A/N: Hey, this is my latest Flight 29 Down Fanfic, as you can tell. Dally2 beta'd this and I'd like to give her a big shout out for making everything look so nice and clean-cut. Just so you know I will start each chapter with a song. Well, hopefully. I may run out of ideas, but feel free to suggest songs.

Note: This is an AU (alternate reality) Fanfic. There will be no crash. But, there will be a way for all the characters to meet up. *winks*

Summary: Cody Jackson has just moved to L.A. after a younger couple agreed to foster him. He's new to the scene and isn't quite sure what to expect, but he figures it will be the same as always. But, there is a problem. Something about him is….different. He can tell, but he can't put a name to it. He knows this something has been building for a long time and now….the storm hit. And that storm had incredibly bad timing….

Yeah, yeah, I know, I know, I'm not a morning person. Sorry if the summary stinks, I just wrote it down fast so I could post this.

Disclaimer: I do not own Flight 29 Down, Johnny Pacar, banana republic, or Wild Sweet Orange—even if I will hopefully be seeing them play this week.

Claimer: On the other hand, the plot is mine and so are Catherine and Michael. If for some reason you decide to use either, ask first. I don't want knock-offs floating around.

By the way, if you care to be Dr. Houses, you could try and figure out what's wrong with Jackson. I'll give ya a hint: it's what's wrong with me, too.

Write what ya know, right?

I have a friend and when he sings, I cry
all the memories inside try to rebirth and give me life
but I can't talk about old times tonight
'cause round here blue light stays up all the time

It's seven o'clock
I already feel late
all the pain from my stress are beating my chest
about decisions I've had to make
well I breathe in light
and I breathe out light
run my hands through my hair, threw my breath in the air
oh, I'm so tired of running

When all your bad boys have gone sour
and you're shivering, cold and alone in a shower
oh baby that soap won't make you clean
screaming at Jesus just to let you bleed

It's seven-thirty
I can smell the candles burning
I could go to sleep now
I'll just wait till morning
when the melodies come and sing me stories
all the birds that can talk
no, they're never boring

There's nothing like hearing that girl cry on the receiver
and your stomach hurts so bad 'cause you think you need her
so you down that cough syrup
you love feeling so screwed up
and you crawl up those steps and read yourself to sleep
yeah, you crawl up those steps and sing yourself to peace

It's eight o'clock
she didn't eat today
yeah, hurting herself has never felt this great
well you see that green hill, friend
that's where I'm going to be
watching glory coming in the form of morning

I was found on that dark hillside
with a certain painting by my side
screaming: knock down the house of regret

Knock it down, pave it over
till you feel younger and younger
knock it down, pave it over
till you feel like you can't again
knock it down, pave it over
till your heart's warmer and warmer
knock it down, pave it over
till you wake up born again

Wild Sweet Orange, We Have a Cause to be Uneasy, House of Regret (band, album, title)

Chapter One: New Beginnings? Uh huh....

I sat against the window pane in the den of the new house they'd put me in. My gaze just lingered on the glass as I watched the rain dribble down slowly, collecting together into drops, and then sliding.

"Oh, Cody!"

I blinked, surprised at the exclamation, then looked over my shoulder to find Catherine, the young woman who had picked me, and who had showed me to her husband and had forced him to agree to foster me.

Obviously, all the relationships were rather strained. But I was grateful. This had to be the best foster home I'd lived in--right smack dab in L.A., of all places.

Unfortunately, it all could be snatched from me in two seconds, so I wasn't too hopeful.

"Yeah?" I asked quietly, my voice flat as I watched her.

She was all tense, frozen in place, with her eyes wide, focused on me instead of on the black sweater she'd been about to lay down.

Then Michael came in. He was her husband, and he hated my guts. Of course. Who didn't?

"What did you do?" he asked, in that low, gruff growl of his that made me tense and feel like cowering. He was only about my height and only a little more muscular than me, but he scared the snot out of me.

And, I had no clue why.

Right now, it probably had something to do with the fact that he was glaring me down--blue eyes fiery.

