Everyone fills their life with landmarks.

My parents used to stand all of us kids against the doorway to their bedroom and draw a line on the trim to measure how tall we were getting. Joel's mark was blue, mine was red, and Jasper's was green. Jazz used to stand in that doorway and trace the red marks with his fingers, never the blue. He would tell me that he was catching up with me as he stood on his tiptoes to touch the tallest red line that measured my inches. At ten years old, he could reach well past it and I'd always goose him in the ribs when he'd do it and tell him he was still 'the kid'. He would always be 'the kid'. I never knew ...

As I watch him now, while Derek attaches the electrodes to his head that will administer the first of the stimulating currents, I'm thinking about all of his landmarks. I was eleven when he walked for the first time and he didn't go to my father ... even though Dad has his arms outstretched ... he toddled to me. He had on a diaper and a little tank top that had a fire truck on it and when I scooped him into my arms ... I felt like I had walked for the first time. I can remember potty training, too, and my mother using every trick in the book to make Jazz cooperate. I think I was in high school before I realized that big boys do not aim their pee at Cheerios that are floating in the toilet.

And I think that's why I don't eat Cheerios to this day.

I can remember Jasper's first bicycle and running along beside him when the training wheels came off. I got to my baby brother first when he fell off and it was me that held a hand over his bleeding knee until the tears subsided. There wasn't a park in Miami that we didn't roll through together when he was finally skilled enough and anytime he challenged me to a race ... I let him win. I can remember when he lost his first tooth and the way he marveled at it. The first day of school, his first skateboard, his first pair of tie up sneakers (the ones that I painstakingly retied for him eight million times a day) when he kept tripping over them ... all of that is going through my head right now because we're at another landmark.

This one could kill him.

Once Derek starts the treatment ... Jasper could have another stroke.

The tiny sensors that have been implanted in his head could misfire and cause a fatal amount of bleeding.

Or they could have been placed just a little off the mark and Jazz could go blind, he could lose his ability to talk, walk, feed himself ... or BE.

Jasper doesn't know what's coming. He's sitting in the bed, propped up on a ton of pillows with his feet crossed at the ankles. It would be comical how relaxed he is, how happily he's chatting with Derek (who he calls Dirk) and Mark (who he STILL calls ass), if this wasn't possibly the final moments of his existence. My mother took a valium twenty minutes ago and offered one to me, but Erica gave her such a look that Mom withdrew the offer and surrendered the bottle to my father for safekeeping. I don't want a valium. I want Mark to move out of the way so that I can hold Jasper's hand through this thing ... whatever's coming. I need to be the person he has always reached for.

When I was researching the Fellman-Caputo technique I read all about the actual procedure, but not a lot about what patients go through during treatments. Derek filled in the blanks when he came in earlier. This is the trickiest part. If we don't get the response that we need with the frequency then Derek may have to go back into Jasper's head and relocate the sensors. If we get too much of a response, Jasper could be destroyed. Shepherd is going to be using the lowest setting and slowly working his way up and I take a little bit of comfort in that. But only a little. Starting out small isn't always the best thing really.

"We're ready to begin," Derek says, nodding at Mark.

I know why he chose Mark to be his 'wingman' here. Mark is strong enough to hold Jasper down if need be.

Please ... don't let him have to hold him down. I can handle a lot of things, but that's not one of them.

My parents move to the foot of the bed and Mom instinctively reaches out, resting her hand on Jasper's sock clad foot. I think there's something remarkably sad about a mother who will touch any part of their child they can at the end. I bet there are millions of mothers who have lost their children that would love the opportunity to stand by their side, or at their feet, when they slip away ... and now I've made myself cry. I discreetly wipe my eyes, but Jasper sees it and his smile fades.

"Wrong, Lee?"

"Nothing, buddy."

Erica, who has been standing to my right, moves behind me and wraps her arms around my waist. She puts her chin on my shoulder and whispers, "It's okay, baby."

For the first time since I woke up today ... I relax a little. It's impossible not to when she's around. I force myself to think of my own personal (and best) landmark for a few seconds ... I came out of the closet and I'm fine. I turned my life upside down and inside out to be with her and it's worth it. I rest my hands on top of hers and she threads our fingers, tightening her grip when Derek clicks the machine on and it loudly whirs to life. I hate the sound of it. I hate knowing that it's going to do something ... and not knowing for sure what that something is. Derek, who came in on his off day for this, turns down the collar of his shirt and smoothes a small wrinkle in his sweater ... I wonder if that's a nervous habit. We all have them. I'd be wringing my hands if Erica wasn't clutching them so tightly.

This is it.

I feel her press her lips against my neck so I rub my thumb over the back of her hand to let her know I'm fine.

I'm being as strong as I can possibly be.

Everyone in the room is holding their breath.

I know I am.

And I don't hear Erica's.

