to tell him that they had sorted everything out…? Maybe she was there to tell him he was free, and Jonathan was waiting for him outside, armed with an explanation once they were both in the clear? He pushed off the wall and tried not to limp as he walked over to her. But he couldn't hide the fact that he practically collapsed into the chair with clear gratitude he didn't have to walk anymore.

She was still staring at him in pain; he didn't offer her an explanation. He just looked off to the side, locking his jaw backwards hard. Reluctantly, she sat again. She clasped her hands together on the table. "I…heard you didn't want to see Dina, when she came," she murmured. Hm. So that was who'd come. He should have guessed. Still, Cameron just looked off to the side. His lower lip trembled just the tiniest bit. He hoped she didn't notice. "They're…very worried about you, Jonathan. There haven't been any calls, any…"

Cameron stayed mute.

Kay ducked her head. She took in a slow breath. "I…wanted to come and tell you that I was sorry." Her voice was more choked than usual. His eyes flickered over to her again. Again, his lip trembled just the tiniest bit. "These past couple of days, I've just been…overwhelmed with guilt, over everything. All of it. It wasn't up to me, and I had nothing to do with the decision, but— but Jonathan I am truly so sorry that things turned out the way they did. I wanted nothing more than to help get you out. I never lied about that, not once. I'm so sorry this happened to you."

He closed his eyes and turned back towards the wall.

Kay weakened. She looked down at the table. Her voice was even more strained when she continued. "You don't have to forgive me. I know we were your only chance, and I know we got your hopes up and let you down. I would understand if you didn't forgive me. Cameron didn't." He stiffened. His head jerked up, despite the pain. Kay wasn't looking. "And he deserved to…to say what he did." Say? What did he say? "And you deserve to say the same thing." What did he say!? "But…especially after I heard you were rejecting the team's visiting…I had to come down here and speak with you. Please don't punish them for something they didn't do. They're just as upset. And they need you. Now more than ever."

Cameron stayed mute. He just stared at her in silence.

She held his stare, and after a while, she nodded just a little bit. "But that's…that's not exactly why I came. Not totally," she reasoned. "I was…going to ask if you knew where Cameron was." He was gripping his knees tightly, ignoring the pain it caused. "He…a couple days ago, he left. I walked in on him packing, he was upset— saying he had to leave. I tried to pull him back and get him to see reason. I tried to apologize. I…" She trailed off. Cameron realized she was trying not to cry. The pit in his stomach was just getting deeper. "He wanted nothing to do with my apologies. Or…with me." He was going to throw up. "He told me he didn't need any more promises. And…he just left."

Reluctantly, she looked back at him. The shock and horror on Cameron's face must have made sense to her. "Please, Jonathan…if you know where Cameron went…please tell me. I swear to you, if you do know and if you tell me, I won't go after him, or tell him you told me. But I need to know that he's safe. I need to know that he's okay." Tears were building in both of their eyes, now. "I know I messed up, and I wish I could do more for him. For both of you. If you know where your brother is, please tell me."

It felt like years. Until he brought himself to whisper brokenly: "I don't know."

Kay wilted. "You have no idea?"

Cameron blinked.

She frowned. "He didn't speak to you before he left?"

He looked away.

She surveyed him entirely, her eyes narrowing. "Jonathan, what happened to you?"

"Please don't ask me that," he whispered.

Her eyes flashed. They narrowed just a little bit. There was a long stretch of silence, before she tried: "Jonathan, let me help you. Please."

"You can't," he managed. His expression fractured again, and she only leaned even closer. He turned more away, cringing on another jolt of agony. "It's done," he stated, meaning much more than what she was asking about. "It's all done. It doesn't matter."

Kay's eyes flashed. "You're not as angry as I thought you'd be…"

Cameron closed his eyes tightly.

"Cameron…was angrier than you are now."

"I don't want to talk to you," Cameron forced out. He couldn't do this. Not now. Not right now. He was falling apart. He was going to fall apart. Jonathan had packed up. He'd left. He'd told Kay something. He'd done something. He'd run away without telling anyone. Why would he tell Kay something if he was planning to have everything go back to normal? For the same reason he had knocked him out instead of just asking him to stay behind. The same reason he left without telling Cameron his plan, because there was no plan, because there was no fucking plan and this entire time he'd been an absolute idiot for thinking that there was something else other than that and—

"Jonathan are you alright?"