"He didn't do anything, Michael. Calm down," Catherine said soothingly, placing a tiny hand on his upper arm. "He just startled me. I didn't expect him to be home yet."

"Then why is he home?" he asked her, muttering.

She gestured toward me with one hand and then nodded slightly. I almost rolled my eyes at her obviousness. Did she think I was a kid still?

I knew well enough that Michael just didn't like me--that he'd avoid me and blame whatever he could on me. It was just how things worked out sometimes.

"I'm home early because it was a half day," I murmured in response.

I had no idea why it was a half day, but I guessed that it was because of either: a. teachers being lazy, b. it was some holiday I hadn't ever heard of, and teachers took it off because they were lazy, or c. the kids got so annoying that they let them out of class early because the teachers didn't care what their students learned as long as they got paid.

So, basically, it was just teachers being lazy in general.

"Oh," Michael said gruffly before sitting down across from me and flipping on the TV.

It was one of those flat screened ones--like a plasma one or something. I didn't know or care. I didn't watch TV much, especially not football like he had decided to watch.

Hockey was more entertaining. No one around here in sunny California liked ice hockey, though, since there weren't really any teams around here. It was too hot for it, or something stupid like that. I figured that, after being in 110 degree weather, slipping into a stadium that almost made your breath visible would be as nice as a cold pool.

Michael glanced over at me and huffed. I just blinked, unsure of what I had done now.

"Is that all you do? Sit there and space out--looking at nothing?" he asked harshly.

I just blinked again, then stood up out of the alcove I'd been sitting in for the past half hour and shook my arms out, trying to loosen up my taunt muscles. I glanced at both of them: Catherine--who was ignoring me, or just oblivious to me, as she checked a receipt and she went through a few bags with a backwards B and a normal R on it. I shook my head as she pulled out a pair of fancy-looking, artsy jeans from one of them, holding them up to herself. They probably cost about as much as my old apartment's rent. I breathed out through my nose then padded off, heading for my bedroom. I stepped over a squeaky patch of flooring, and then faced my door. I sighed, once again, before I twisted the glass knob and let myself in.

Everything was very basic, as it had been a guest room before, but it still reeked of old money. Everything about the house was older--not newly built. But Catherine had remodeled almost everything, as she had told me one day when I'd hardly been listening.

Of course, they hadn't done much to the guest room, so you could still tell where the faults were: the ancient, wooden headboard, the squeaky, almost orange hardwood flooring that only went down the hallway, etc. But I could just tell the lamps cost a lot and the bedside table was one-of-a-kind. Or I imagined they were. I'd checked a shopping receipt of Catherine's once after she'd left to cook dinner one night--just being curious--and I'd seen about eight hundred dollars spent on clothes.

Honestly, sometimes I was just too curious--too technical. I mean, obviously, at some point, I had stared at the floor for a long time to notice where the dips were and all.

Maybe I'd fallen into the same sort of daze I had when I'd been staring out the window in the living room.

But, anyway, I didn't know where they got the money since they were just in their late twenties, but I figured it came from Catherine's or Michael's parents and not from what they'd accomplished.

I let out a snort--kicking my door closed--as I realized how much time I spent thinking about things that didn't matter. None of this mattered. It was just one rest stop before I plowed on to the next one.

I never stayed anywhere for more than a year, after all.

I plopped down onto my bed: just a mattress on some of those black squares that lifted the bedsprings off the floor. Then I lay back, listening as the bed creaked under me.

I don't think it liked my weight much. One hundred and sixty pounds was too much for

the mismatched contraption.

I just kicked off my sneakers--a pair of old Converse I'd gotten at some point I couldn't

Remember--and just pulled the comforter--a white, fluffy thing--up to my neck, leaning back against the too soft pillows that just oozed out from under my head, somehow almost always ending up on the floor when I slept.

I didn't plan on sleeping right now, though. I just wanted to get away for a little bit--away from Catherine's pitying glances and Michael's scowl.