Jasper closes his eyes and then scrunches them tightly, slowly turning his head left and right. I keep my eyes on him, but I can see that Derek is turning up the frequency and in tandem, Jasper's head shakes a little harder and he makes a noise in the back of his throat. He can feel it. He can feel the tiny jolts and it probably feels like a bee sting to the brain. The tissue that has been damaged for fifteen years is firing for the first time and like a rusty car that bangs to life in a junkyard ... it could backfire. Badly. I glance at Derek's hand and see that he's moving to the third (of ten) levels.

"Ow." Jasper rubs the sides of his head, still shaking it like he wants to dislodge water in his ear. "Head hurt."

Across the expanse of the bed, Derek's eyes meet mine. I see a determination there that makes me remember the day I tried to stare him down. I won. And I do the same thing now, only I nod at him and he pushes the dial to four. Almost halfway to full mast and Jasper ... screams. His hands flail out, his knees go up to his chest, and he screams in a way that I've never heard in my life. It renders me completely immobile. I should be the one comforting him, not Mark. I should be the one talking softly to him, not Mark. I should be the one holding him against me, not Mark ... but it IS Mark doing all of those things while I stand there in shock.

Jasper has found a long silent voice.

And has used it to cut through me like a dull knife.

"Stop it!" Mom says, suddenly. "Stop it, Dr. Shepherd!"

"Lori Anne, hush," Dad tells her and he's holding onto her the same way that Erica is holding me.

That's when I realize that I'm struggling, too.

And I stop.

"OW! HURTING ME!" Jasper bellows, his voice full of venom and aggravation. His fingers are hooks now and he's clawing at his head hard enough to pop one of the stitches. I watch it open and blood trickle down over his ear. It soaks into the front of Mark's shirt and then ... then Jasper starts to cry. It's the first time that I've heard him cry since the before the accident. There are harsh, wracking sobs that accompany his tears and it takes me a moment to realize that the whirring of the machine has stopped. It's over.

But it's not. Jasper is choking and he ... he's ANGRY. He knows what has hurt him because he grabs for the electrodes and snatches them loose in one, mighty fell swoop, casting aside the cords like it's something dirty. His pillow is thrown next and Derek catches it, depositing it at the foot of the bed, but my brother's thrashing prevents it from staying there long.

"Jasper, settle down," my father says and it's the same stern voice he used on me at lunch when he told me exactly what he thought of my drug induced coma. Jasper doesn't register the command. This isn't the same obedient Jasper who went to sleep. This is the Jasper who woke up and ... woke up. Can I really let myself believe that he wake woken up? Even a little.

"Ass!" Jasper yells at Mark, striking at his shoulders. "You!"

"Take it easy, buddy," Mark tells him, rubbing his arm.

"I NOT YOUR BUDDY!" Jazz bellows, veins straining in his neck. "GO WAY!"

I once had a snow globe in my room and I'd shake it up to watch the storm inside because ... in Miami ... it never snowed. I'd hold it upside down until everything was calm and then I'd flip it over and stare at the little house inside until white flakes had gathered on the roof and yard. Watching my brother now ... it's like he was living in a snow globe and has been upside down forever. And Derek has righted him and this storm ... this tornado ... this lightning bolt of rage has been fifteen years in the making. The tantrum that he had in Miami on his birthday is nothing compared to this. I watch his strong, sinewy arms flail maddeningly at anyone nearby and I take a moment, just the smallest of respites, to enjoy it.

I wanted my brother back and this feels like a giant leap in the right direction.

He kicks one foot out, coming close to clipping my mother in the face and I finally react. I've enjoyed it long enough. It's time to reign in the emotion that has been tapped down, shut out, and silenced for far too long.

"Jazz," I begin softly. "It's-"

"Lee!" he wails, staring at me with wide eyes over Mark's shoulder. "They're hurting me!"

Complete sentence. Correctly worded. And I register this fact as I break loose from Erica and pull Mark out of the way. Jasper reaches for me before I can touch him and actually climbs to his knees like he's going to leap into my arms. I don't let him leap, but I grab him and hug him with all the welcoming I've had bottled up inside me as well. If this is a new version of Jasper ... I want him to know that my arms are open ... no matter how cracked down the middle he may still be. I've seen a lot of things in my career, but when I look up and realize that Derek Shepherd actually has tears in his eyes ... I don't know what to make of it. Jazz is trembling against me and I'm terrified that Derek is about to tell me that it's a bust, that we failed, but he doesn't. He just stands and watches me, watches Jazz, and waits.

Both of Jasper's arms are around my neck and his face is buried against my hair when Mark speaks from behind me. "Callie, I'm putting something in his IV for pain right now. Hold him still."

"Jazz?" I rub a circle on his back and even though he doesn't fit in my arms the same way that Emma Foster does ... he still belongs there. He's still the baby, the toddler, the little leaguer and the not quite man who slipped into the water and MAY be coming back. "It'll be over in just a second, buddy."

"Don't go, Lee."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"No schoo?"

"I don't have school anymore. I finished."

"I finish, too," he sniffles. "No more hurt."

"Not today," I reply.

