When you try your best, but you don't succeed
When you get what you want, but not what you need
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse
When the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone, but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

High up above or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
If you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

- Coldplay, 'Fix You'


Chapter Twenty-Nine


"I'm very sorry, Mr. Cambias."

She didn't sound it, not really and he searched her face for some seconds, searching for the sympathy behind her words. But there was that noise in the background, and his eyes slid past her, at the body being unhooked from the machines, a lifeless husk that looked nothing like the slim form he could barely remember from years before, before that thing got inside her and ate her away.

"But—"

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Cambias."

This so stated, she brushed past him, peeling off her gloves as she moved, nonexistent noises when compared to that blaring sound coming from in front of him. People murmuring, talking in quiet voices, and he choked on a breath when she nearly rolled off the table, caught and eased back down as another wire was plucked off colorless skin.

"Is she—" He stopped, and then tried again, wanting to move closer but desperate not to. "Is she really—"

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Cambias."

His head snapped towards the voice, took in the doctor and the pity and he flinched when that sound in the background suddenly stopped, as if somebody had flipped a switch. When his eyes finally shifted back to the table, she was covered, a faceless shape that could have been anyone.

But it wasn't anyone.

It took a good five minutes for his mind to recognize the sobbing behind him, noises that grew louder as his father banged into the room and past his eldest son, demanding to know what had happened and why they hadn't tried anything more, words that made his stomach shrivel, remembering the jerking of the body at their attempts.

"Mr. Cambias?"

He swallowed, breathing oddly and feeling small and hating both and unable to do anything about it, and finally pressed his palms against his face, heart shuddering in his chest at the emotions flooding him. "Where did she go?" He had no idea where the words came from, or how they could spill out of him with his throat aching like it was, but the words slipped out anyway, ones unexpected and expected at the same time.

"She probably didn't feel much at the end, Mr. Cambias."

It seemed to be meant as a comfort and it went down hard, his body feeling odd and foreign as it all sank into him. Finally, shaking his head, he turned, staggering slightly as he pushed his way through the door, leaving his father's confusing and bittersweet grief behind him only to be confronted with Michael's raging, small body packing painful force as he proceeded to take it out of the older boy, a beating Alex took with a grateful shudder, welcoming the pain and clinging to it as something physical, something he could understand.

He couldn't understand anything else.


There were too many lost children to count.

Too many to find and return to homes they never knew had been taken from them.

Most had been written off over the last year, while others had been forced to stay in their home, the judges ruling, each time, in the favor of the adoptive families, and grinding any remaining hope down with cool decision. In the end, it was only those who refused to follow the law who got their sons and daughters back.

Even then, though, it was an uphill battle.

It seemed, from the records and the DNA tests, that Josh Madden had been the only child that Greg had created with his own sperm, a relief to the officials handling, or at least trying to handle, the case at hand. Why there was only one was a question few seemed willing to answer, too relieved that they wouldn't have to handle that drama as well.

They would be grateful with what they had been given.

Later, however, they found themselves coping with the more painful trouble at hand—Greg Madden's mistakes.


Once upon a time, he had viewed Erica as a kind of foster mother, a far cry from the bitterly damaged and viciously angry woman who had raised him. He'd looked into his future and seen holidays spent with his family, with Kendall, and whatever children they might eventually have, and it would be everything he had never gotten to have—everything that had been taken from him when he lost Gillian.

It was different now.

Erica was exhausting, and it was exhausting to try to keep her out of his business.

His future didn't include Kendall, and it didn't include the others—it included Chris and Di, and that was it, uncomplicated and basic, unhampered by Erica's obsession with perfection. Di was simple, and she was easy to love, and she asked for nothing he was unable to give, something he couldn't remember from any of his relationships with the Kane women.

Even Bianca, he had found to his surprise, was exhausting.

Now, wishing sorely that Erica would get the hint and leave him the fuck alone, he flicked on the light in the living room and tossed his keys onto the coffee table, letting his coat drop to the floor by the door and quickly looking around for any sign of wayward curls or depressingly bored-looking green eyes.

His search was in vain; there was not the slightest sign of Kendall.

"Damn it—" He jerked in surprise when a hand grabbed his arm and spun him, making him face her again, the second time that night. He had enough to worry about, what with Josh butting in where he wasn't needed or wanted, and now Erica flinging her self-righteous bitching at him when he was so frustrated. "Maybe Kendall can forgive you, if you'd just try!"