I looked up, suddenly hyper aware, as I heard a couple of loud, curt knocks on the door. I glanced over at the window and saw that the rain had stopped and that pink tainted the horizon. I sat up in bed, realizing I had managed to fall asleep, which peeved me. I hadn't wanted to. But the sun had been sinking--a massive red ball of fire before--so I hadn't slept for too long, hopefully. But, then, as I sat up too quickly, gold and bronze flashed in my vision. I blinked rapidly, stunned by the colors. What the heck was that? I clutched my head dizzily.

"Cody? Are you all right in there?" Michael's voice seemed annoyed instead of worried, so I quickly collected myself and got to my feet unsteadily.

"Y-yeah. I'm fine," I said unconvincingly, still worried about why I had 'seen stars' or whatever.

Michael let out a huff, like he'd hoped otherwise, and just wretched my door open.

"Well? Come on then. Catherine has dinner ready," he barked.

My eyes widened a little at his tone, and I just nodded briskly before edging past him, going out into the hallway. I hated feeling trapped, and being in that tiny bedroom with only a small stormy window was scaring the daylights out of me, stupidly enough.

"What are we eating?" I asked, sniffing the air.

I hoped that I could at least get him to be decent to me if I was going to be staying here for three or so years. It was possible! I wasn't hopeful, but I wished I could at least hang around someplace until I turned eighteen. Just to have an anchor for a little while, you know?

But--like I kept reminding myself--I had to prepare for the worst (which, more or less, meant I'd be snatched up and be put back with my Mom). I shivered at the thought.

It wasn't Mom. She was insane, but mostly harmless. It was the neighbors and the people she brought over--a bunch of crack-heads--that worried me.

"Spaghetti." Michael eyed me up and down, making me slouch a little. "And you'd better eat it."

"I will," I promised, and I quickly bolted, walking at full-stride and getting into the kitchen as quickly as possible.

"Hey, Cody," Catherine said, looking over her shoulder and beaming at me as she continued to finish up the meal.

Well, I guessed she was. She was standing at the sink, dumping steaming water out of a perforated bowl filled with noodles. Yeah, she was cooking--or doing something that had to do with it.

I wasn't exactly knowledgeably about anything made from scratch. I didn't even know how to work a microwave. I kept wondering to myself what the heck I had been eating all these years, since I didn't seem to know how to do anything but pour myself a bowl of cereal.

I was pretty sure that there was a reason I'd gone from being skin-and-bones to actually looking healthy. But I wasn't sure I had been eating much. I just remembered being sick a lot.

Yeah, if I took that to court, my Mom would flip out. One of her boyfriends would probably stab me to get on her good side for a few more weeks.

"Cody?" Catherine asked me again, a slightly worried look on her face.

I snapped out of my reverie, realizing I'd been staring at the pale, granite counter top for the past five minutes. "Yeah?" I asked finally as Michael came up behind me. I could feel his hulking presence and his eyes burning holes between my shoulder blades. The hairs on the back of my neck raised a little and I felt freaked out.

Jeez, why did the guy always have to do that? Maybe he didn't realize he scared me?

"No. It's 'yes ma'am', Cody," Michael growled quietly.

"Um, sorry. Yes, ma'am?"

"Nothing. You just seemed out of it. Do you feel bad?" Catherine asked nicely, which broke my heart a little.

Why did she have to be so nice? It made me feel worse.

"No. I'm fine, ma'am," I said, enunciating the last part, specially for Michael.

I may not like him because he treats me like the scum of the earth, but, at least, he treated

Catherine well.

"Good. Now go wash up. I'll have everything finished in one second." Catherine dumped the steamy pasta into a deep set bowl, allowing heat to rise off of it, making her face flush and her hair stick to her forehead a bit.

I just nodded, not wanting to say anything that might set Michael off again, and I scurried off. You know, scurrying and trying to stay under the radar would be easier if I hadn't had a growth spurt right after moving in with them. I managed to knock over one of the dining room chairs, which made a loud crash as it fell, after my attempt to slip past.