My mother is crying softly into her handkerchief like every polite Southern woman knows to do and I watch Erica hug her. My eyes widen at the lack of reproach in mom's face as she returns the hug and I don't know what Erica is saying to her, but Mom nods and pats her on the cheek. Dad isn't watching the exchange ... his eyes are fastened to me and Jasper like we're on a life raft in a hurricane and if he blinks ... a wave could take us. "What happens now?" he asks Derek. "What does this ... reaction ... mean?"

"It could mean nothing," Derek replies honestly. "Or it could mean everything."

Mark groans behind us. "And that is why I didn't go into neuro. Derek, that was the shittiest answer I've ever heard."

"Shittest!" Jasper parrots, sobbing. "Answer shitted!"

"That's a bad word," I tell him. "Don't say it again."

"Shit. Tid."

"Jazz," I warn. "Stop that."

"They hurted me!"

"They didn't mean to."

"Shits," he whispers. "Bad, bad shits."

His broad shoulders are quaking, his heart rate is elevated, and his strong arms are nearly choking the life out of me, but I still cling to him. Maybe I'm holding on hard enough to choke the life out of him because it doesn't take long for his grip to loosen and his sniffles to eventually subside. When one of his arms falls away, Derek reaches forward and eases my brother back into bed. The last time I witnessed such a red face on Jazz was when my mother told him he couldn't go to the movies because of his math grade. There was a tantrum the likes of which I had NEVER seen ... and then we snuck out together and I spent my allowance on the movie for both of us.

With heavily lidded eyes, Jazz looks at Shepherd, pointing a finger. "You are mean."

"I'm sorry, Jasper," Derek replies. I can hear the thick emotion in his voice as he puts a hand on Jasper's chest. He's sorry for not being able to give us a definitive answer on what it all means. You can't cut and dry it that way. No two brains are REALLY alike. What works for specimen A may not work for specimen C, but specimen B may astound you. I want Jazz to be astounding. "You did very well today."

"I don't like you, Dirk!" Jasper yells, shoving Derek's arm. "Go away!"

I can't help it. I actually grin and when I look up ... Derek's doing the same thing.

Petulant behavior ... is an improvement.

That's more than I could have hoped for after one treatment.

The brain is an amazing thing.

But I refuse to get my hopes up just yet.

Derek and Mark eventually leave us and Jasper falls asleep. I dry his face, trying to smooth away the frown line on his brow. I've gotten hold of my frayed emotions and have them firmly in check when the door eases open and Cristina appears. She looks nervously around the room, nodding at my parents and finally her eyes find mine. "Callie?"

"What is it?" I ask.

I watch her gaze flit toward Erica and then back to me. "Uhm ... Izzie ... she's ... well, she's just a few doors down and she heard Jasper yelling and ... Dr. Montgomery doesn't want her to be on her feet so much, but she's been standing out there in the hallway for thirty minutes and ... can she come in?"

"Why would Stevens-" Erica begins.

"I'll explain later," I cut her off. "It's fine, Cristina. Bring her in."

Erica looks at me, eyes huge. "What the hell is -"

"Later," I repeat. Somehow ... telling her about Jasper and Izzie in the chapel completely slipped my mind. "It's okay."

Stevens doesn't look nervously around the room or as if she's intruding at all when Cristina leads her in. She's still walking slightly bent and her portable IV makes a racket as it rolls across the floor. There are no apologies or urgings to be quiet. My parents are so wrapped up in one another that they barely register her and that's not necessarily a bad thing. Her hair is oily and slicked away from her face in a tight bun. She's been crying again and the fresh moisture on her cheeks makes me believe that maybe hearing Jasper gave her something new to be upset over and that gives me an odd measure of comfort. Jasper's eyes flutter open when the wheels of the IV clang against the wheels on his bed and he looks startled for just a moment, then he smiles when he sees Izzie. "Hey, ZZ."

"Hey, Jasper." She takes the hand he holds up, clutching it in both of hers. "Does it hurt?"

He considers his answer, possibly taking stock of himself for phantom aches and pains. "Not no more."

"Good."

"You still sad, ZZ?"

"Not right now. I'm happy to see you."

He grins at her and I bite my bottom lip because it's a grin that's playful and full of the old Jasper; it's a grin that used to be reserved for only me. "See me all time, ZZ. You can."

Erica shuffles her feet just a little and I warily look her way. She doesn't like this new friendship at all and she's barely holding back the need to say so. Her eyes find mine and I shake my head, pleading with her not to do the brutally honest thing she does so well. It works. She turns and looks out the window and I pretend that plucking dead leaves from Jasper's numerous flower arrangements is the most important thing I've ever done.

Izzie isn't crying now.

And part of me hates and respects the nerve she has to walk into this room and pretend that an ocean of wrong doing does exist between us.

Mark Sloan has never been one to keep his opinion to himself. Ever. So I'm shocked a while later when he answers my question about Jasper's condition by glaring at me and stalking away. I catch him in the stairwell and he shakes my hand off his arm with a little more intensity than he's ever used before. I nearly lose my balance and he doesn't try to help me. He doesn't do anything except slam both of his palms against the wall several times. The sound of it echoes around us and causes a certificate from the fire department to clatter to the ground. The glass frame shatters, but it doesn't deter him. He hits the wall two more times before he turns and walks toward me. So help me God ... I back up because he has me terrified. Even at my worst ... I never caused such a flash of unbridled furor to contort his handsome features.