He was breathing in and out heavily, pain wrapping around his stomach with the gasps. Blackness was edging his vision, threatening to shove him down, and he wanted it, he wanted that blackness more than he wanted anything else, he wanted to fall unconsciousness and never wake up again, never have to face how stupid he'd been, how heartless Jonathan had been, what had happened last night, what was on his arm, what was—

"Jonathan!" Kay stood up quickly and rushed around the table to be at his side. Cameron was trembling, tears beginning to well over now as he gasped for air that wouldn't satisfy his lungs. She reached out and tried to grab his shoulders, but he flinched away from the contact, trying to get her off. Don't let her know it's you, try to— there's no point, Jonathan's not coming back— he might though, and if he does I can't ruin it— I can't get back in there I can't go back in there don't make me go back in there Kay get me out of here please get me out of here get me out of here— trust Jonathan, he asked you to trust him— before he stabbed me in the back!

"Cameron!" He jerked at his name. Shock flared over his numbed expression and he realized his vision was blurred with tears, and that Kay had moved to hold either side of his face, bent down low so that their eyes could meet. At his harsh reaction, her own eyes flew wide, and there was no mistaking the panicked alarm on her face when it registered. "Cameron!?" she repeated. But now there was certainty. She looked at everything— at all his bruises, his bloody arm, and she didn't take her hands away from his face. "Oh my God, Cameron, what are you doing here!? What happened to you!?"

He couldn't reply. Not even if he wanted to. All Cameron did was fall apart.

(~**~) (~**~) (~**~) (~**~)

It took less than an hour. Kay was that pissed. A simple fingerprint and a lot of yelling and they were gone. In the middle of it all, somehow Cameron had faded back into a numbed state. His expression was blank and his stare was dead the entire time Kay was shouting at officers and demanding a change of clothes for him. When he helped him to the car, looping an arm over her neck and holding him gently around his side, he was expressionless and mute. He didn't even flinch every time they stumbled. He was dead to it.

She helped him get into the passenger seat. She even pulled his seat belt over him before she rushed into the driver's seat. All the while, she was apologizing for anything and everything. "I'm so sorry, Cameron, I'm so sorry, I should have come sooner, this is— I'm so sorry, we're getting you home, Cameron. I'll drive you home I'm so sorry." He didn't even blink at any of it. He just watched out the windshield as she pulled quickly away from the prison. Putting as much distance between him and it as she could, as fast as she could.

Silence existed for a bit as they finally got onto the road.

After a while, Kay looked at Cameron, her expression raw with pain. Cameron still wasn't looking at her. "Cameron…do you…do you want to talk about it?" she prompted.

He shook his head once.

She nodded. "Okay." Her voice was still choked. She looked back ahead.

Cameron continued to stare. Dull. In shock. Until his inhales began to puncture. Until his shoulders began to shake and heave. Kay's head immediately was whipping back around to him, just in time to see him collapse against the car door and hold his head in his hands. Before she could even brace herself for what she knew was about to come, she heard it. Gut-wrenching, horrible sobbing, practically ripping itself out of his chest through an already-ruined throat. Quickly, she pulled out of the lane they were in and threw the car into park, stricken as she whirled to her friend.

If this was even her friend. With this crying…with the way he looked…he seemed to be a complete stranger.

"Cameron, Cameron, it's okay," she tried to soothe. He just kept crying, broken-hearted keening that stabbed her heart to listen to. She had no idea what happened to him on the other side of that prison wall. She didn't even know how he'd gotten there in the first place. She had too many questions. But right now, none of them mattered. What mattered, is that she was there for him. That she try and help, because God knew she hadn't done much of that at all.

"Cameron, shhh." She leaned over without really thinking, and she put her arms around him tightly. She drew him close, in a tight embrace. It was a little awkward, given that they were in the car. But she didn't care. She just held him, feeling each sob shake his entire body. "It'll be fine, Cameron, everything is going to be fine from now on. I promise. I'm so sorry you, Cameron, I'm so sorry."

She thought Cameron wasn't even paying her any attention. Until he suddenly moved to throw his arms around her and cling to her almost desperately. He ducked his head down and buried it into her shoulder, his crying growing more muffled, this way. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to choke back the pure anger that was flooding through her system at the thought of what must have landed him there instead of Jonathan. She had to push that aside, too. That was for later— much later, after she got Cameron home, or maybe to a better doctor, and made sure that he was safe. Until he calmed down and got back to himself. That came first.

She would worry about everything else later.

Right now, she was just focused on holding Cameron tightly, trying to hold all of his pieces together before he broke entirely.