I sighed, wincing, waiting to hear Michael yelling, but I heard nothing--just Catherine and him talking in loud enough whispers for me to hear as incoherent mumbles.

I put the chair back in place--hoping the spot of scraped off paint on the wall wasn't too noticeable--and I went to wash my hands.

I really hoped no one would notice that.

We'd finished up the meal--and it had been amazing, delicious. Catherine was definitely a good cook, and she liked to cook, which was a plus. Maybe I'd get a few good dinners in me before I was kicked to the curb.

Me, being me, I was currently rinsing off the dishes and loading them into the dishwasher, which was new for me even though I tended to help around my house in an attempt to not be always such a burden. I mean I was used to doing dishes, but by hand. I was more or less lost on how to work the dishwasher, which was new--stainless steel.

I scrubbed off the last plate and was about to lean over to put it into the lower dishwasher rack when it slipped right out of my soapy hands and fell.

And, of course, it fell on my foot.

It shattered with a loud crash, and I wondered why I had to be so unlucky when it came to not destroying whatever I touched.

"Cody?!"

I heard Catherine yell from the living room, and I watched as she ran in, looking frantic.

Michael trailed behind her, an almost curious expression on his face.

"Sorry. It slipped...." I trailed off, looking at the broken white shards at my feet.

"That's fine. Wait, are you bleeding?" Catherine asked.

I looked up at her horrified face, then back down.

Huh. I was. My right foot's sock was stained red from blood. A pretty nasty gash was on

my leg and on the side of my ankle.

I wiggled my toes, and they moved, but I still didn't feel pain--more of a tingly sensation.

It didn't feel too bad either.

"Yeah, I guess," I replied with a shrug. It wasn't a big deal. It didn't even sting.

"I'll go get the first-aid kit. You just sit down on one of the bar stools."

I opened my mouth to tell her that I was fine--that it would scab over with no trouble--but she'd already scampered off, so I just sighed and did what she said.

Michael was just watching me, and then shook his head.

"What?" I asked him.

But he just chose to walk off instead of answering, moving to the other side of the kitchen, near the doorway Catherine had gone out of.

I thought about calling him a certain nasty word--just in my head--but I ignored the impulse, opting to just swing my unhurt leg out of boredom.

"Here," Catherine said as she hurried back into the living room, eyes still wide.

"I'm fine," I promised curtly, and then I took the small, plastic white box from her. I looked it over, searching for a clasp, and saw a red cross on it. First aid kits were made to be obvious.

I finally found a clutch at the top and I pressed down until it popped open.

"I could take care of that. Really," she insisted, but I just laid it onto the island that I sat at, and I took out some spray stuff that claimed that it kept wounds clean and didn't sting.

Yeah, right.

I sprayed it all over the wound anyway, and it didn't bother me, of course. Obviously, it was one of those days.

I couldn't feel a thing--well, I could feel that slight tingle in my foot, like it had fallen asleep, almost, but that was about all.

"You'll have to get out any of the shards."

I looked up and gazed at Michael. I blinked at him, surprised he'd even tried to help.

He shrugged. "Well, you'll have to. I don't need to pay a hospital bill because you have an infected wound."

Of course. But, at least he didn't say it quite as gruffly as usual.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Once again, it was raining, and I could hear the rain fall lightly onto the window. A giant tree shielded this part of the house from the heavy, sheets of water that fell much more loudly on the roof. It was rare for California to have so much rain, I figured.

But, who knows? Maybe it rained constantly in this county--this city. I had no clue. I'd been all over California--from the Mexican border and up to Oregon and Washington--but I'd never lived in L.A. before.

I mean, I'd even lived in a few Southern states--shipped off halfway across the country--far away from my Mom. I'd even been in Nebraska.

I sighed softly and just shifted under the covers, then sat up. I rubbed my forehead, wondering why I couldn't manage to drift off for the night.

It was probably because, on top of falling asleep in the middle of the day earlier, through the cracked door (it didn't close quite right, anyway, and it didn't lock either), light kept flashing on the wall--eerie blue from the lightning strikes and other colors from the TV, which was still on in the living room.