"Did you know?" he demands. "DID YOU KNOW!?"

"Know what?" I cry, my back against the wall. He's so big. Why did I never notice how big he is? It's intimidating.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Callie!" he yells. "Addison's pregnant!"

Oh. I had actually put that out of my mind for the time being. I willingly handle one crisis per day and Jasper got this one. "It wasn't my place to tell you."

"It obviously wasn't hers either because I heard about it from one of the nurses."

"Please tell me that you weren't having sex with her when she told you."

"No, I wasn't, but thank you for assuming the worst."

"Just the other day you were lamenting your lack of sex. What am I supposed to think?"

"Is she going to abort this one, too?"

I alone probably know what making that statement so baldly has cost him. He never, ever refers to his lost child as 'aborted'. He always calls that baby 'lost'. I think maybe he's lost in that same abyss. He turns away from me and I breathe a little easier. I feel like a chicken who had her head on the chopping block and now they've let me go. I clear my throat and say, "I'm still Switzerland. I'm not involved."

"Someone has to be involved! I can't do this!" He kicks a piece of the picture frame across the floor. "She drives me absolutely insane! I don't even like her half the time because she's neurotic, passive aggressive, hateful, and - Addison. She's Addison."

"You're right," I agree. "She is."

I walk around the glass shards and sit down on the stairwell, patting the spot beside me. Mark looks like I'm asking him to reach into a basket and pull out a King Cobra, but he relents when I give him the eyebrow of doom. My mother taught me how to do it. It can make anyone bend to my will ... except Erica. When I try to do it to her she just pokes it and laughs at me. When he flops down next to me and rests his elbows on his knees, I say, "She is neurotic. She's also passive aggressive, hateful, and a little bit crazy, but she's Addison. She's the same Addison that you were willing to lose your best friend over, Mark. She's the same Addison that you followed out here and then mourned like the dead when she moved to California. And you wouldn't love her nearly as much if she didn't drive you absolutely insane."

He props his chin on his fist and sighs. "Shut up."

"Can't stand the voice of reason?"

"Can't stand being Switzerland?" he retorts.

"Ouch."

Another sigh escapes his parted lips. "She does drive me insane."

"And?"

"And I want to hate her."

"But?"

"Switzerland isn't usually this vocal, you know?"

He has no idea. Switzerland could tell him that the baby may not be his ... but Switzerland is definitely, absolutely, positively and unequivocally remaining neutral in that regard. There are some things you just don't get involved in, some things you do not say, some things you carry inside even when you can feel it trying to claw to the surface. "You should talk to her," I finally advise. "Cease fire."

"She slept with Karev. Recently!"

"And you know what? You slept with someone in New York. You cheated on her. Now you know why she left you."

A look of pure scandalized outrage flashes across his face and then his features soften a little. In cartoons ... this is the part where the light bulb goes on over someone's head. I actually glance up to see it for myself now, but all I see if the light bouncing off his graying hair. I've lost sleep over how many of those I've put there. He catches me looking and scratches his chin. "Maybe it's possible that I never thought about it that way."

"Maybe it's possible that you should."

I hear Addison's heels on the stairs before I see her. As far as I can tell she's the only female doctor on staff who wears them on a regular basis. I find myself wondering what she'll be wearing once her ankles start to swell. Probably Crocs. Or sneakers. I can't even imagine Addison Forbes Montgomery CHOOSING to wear sneakers all day. I give her a winning smile when she sees the shattered picture frame on the ground and steps over it. "Hey, Addy."

She points at the mess and I find myself wondering how much time she spent on her curls that morning. Her red hair is a cascade of fiery waves of her shoulder. She's beautiful and she obviously has her own eyebrow of doom because it goes up a fraction of the inch when she asks, "Did either of you geniuses think to call housekeeping for this?"

I shake my head and point at Mark with my thumb. "That genius did it. Not me."

Addison's hand goes to her narrow hip, pushing aside her white lab coat. I tilt my head a little, gazing at her flat stomach. She's wearing a form fitting pencil skirt and it's hard to imagine her body filling out to accommodate a baby. I can't even picture it and I have a fairly vivid imagination. Will she be one of those women whose weight spreads out all over her body, softening and curving it a little more? Or will she be the skinny woman who wears the baby like a basketball under her Chanel shirt and size four, elastic waisted jeans. Probably the latter ... because Addison has a tendency to do things to the enviable extreme.

"What are you looking at?" she snaps at me, coming very close to whacking me on the nose with the roll of papers in her hand.

I give her a playful grin. "Is that skirt Marc Jacobs?"

She gasps. "Oh my god! How did you know!?"

It's just a lucky guess on my part and I only said it because I had nothing else to offer. "Because no one wears that quite like you," I reply innocently. "You look gorgeous."

It works. A smile lights up her features and she glances down at her outfit. "Stop flirting with me, Torres. I already told you no."