"I really wouldn't give a damn, Erica."

"Don't say that, I know what you two mean to each other—"

"Clearly, Erica, you don't." shoving her back slightly, he flung open the bedroom door and then ripped off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor as a damp pile of clothe. Jerking open the closet door, he snatched out a shirt and then slammed it shut, making something thump in response from within, making him roll his eyes at how much junk Kendall had accumulated over the years. "I don't have time for this—"

"But you love Kendall!"

"I stopped loving Kendall a long time ago, Erica—and a small part of me is sorry about that, really." He wished Di would answer her phone, wished she would stop fighting him on this, but he knew it was useless, at least right now. He grabbed a jacket from the back of the bedroom door and tugged it on. "Where do you think Kendall would go?"

"You care about her, I know you do!"

"No, Erica, you just wish I did—so that, when Kendall finds out what all you did, all of what you did, she won't hate you for it." There was a sudden thump from the closet and he rolled his eyes again, knowing that next time he opened the door, he'd have an avalanche of shoes to wade through, which was just the perfect ending to the perfect freaking day, wasn't it?

"Kendall will understand why I did what I did—"

"Really? All of what you did?"

"I did what I did because I love her, Ryan! My god, Ryan—" Her voice caught, and she closed her eyes, pressing a wobbly hand against her face as she shuddered slightly. "Ryan—" A ragged breath before suddenly moist dark eyes met his, pinned him for a heartbeat with their emotion as her broken voice came back, shaky with feeling. "Ryan, if she finds out the truth, it will destroy her— Ryan, she will never be able to get past it—"

"She's stronger than you give her credit for," he snapped, trying to move past her, but she shook her head furiously, grabbing at his jacket, bottom lip trembling oddly. "You don't understand, Ryan, it'll rip her to pieces— I know that pain—" Her voice broke, and for a moment, he actually felt for her… just a moment, though.

"Greg didn't rape her," he hissed, but she swallowed, still shaking her head. "It doesn't matter, Ryan—he violated her, he used her for his own twisted reasons, and he manipulated her into it!" He wished, violently, that she would get out of his way, let him go search for Kendall so that he could fix this mess. "Get out of my way—"

"Ryan you can't tell her… please, it'll destroy her."

"Then don't force me to."

She stared, wide-eyed, for several moments before he saw it sink in, and her already large eyes grew even larger with realization. "Ryan… Ryan, don't do this." He shoved past her, feeling her rush after him, her voice strangled. "Ryan, what do you mean don't force you? Ryan, don't you dare walk away from me!"

Snatching the keys off the table, he shrugged, casting a rather vicious glance at her over his shoulder. "You played with our lives, Erica—you decided I was supposed to be a father, and that we were supposed to be married and one big happy family, remember?" He jerked his head around at the empty penthouse, made a world-weary sound of exhaustion. "Didn't work, Erica—and when it all comes out, it's going to be you fault—"

"You said—"

"Let's put it this way," he snapped finally, reaching his breaking point as he stalked to the door and opened it, addressing her over his shoulder. "You tell Kendall about I'm doing, and I tell Kendall what you did—" He held up his hand, letting light flicker off his gold wedding band and cocked an eyebrow. "—and I tell Kendall everything you did since that explosion last year." He dropped his hand, pushed open the door and looked back at her one last time, unforgiving and unfeeling in his hatred of this entire ordeal he was caught in. "Everything you've done."

And then he was gone, leaving Erica to stand as a small woman, shaking in her suddenly overwhelming fears, drowning in them as she fumbled desperately for some kind of leverage against it and came up with nothing, vision growing blurry as she gave in for a moment to the crushing weight of her sins.

And then, as she swiped tears from her face, things somehow got worse.

"What the hell did you do?"


Joanna was shaking.

This wasn't a rare occurrence for her, in her line of work, but it was stronger now than it had been in a while. Smoothing her hair with trembling hands, she finally got out of the car and headed into the building, making a beeline for the elevator that would take her to the apartment.

The problem of gathering courage to knock on the door was easily solved, it seemed—Jamie was standing in front of her the door, pacing and muttering, kicking at the floor every few heartbeats. When he spotted her, she hitched the slightest bit in her walking, half-afraid the not-so-tiny would come lunging at her and crush her in his relief of seeing her.