I could hear Catherine and Michael talking, even over the thunder and through the thick, plaster walls, but it was mostly garbled.

Eventually, they stopped watching whatever show or movie that had caught their eye among the hundreds of stations their TV had, and they went off to bed. They were still speaking and now--without the muted voices of the actors and actresses--I could hear what they were talking about in quiet voices.

Me.

Of course.

"Cat....I still think that this is a bad idea." Michael's voice rumbled through the thick walls, muted and hard to hear, but his deep voice carried.

I blinked, and swung my feet off of the bed, hissing as the sheets roughly rubbed up against the two scabbed-over gashes, still sensitive.

I crept up to the wall and, like the eve's dropper I obviously was at heart, I pressed my ear against the uneven surface of the plaster wall.

"Michael, he has nowhere else to go! He's troubled, sure, but he isn't a bad kid. Think about how you would turn out in his situation--a bad neighborhood, bad role models, fatherless, and with an addict for a mother." Catherine pleaded softly, her voice so quiet that I barely pieced together her sentences.

"Sure, but he's dangerous. He could hurt you, Cat. He's nothing more than a petty criminal with a twisted past."

I frowned at Michael's comments, but I stopped myself from yelling at him through the wall to shut up.

Because, a. that wouldn't help anything and b. then they'd know I was listening and they wouldn't finish their conversation.

"You know that's not true, Michael. I'm pretty sure he's more scared of us than we are of him. Haven't you noticed how he cowers when you step into the room?"

"What?"

"He does, Michael. You terrify him."

"I highly doubt that."

I clenched one fist, annoyed. I wasn't scared. He just made me nervous--that's all.

And I wouldn't hurt Catherine, either. She was a saint.

"He won't be here long anyway, Michael. He's already fifteen. I just want to give him a few good years--maybe give him what he needs for a better life. You agreed to try fostering kids, Michael."

"Yeah, but I thought you meant younger kids."

"What's the difference? They'd still have their issues. How could they not? They were given up or taken from their parents--ripped up by the roots."

"I know, I know, but....why him? He's nothing but trouble. He hardly talks. He barely eats. He just sits around staring at walls! That's not normal."

I could mentally picture Catherine's sharp intake of breath, then her biting her lip.

"Michael, I can't have kids. You know that."

"Well, yes, but-"

"Then why are you so against this? I want to be a mother. I've always wanted children."

"Then we could adopt a baby!" Michael said, almost yelling.

I winced. I didn't try to imagine what Catherine's response to that was.

"Baby, I didn't mean to raise my voice.… I...."

"Let's just get off this topic, okay?"

"I really didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

"But you're still unhappy with this arrangement?"

"Well, yeah, but...."

"Then, yes, you did mean it."

Yikes. I'd never heard Catherine mad before. Of course, I hadn't known that she couldn't have kids. I'd thought they just hadn't yet. I'd have to ask her about that because, obviously, Mister Insensitive in there didn't seem to care much about how she felt. I mean, people who just listened and nodded their heads were as good as gold.

I felt my eyes droop from a sudden wave of tiredness, and I yawned, a sound rising from my throat. Ugh. I just couldn't yawn and be quiet at the same time. It was physically impossible for me.

"I really am sorry," Michael said as I heard something move across the floor--a chair maybe.

"I know you are. You just have to understand that I want this. I want to help people. People like Cody don't deserve the life they've been born into. And he really is a good kid."

"I'll trust you on that, I guess. But, if he does anything to you--anything--you tell me, okay?"

"You just undermined yourself."

"I know, but, Cat, I love you. I don't want him treating you badly--verbally or physically."

"And thank goodness for that. I'm glad you're protective of me, but he's a kid. He's only fifteen."

"Fifteen-year-olds can still do plenty and he looks like someone put him on steroids."

"I know, I know. It's just on a trial basis, though. I just feel like I need to do this."

"I'm sorry for what I said before--about adopting a kid and all."