"Damn. I'm wounded," I reply, resting a hand on my heart. I glance at Mark and say, "I'll send someone to clean this up in ... oh ... fifteen minutes?"

"Suave, Callie. Very suave and subtle." Mark narrows his eyes menacingly, but the burning rage was effectively extinguished by Addison's arrival and if I didn't know better ... a spark of hope has reared itself up in its wake. He's not looking at me now ... he's looking at Addison's stomach the same way I did. I can only imagine what he's thinking.

I catch Addison's eye and give her my most convincing look of 'please do not kill him while my back is turned' and she quirks on side of her mouth in acquiescence. There's a river of wrong between them with heavy, heavy currents and rapids, but I think if they fight TOWARD each other and meet somewhere in the middle ... the life raft that saves them will be one of their own making. Those are the best ones, too. Because they're carefully crafted and built to weather anything. I know all about them ... I still have the splinters from the one I put together with Erica.

And it's worth it.

It's oh so worth it in the end.

Erica's shift ends before mine. I find her in Jasper's room and he's got his finger on top of a ribbon as she ties a neat little bow on a package. I lean against the doorway and watch the gentle struggle to disengage him from the fancy wrapping. When he's finally free, she hands him the gift and he turns it over so delicately in his usually clumsy hands that a lump forms in my throat. I want to believe that there really are changes in him after one treatment. I want to see something new in every action he takes and hear a new voice with every word, but it's my heart doing it. It's not medicine. This isn't the way that medicine works and the part of me that is a sister and the part of me that is a doctor refuse to shakes hands and return to their corners. They keep boxing in my head and it's exhausting me.

"Hey, Lee!" Jazz holds up the present. "Look! Yellow did it! For ZZ."

Well, that's new.

I paste a smile on my face. "Did you get something for Izzie?"

He nods like a toddler who has been asked if he likes chocolate ice cream and the doctor in my head delivers a one-two punch to the sister. She sways on her feet, but hangs onto the rope for balance. He's still the same broken little boy, I suppose. It's only one treatment. Jazz holds out the small box and says, "Beads broke. In the church."

"She broke her rosary," Erica translates. "I was walking him around in the hallway when it happened."

"Broke," Jazz repeats. "I gived her Daddy's. Right here. In box."

That doesn't sound right at all. My father's rosary beads are as sacred to him as anything could be. "Are - are you sure that-"

Erica pretty much reads my mind. She's good at that. "Your father said he had a spare. I - I kinda think he went and bought them because I can't imagine Santos having spare pink beads. Even if he doesn't like you and me."

"Or fancy silver gift wrapping." I return the box to Jasper and he grabs the bed rail, shaking it. "What are you doing, buddy?"

"I go see ZZ now."

Oh, shit. There's no one to run interference. No one to do it for us. My parents are at the Archfield. Yang headed out earlier. George is probably off doing God knows what with Lexie and I think I saw Meredith and Derek leave together. So, it boils down to me telling him no or taking him to Izzie's room. And how can I possibly say no?

Part of me wonders if I have the strength to waltz into her room the way she confidently danced into Jasper's. If it's remotely possibly ... I feel wrong for not forgiving her that day at Joe's when she attempted to apologize. If she had died --

No, I can't think of that. Well, I technically can, but I refuse.

"I can take him," Erica offers, sliding the rail down and retrieving his slippers.

"Why don't we both take him?" I suggest and that's what we do.

We're that holy trinity that we became on the beach again. We both hold his hands as we head down the hallway toward Izzie's room and what I want more than anything is to be able to sit him down eventually and tell him the story of how I came to be with Erica. I want him to laugh in the right places and turn a little crimson when he realizes that being with Erica literally means we are together in every way imaginable. I want to tell him about how scared I was in Italy before I asked her to marry me and take him skydiving so he can experience the same rush I still get when I settle into her arms. I greedily want it all. There's so much that I've got to say to him when (not if) he comes back complete.

I knock so softly on Izzie's door that I almost hope she won't hear it so that I can say she's sleeping, but that's not the case. I hear her call out for us to come in and I swear to GOD I can feel Jasper vibrating with excitement. I go in first and something clouds across Stevens' features that isn't quite confusion, but it's not an angry need to scream at me either. She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again when she sees Jazz. It's not about me or whatever barb wired battlefield stretches across us. It's not about the land mines we've set or the aggravation we've caused each other ... it's about Jasper and he's too damn innocent to know about any of that.

And really ... how can I still despise someone whose face changes just like mine when Jasper walks into the room.

I never thought Izzie Stevens was beautiful ... until right now.

"Hey, Jasper."

Erica pushes the portable drip along behind him and I wonder if we should leave the room. I wonder if I should give them some measure of privacy, but knowing Jazz the way I do ... I'd come back in to find him sitting on Stevens' lap and that's the last thing she needs.

"Look, ZZ! For you! Open it!" Jasper's voice is urgent and excited, but he carefully puts the package in her lap as if he knows that she's one stiff wind from blowing away completely. "Like it?"