"Something's wrong with him."

"I know."

It seemed, at the moment, they were sharing a brain—as it was with Jamie Martin, she was mildly annoyed and slightly afraid.

"Want me to go in with you?"

"You don't have to, Jamie."

He looked confused, as if he wasn't sure whether he wanted to go back in to offer what strength he could gather or wanted to stay out here where his heart wouldn't hurt at the words. He looked angry, too, and she shifted her bag from one hand to the other, staring intently at the door for long moments. "You can stay out here, sweetie."

If he was annoyed at his new nickname, he didn't show it.

She'd had these moments before, but while she had an impressive history with patients that other doctors were uneasy with handling, Jonathon was, as always, a special case. Very few of her patients had suffered mental breakdowns that led to the deaths of three people, and very few had been handling the effects of a tumor at the same time.

"You want me to stay out here?"

She pondered, considering before looking back at him, realizing what he was prodding for. "I'm hungry," she announced lightly, digging into a back pocket and pulling out her wallet. "I'm hungry for something and I don't know what it is." She handed it to him, smiled emotionlessly as she gave him an excuse to not be there. "Why don't you go grab us something?"

"Like what?"

"Anything."

"Anything?"

"Yeah."

A few more moments of uneasy silence as he stared at the shut door and then he glanced over, took a tiny step closer. "I called Erin, but she wasn't answering her phone… shouldn't she be here?" he added more quietly, and she swallowed, shaking her head. "Erin went to the mansion, the Chandler place… I think she's had enough for tonight."

Enough for a lifetime, Jo added to herself silently, watching as he processed that carefully, finally seeming to relax. "She's with JR?" She nodded, listening to the noises inside the apartment, what sounded like— "Is he moving furniture?" He stared and she blinked, frowning. "When did he start moving furniture?"

"When I told him you were heading over."

"I see." She didn't but she'd make herself, she decided, shifting her bag again and then wrapping her arms around the emotional-looking man, not sure if she was stealing strength or offering it before she finally pulled and jerked her head to the elevator. "Go call Hayward and tell him where I am, and then get something to eat."

He obeyed, apparently thinking better of what he had been about to say.

The noises continued, as she let herself into the apartment and then stopped abruptly as she found herself the focus of lost and confused dark eyes, freezing as he restlessly pushed the couch from one side of the room to the other. There was a heartbeat of that stare, chillingly empty before it flicked behind her, to where she had left the door open halfway.

"What are you doing?"

"Jamie called me."

She moved slowly, not blocking the door as he followed her absently, and she finally pressed fingers against her temples, bracing herself before she met his dulled gaze again, more completely, not letting him look away as she dropped the bag to an overturned table and let her arms hang down at her side, somehow still unprepared for how gone he was.

He recognized her, so he wasn't too far gone, in theory but there was that look, something that warned of how badly he had come unfrayed in just the last little bit between time between vanishing on Jamie earlier in the day and this, a trembling man with large eyes and frightened breathing.

Wherever he was right now, he wasn't completely anywhere.

She watched, carefully, as he tugged absently at corner of the couch with red-tinged nails, and he dropped his head, staring at his own restlessly moving hands, looking smaller than his six foot two frame. "Jonathon, what happened?" He jerked, hesitating before looking up again, hands fisting in the couch as he shook his head, not able to meet her eyes completely. "Nothing happened."

"I talked to Erin."

This was so far against everything she usually did, it was frightening, or at least it should have been, she supposed, taking a breath and letting it out slowly as she fluttered fingers at her side thoughtlessly. "She told me some things, Jonathon." He stared, saying nothing, hands twisting in plush fabric and she took another careful breath, forced it back out.

"We need to talk about Gail—"

"Get out."

He didn't even sound angry, and was probably no longer capable of such a hard emotion in the face of it all but she still refused to relax, knowing full-well how fast she had seen him move before, most often in an effort to get out of her office as soon as he could. "Don't look at me like that," he snapped suddenly, voice strangled strangely, and she sighed raggedly, trying not to picture what he was most likely seeing.

"I'm not Gail."

"I don't want to."

She worked hard, at times, to not think—her mind was filled with things, living nightmares passed onto her by shaken children and scared adults, and while she would never be able to know their pain, she carried the weight of it with her everywhere. It was why she had started going gray so early and had yet to stop, and it was why she woke up some mornings wanting nothing more than to curl up and die because, maybe, she'd stop thinking about these things.