"Don't be. Sometimes I want that, sure. I just want to wait a little longer. I'm only twenty-two."

I blinked, now awake. She was only twenty-two? Dang. I thought she'd at least have to be twenty-six or something like that. Not that she looked old. But she was hardly older than me!

That was just weird. How did someone so young act like a tried-and-true mom--a much better Mom than mine ever was?

"So, then, what are we going to do with him? He's still supposed to be going to school."

"I got him to write up a forum for Hartwell Academy."

"There's no way he's getting in there."

I almost snorted. Yeah, just because I was a street thug, almost constant A's on my tests didn't matter.

I was smart. I could admit to that. I hated school, but I could do my lessons. They were too easy, anyway. But I wasn't dumb enough to try and move up a grade.

I'd be road kill.

After a minute I realized I'd been too lost in my own thoughts to notice what they were saying.

"He was accepted, Michael. He's going on Friday for a half-day so he can check out the school," Catherine informed him.

Wait. What? I hadn't known that. I thought for a minute. Four days? Ugh.

I hated school. Schools were filled with a bunch of idiots.

Plus, this would be a rich school--so preppy kids and wusses would be everywhere. I'd always thought of the phrase "thrown like a cat to the wolves". I wasn't sure if it was common, but an old friend had always used it. Luckily, it was backwards for me now.

Well, I could hope. I was taller now--not as scrawny. Well, I hadn't been scrawny but, when five guys (or particularity nasty girls) ganged up on you, what could you do?

And, of course, I wouldn't have a bunch of racist blacks throwing rocks at me.

That was a plus.

I decided to stop listening in--starting to feel like a nosy weirdo--and I just blinked sleepily. I yawned, finally getting tired, and I stumbled over to my new bed--hard to see in the dim, grainy light.

I wasn't sure if it was like that for other people, but, at night, it was like an old, black-and-white horror film. Maybe I just had bad night vision.

I sat down heavily on the side of the bed and just pulled myself back.

Maybe I'd sleep.

I could hope....

As I felt myself grow more tired--happy that I actually felt sleepy and not completely wired like I was most nights--I suddenly remembered. Hartwell Academy wasn't just the public school. You had to get a scholarship for it or pay for it month-by-month. It was a private school. I hoped I was in the first category. I didn't want to be a burden for Catherine, who already gave me food to eat and a place to sleep--my two main needs. She could've just sent me to any run-of-the-mill public school, and I still would've been grateful.

Plus, I really doubted this would go well. I really doubted it. I wasn't meant to be around the rich. It just didn't work. It wasn't supposed to work. I muttered a swear word to myself, shifting.

There wasn't a difference between rich and poor kids except for how much money their parents had. It wasn't the kids' money, so I didn't see why it mattered. But I'd learned pretty fast that it did matter for everyone else in the world.

I only counted money you earned yourself, though. I was just weird.

Eventually, I realized that thinking so hard about this was making me more awake, so I just tried to turn off my mind, convincing myself that it couldn't be any worse.

It couldn't be any worse. At least I'd be dealing with a bunch of pampered preps and not dangerous thugs who beat people up for kicks.

I'd gotten lucky when it came to that.

I sighed and rubbed my forehead with the heels of my hands, and I just tried to make my brain shut off. Why didn't I have a turn off switch? I just never stopped. I was like some robot--on and on and on. My current record of days to go without sleep was three. But, by then, anyone (especially me) looked like death warmed over.

Jeez. I wasn't going to go to sleep, was I? Well, at least I'd slept for like an hour or so earlier.

If my thoughts would just go away, maybe then I could sleep.

I tried to just focus on something else, but I didn't know what to focus on. I decided to choose a song and list the guitar parts, playing them over and over in my head. I couldn't read music at all. I'd figured out basically what to do, anyway.

So, at least, that beat-up, old guitar sitting in the corner had some use. Maybe I could figure out how to actually play it.

I blinked and just closed my eyes, nearly gritting my teeth. This was going nowhere fast….