I realize that Erica has joined me at the window and we're less than mesmerized by the view of the dumpsters, but we act spellbound all the same. I hear Izzie exclaim over the pretty bow and Jasper tell her that he 'tie-ded' it and then the paper tears and it's like a splash of scalding water against my back. That's apparently what hate feels like when it leaves your body, by the way. Because I don't have an ounce ... even a fragment ... of hatred left in me for this woman. Erica's fingers wind through mine and I know that she has seen the tears in my eyes that I am fighting valiantly to control, but she doesn't speak.

Behind us, Izzie gasps and the roll of beads over cardboard tells me that she's clutching her rosary at last. One that my Dad chose for her. One that's pink and girly and beautiful ... like her. But this one isn't broken ... like her. I used to lie awake at night and watch George sleep. His eyes would move back and forth under his lids and sometimes a ghost of a smile would curve his lips and I'd know that whatever he was seeing in that faraway dream ... Izzie Stevens was there. I guess maybe ... for the first time ... I can see why.

"You no like it?" Jasper asks and the concern in his voice makes me turn around.

Izzie has her head down and she's crying softly, her hands clasped together under her chin with the beads spilling out like her pain. I swallow down the lump in my throat, choking on it, as I let Erica's hand go and move across the room. When I put my hand on her shoulder ... the 'I'm sorry' that I want to say doesn't come out. Her brown eyes meet mine and I flash through our past ...

/

"Please ... give me back my husband."

"You keep saying that like it means something. It's just a piece of paper."

"You thought I wanted to fight you? I - I wanted to talk."

"Don't come to me for forgiveness, you traitorous bitch."

"We're women, Izzie, you did this to another woman."

/

"Callie-"

The second she says my name I bend down and hug her. Imagine that. The girl who ate her own hair hugging the fashion model ... but the truth is ... the stunning, eye opening and weird twist is ... we probably would have found each other in high school. One pretty, pregnant loner and one chubby, unwanted overachiever. Oh, the lunches we could have had, the sleep overs we could have shared, the friendship we both needed could have been ours.

There's a life raft to be built here as well, I think, because this river is still scalding me, but it's flipping us over and under and inside out, too. "I forgive you," I whisper. "And Alex would not want you to do this to yourself. You need to get your ass out of this bed and walk in the halls with Jasper because he needs a friend. And so do you."

Izzie Stevens is not weak. She clings to me with so much power that I'm staggered by it.

Even when I leave Jasper in her capable hands and she assures me that she'll take him back to his room ... I'm staggered by it. I stand at the end of the hallway, my arm around Erica's waist, and watch them walk into the chapel together. Jasper waves at me and it's a heart rending experience to know that the surgery to fix him ... will inevitably cut me out of his life. I will no longer be his number one. I won't be his best friend. I won't be his everything ... because there's a 'Yellow' out there for him, too. The scalpel that worked on his brain will put someone else in his heart ... it will teach him what love really is.

"Let's go to Joe's," Erica says. "You look like you could use a game of darts."

I smile at her. "Just like old times, huh?"

"I still won't let you beat me."

"I just haven't stepped up my game. I'll take you down."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" The smirk she gives me says that she already knows the answer, but I play along.

"I don't make threats, Dr. Hahn."

"Is that right, Dr. Torres? What do you make?"

It's too easy. "Love?"

"Sap," she tells me as we board the elevator.

"I do have a tendency to go all 'poufy and -"

"Oh, look," she says, as the elevator doors open. "A pillow. I could smother you."

Addison appears in the doorway suddenly. "I'll help."

My eyes widen as I take in her flustered appearance. "I did not tell him that you're pregnant. Addison-"

"Well, I told him that it may not be his." Addison adjusts the strap of her purse and punches the bottom level button a little harder than she should. "Are we completely sure that getting drunk is a bad idea when you're pregnant?"

"Yes," Erica and I both assure her.

"But darts have been known to help," Erica adds. "Wanna come to Joe's?"

"Only if I can buy you both a few rounds and live vicariously. I'll even play designated driver," she replies, defeated. "He didn't take it well."

"I'm sorry." I tell her, rubbing her arm. "What do you think he's going to do?"

"I wish I knew," Addison says.

We walk through the lobby together and cross the parking lot, heading to Joe's on foot. It's cold as HELL for September and I'm shivering by the time we finally make it into the warmth of the Emerald City Bar. Joe bellows a greeting from his spot near the cash register and I cringe when I see Mark. He's sitting at the bar, back toward me, but his eyes are on Addison in the mirror. I take off my jacket and drape it over a chair at a table in the corner. "I'll make the first run. What do you want?"

With their orders tucked in my head, I make my way through the unusually crowded building and sit down on the stool next to Mark's. There are four upside down shot glasses in front of him and one that hasn't been touched. I reach around him and pick it up, drinking it down before he can protest. It's a shock when he doesn't say anything at all. Joe arrives and I make small talk about his kids and fawn over a new photo before I place our order.

"She should be drinking water," Mark says, scowling at the Sprite that Joe sets down in front of me. "Too much carbonation can-"

"It's the only thing that settles her stomach," I tell him, draining my shot of bourbon the second that Joe puts it in front of me. He refills it without my having to ask. "And, Mark, I realize that this may not be your kid, but it MAY BE. Keep that in mind."