Yet, as bad as it was for her, with pain that wasn't her own, she knew that it was nothing compared to them.

She carried echoes of it, but they carried the scars, and this was why she was here, to help the wounds heal over as cleanly as they could, leave their mark but not twist the person anymore than they had already been twisted, lance the wound and give it some kind of chance to work to a point where it no longer hurt to breathe.

She couldn't imagine, except...

She didn't want to, but she did anyway.

"I'm not here to make you do anything—"

"I don't want to—"

"Jonathon!"

A flinch inwards, and then silence and he closed his eyes and bit his lip, making a noise not unlike a trapped animal as he fisted hands into the couch again, gripping it a force she was grateful he was still working at restraining, even when he wasn't fully there, half in the present and half in the past and not whole.

"Please go away."

"I wish I could, but I can't…"

He laughed, a harsh noise and she winced at her own choice of words, watching him twist hands, knotting up fabric with merciless emotion, the only way he seemed to be able to express it—and that was the problem, wasn't it? She would usually try to get a smaller bit closer, just because it seemed to help the same way that getting too close would hamper it all but she refrained now, carefully.

"I think it's time to talk about Gail—"

"We don't have to… not really…"

He sounded desperate, and he most likely was… but he wasn't an idiot, the eyes that finally met hers again weren't any clearer but they were somehow sharper, somehow more aware of the fact that she was who she was supposed to be, and not Gail and it made her swallow, nodding her head back to the door. "I didn't lock it, in case we need to go out for air."

"Air doesn't help."

"I know."

"I don't want to do this now."

"I think you do."

He shook his head, making a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "You did something to my head," he finally managed, and she winced inwardly at the terrified accusation beneath the words. "You did something and nothing I do to make her stop works anymore—you did something to my head—"

He looked horrified at his own anger and closed his eyes, going oddly pale as he rocked slightly, shaken, a move that he no doubt didn't realize he was doing. He wasn't somebody who acted like this, not usually—where others would withdraw or go quiet, he just got angry, and attacked anyone he could, in some kind of attempt to make somebody else suffer like he had.

He looked very young, and very frightened, and she took a moment, remembering the pictures she had in the file, of Lorraine's bruises and Maggie's interview when the sessions had first started, her attempt to realize what he was capable of when he got agitated enough, or frightened enough.

Or drunk enough.

At the moment, he was all three… albeit to different extents.

"Jonathon." She stopped, waited until dark eyes focused on her after several heart-twisting moments, waited until he had finally stilled with a last shiver before she took two steps, stopping when he made a quick movement of panic. It was close enough, though, and she was at last treading semi-familiar territory. "Jonathon, do you want to sit down?"

"No."

"That's fine, then," she said to the unstable and pained look he shot to the couch and she waited until he once again looked back at her, apparently confused by her response—which gave her another something to chew on, study, see what it had to do with him and Gail and what she had done to him. "Jonathon, we need to talk—"

"Please don't make me."

If she could have, she would have dropped it, she would have—

"I don't know where they came from."

She stopped, startled, staring at him for several seconds as her mind caught up, working to process the oddly blank look on his face. "You don't know what came from?" Several heartbeats of jarring silence and then he made a noise that could have been a laugh at any other time, jerking his head. "Bruises," he finally whispered raggedly, "I have bruises all over, where she used to… where her feet used to… and where she used to hold me down…" He trailed off into a soundless whisper, and she took the second she had to catch her breath, grateful at having something offered. "I don't know where they came from…"

"That's okay—"

"But they hurt."

A slow breath, careful, and then another as she tried to keep eye contact, jarred despite herself by the twists he was taking in front of her, anger flaring and then dying, and while she'd seen it before, she never got used to it. "That's just your memory, Jonathon, trying to cope with everything—"

"My brain gave me bruises?"

"Something like that."

He looked confused, and she couldn't blame him—she'd had enough dealing with somatic memories since becoming a therapist to last a lifetime. Few people understood what they were, not least of all the people who told her fearfully that their bodies were doing things, feeling things they hadn't felt since—

And he flipped again, staring at her hard suddenly, and almost cruelly, eyes narrowing. "What did you tell Erin? Did—did you corner her, did you force her to say things?" Before she could speak, could even open her mouth, he shook his head furiously, voice getting louder. "They're lies, you made her say things— she wouldn't have told you anything!"