"Stop giving me advice," he snaps. "I don't even like Switzerland."

"I'm fairly certain you've never been there. I saw your passport ... so you don't know."

Mark kicks my shot back and grits his teeth against the bitterness. He sets it down a little harder than he should on the bar and a few people glance our way. In the mirror, I can see that Addison and Erica are also intrigued. He turns his head towards me and I expect an outburst or an insult because his eyes may be a little glassier than I'd like to see, but instead, his voice is whisper soft. "What am I supposed to do? What if it's not mine? What if it's his?"

"What if it's yours?"

"What do I do?"

"What do you want to do?"

"Stop answering me with questions!" he demands loudly.

"Then answer them yourself! What do you want to do, Mark?"

He slowly moves around and now he's openly staring at Addison. For her part, she tries to look like she's busily searching for something in her purse, but when it's the size of a zip lock bag ... that's really not the most believable thing to do. She looks back at him within seconds and there's a sad longing there that I hate to see. I recognize it well. It stared me in the face the entire time I tried to live without Erica. I nudge him with the toe of my boot. "Here's a novel concept ... why don't you ask Addison to drive you home? You've had too much to drink and -"

He's off the stool before I can even finish and I watch him pick up his leather coat and slide it on. Holding my breath, I fear that he will walk past her, but he doesn't. Whatever he says apparently works because she nods at him twice and then takes the hand he holds out. I watch them go with just a hint of smug satisfaction because who the hell knows what will happen once they're alone, but it's a start. It's a step in the right direction.

And speaking of steps in the right direction ... Erica abandons our table and walks toward me. It's amazing, really. She's walking toward me like any normal person would, but there's something predatory and emboldened in her smile. I'm caught. She has me. Whatever she wants to do next is perfectly fine with me. I tilt my face up as she reaches past me and picks up her glass of wine. I'm close enough to hear her swallow the first sip and I hook one foot behind her leg, pulling her a little nearer. "Erica?"

She looks down at me, clearly amused. "Yes, Cal?"

"Do you really want to play darts or would you rather go home?"

"We have no social life. You do realize that, don't you?"

"But our sex life is thriving," I point out. "I don't know about your priorities, but sex trumps social in mine. And ... I do have on yellow panties."

A little of her champagne spills out and I smugly exhale on my nails, rubbing them on my chest like I just accomplished something amazing. She swats me on the leg, puts her glass down, and pays our tab. In a random act of kindness ... she also covers Mark's and I figure he must have said something pretty fucking amazing to Addison while ago. In the car, she turns the heat up, but the fact that she carefully adjusts one of the blowers in my direction warms me more than anything else could. I lace my fingers through hers as she navigates the streets and pull my seat belt off the minute we're safely in the driveway.

She cackles when I climb over the console and kiss her. It's rare to draw that kind of reaction from her because she can be unrelentingly taciturn when she wants to be, but she gives in now. The warm, glowing, affectionate woman that I fell in love with slams the breaks hard enough to cause my back to hit the steering wheel and blare the horn, but we don't care. I wore one of her button down shirts today and she grabs it, ripping it open and sending buttons flying. It transmits a wicked tingle through me and I kiss her, pulling her face upward so that I can caress every inch of it.

Her fingers dance along my arms and under the straps of my bra, which she pulls down. When my nipple is in her mouth and my hands are in her hair ... I let my head fall back.

This is what life is all about. God, the things I missed out on by being an ugly, homely, gangly teenager.

I feel her nimble fingers at the waist of my pants and I help her with the button because I need to feel her all over me and the short distance it would take to make it to the house is the distance between life and death ... captivity and release. She has to release me.

"Callie-" she moans, her mouth against mine.

I reach down and tug at her sweater, pulling it over her head and letting it fall into the backseat. She leans forward so that I can unfasten her bra and I make quick work of it, slinging it into the passenger seat I just vacated. As I fondle her hardened nipples, she closes her mouth around mine again and I lean down, trying like hell to ease her seat back. I finally find the button and moan a little as the seat slowly glides backward, taking me away from the steering wheel. Her hand joins mine in the space between the seat and door and she flips the lever that lets the back of her seat recline. I smile wickedly, moving fully over her, my knees on either side of her thighs as I shove my shirt off and toss it.

I've never hated pants more in my life.

We need to become skirt wearers.

Long, flowing skirt wearers.

Like the Evangelicals that I knew in Miami ... only with more sin.

I really, really need more sin.

There's a scraping, crunching metallic sound that seems to emanate from nowhere, but reverberates everywhere. I sit up fast, looking around wildly. Erica sits up, too, so quickly that she head butts me in the mouth. I cup my throbbing lip with both hands as she yanks up the emergency break. It takes me a second to realize that we've driven into the tall hedges that separate our yard from the neighbors and our headlights are shining right into their house. "Oh shit!" I cry, scrambling back over the console.