"Erin came to my office, because she was in pain—"

"Did somebody hurt her?"

"Jonathon, no— no, she… Erin wanted to talk, and she came to my office and we talked—"

It was the wrong thing to say, for it made him spin into another area, another surge of emotion.

"Does Ryan know? Oh, god, did she tell Ryan— oh, god— did she tell him?!" The last of his words was almost a sob, and her gut twisted with sudden alarming understanding. Not waiting for her reply, he strode past her, stumbling twice and she jolted, rushing past him to slam the door and block it, finding him suddenly jerk to a halt, staring at her with wider than normal eyes and breathing that had quickened again.

"Ryan doesn't know," she stated firmly, bracing her feet and holding out her hands, small things that could do little damage to him, no matter what he was seeing right now, whether it be her or Gail. "I didn't tell him anything, Jonathon—and he won't know anything about Gail until you decide to tell him."

"You're lying—" And now, he was sobbing, and it hurt her more than it should have, seeing his fragile hold slip away, crumble beneath the weight of that panic. "You told him— Erin told you and you told him— oh, god, he's going to hate me—" She shook her head, but he had turned away, grabbing at the back of his neck, entire body shaking. "He's going to know everything, oh, god… oh, god, he's going to hate me—"

He didn't even realize she was there anymore, and even as she made a grab for him, he suddenly collapsed onto the carpet like a puppet with his strings cut, burying his head in his hands, strangled words muffled as he sat and shook and sobbed as if his life had finally truly ended.


Kendall looked small, and she looked fragile, and he hated the look of her like this.

They just kind of stood there, staring at each other, and he wasn't sure, exactly, why—wasn't sure why his voice wasn't working, and wasn't sure what he would have said even if his voice would work. The uncertainty was unwelcome, and only left him angry and exhausted, even more than he had been after leaving the casino.

It didn't help, and he closed his eyes finally, feeling world-weary in a way he never had before.

"What do you want?"

He opened his eyes, stared at her for long heartbeats, and then finally offered a helpless shrug, not knowing himself, exactly, what he wanted. "I don't know anymore," he finally admitted and she snorted, nodding her head as she gestured jerkily around them, apparently bitterly amused at his words.

"What are you doing here?"

"I don't know."

He stared at her again, taking in the mess that had been her dress and frowning at it, somehow unbelievably irritated by it and the memories it brought back, a delicate-looking woman crying on a doorstep, heart bleeding and tears flowing freely in her speechless agony, and then the warmth of her before he let her have some part of himself he hadn't even been sure existed anymore.

"Kendall?"

"Its Mrs. Lavery now, remember?"

If it was an attempt to hurt him, it was a success and his eyes closed again, taking a breath and holding it, listening to her breaths in the dim light through the windows. "You never set us a wedding present," she added more quietly, a cutting edge in it as he opened his eyes once again, half-expecting her to be gone and somehow angry that she wasn't gone.

"You already had everything you needed, remember?"

She flinched, and his heart twisted, hating that he was grateful when her eyes dropped and she looked away, lower lip suddenly trembling with her quiet pain. "Kendall—" She flinched again, more sharply, and he clamped his mouth shut, wanting to leave and needing to stay and hating that he was unable to fix this. "What are you doing here?"

"It doesn't matter."

She reached up, wiped a sudden tear away from her face, shrugging with a ragged burst of laughter, strangled with things neither of them could say. "I did it all, I did everything and—" Her voice broke, and so did his heart and she continued, not staring at him but past him. "I did everything I was supposed to do, except I didn't… except—"

"You didn't do anything wrong," he said instantly, taking two steps forward without thinking and then jerking two steps back when her eyes focused on him and her hand came up, the crack of her palm against his cheek cutting more deeply than anything else could at the moment. "You said that I would love him!"

"You do—"

Another slap, harder than before, the sound of it making his heart jump at the force behind it and her lip trembled a heartbeat more before the tears overflowed completely, streaming down her face unchecked as she stood, noiseless sobs shaking her form as he tried to ignore the sudden flare of heated pain that settled on his face. "But I don't… I don't, you were wrong!"

"You love your son, I've seen it—"

"I don't think I've ever hated anyone more."