I feel around for my shirt and reach behind the driver's seat for Erica's sweater. She's sitting so far away from the steering wheel that she can't reach it. She's simply holding her arms out toward it like a cemetery angel reaching heavenward. I can't help it. I start to laugh. I laugh so hard and with such carefree abandon that I don't even care that it sounds maniacal. Her mouth is agape, her hair is a ruffled mess, and the fact that we're in the bushes (no pun intended, really) is possibly the funniest thing I've ever experienced. When she finally looks at me ... her eyes are as round as her mouth. "You're crazy," she says. "A fucking lunatic."

"You're the naked one," I retort, finishing up the last button on my shirt.

She gasps as pulls her sweater on ... backwards ... but I don't tell her that. Instead, I hang on for dear life as she attempts to back us out of the shrubbery that seems to have a death grip on us. I start to laugh again when the car rocks back and forth. "It's like the Whomping Willow ... only smaller," I say.

"How much did you drink?" she demands, throwing her hands in the air. "It's no use! And oh god ... here comes Mr. Lassiter. That nosey old bastard will call neighborhood watch for sure."

Sure enough, our neighbor, his wife, and their two teenage sons are making their way toward us with a flashlight. Thank God it's dark. I catch a glimpse of Erica's bra on the dash and grab it, stuffing it under my shirt. The potential for humiliation is strong with this one.

By the time we crawl out of the back of the SUV (because the hedges have pinned the doors) ... we've convinced our neighbors, the man driving the wrecker, and each other that we had to swerve to avoid a deer.

I swear it was this big.

Love always is.

An hour later I finally convince Erica that the ice pack on my lip has done enough and we shower, then stand at the sink together while I survey the damage. I make a pretty pout in the mirror as she looks on behind me, then I smile. It stings a little to do that because the tiny little cut she gave me pulls angrily. I stop grinning and say, "Angelina ain't got nothing on me."

"She never did," Erica replies, resting her head on my shoulder. "Are you sure you're okay? You've got a bruise on your back."

I turn and study my back in the mirror. "That happened before you drove us into Labyrinth and we didn't even get to meet David Bowie."

Erica shakes her head. "You are the oddest person -"

"I prefer queer."

She gingerly kisses my swollen lip. "Ha ha."

"You know," I tell her. "I'm naked and you're naked ... and the bed is just right in there so -"

"Give me four minutes," she tells me. "I'm going to go plug my phone up so it can charge and check the messages."

"You expecting a call?" I ask.

She falters just a little and bites her bottom lip. "I - I, uh, gave my - my- ... father ... the house number so he could leave his flight information. Just in case my phone wasn't working."

Her phone is always working, but I don't point that out. And the fact that she has checked her Blackberry three hundred times in the past few days proves that she's hoping that her father has left a message on the answering machine. I hope for her sake that he has. Because I'll find and kill the mother fucker if he hurts her any more than he already has. I stare at my reflection and see that my eyebrow of doom is threatening to leap off my face and have to smile at it. I'm so easy to read.

I pick up a bottle of my cherry blossom lotion and sit down, naked, on the bed to slather it on. Winter weather dries my skin out to the point of pain and I'm liberally rubbing my elbows when Erica walks back in, equally naked. I take just a second to enjoy the way her thigh muscles ripple with her movements before I lazily look over the rest of her. I think I stare at her breasts for a full minute before I realize how heavy she's breathing.

Shit, this lotion is magic.

"Callie!"

My name comes out venomously, suggesting that she must have said it more than once to get my attention. I stop massaging my elbow. "Huh?"

"We received a fax!"

A shower of papers comes down on the bed around me, too many to count. I pick up the one nearest my knee and skim the contents. It's a bank statement of some kind and it makes no sense to me so I pick up another sheet and scan through it as well. This one is a little more interesting. And it has a name attached to it.

And a mug shot.

Erica's father is a handsome man, even staring out at me from a black and white photo. His shocking white hair was probably blond in his youth and the booking information lists his eyes as blue. He's tall as well, six foot three to be exact. I glance down at the arrest date and see that it was four years ago and the charge was 'assault'. I pick up yet another paper and there are black and white (and slightly distorted) photos of the same white haired man kissing a tall, statuesque woman on the cheek. It's a newspaper clipping and when I read the caption ... my heart stops beating.

'Judge Rick Salinger gives daughter Vivian a kiss on her wedding day. Salinger reportedly spared no expense for his only daughter's big day, which included a horse drawn carriage and a gown with imported crystals and ivory beads.'

Only daughter.

Vivian.

Not Erica.

I glance upward, expecting to feel the weight of Erica's hurt in her gaze, but that's not what I see.

Instead ... I see anger.

At me.

"You did this," she accuses, but it's not really an accusation. It's the truth and we both know it. "Who did you tell?"

"I - I asked my dad to -"

"YOUR DAD!?" Erica yells. "Great, Callie! Just fucking perfect! Like Lori Anne needs another reason to hate me!"

"Why would she -"

"Who wants their kid to be with a bastard!?"

"You're not a -"

"How could you tell Santos!?" She's still furious, but now she's crying. "The things I told you - I - I told you that in confidence. You had no right to - and this is an invasion of my father's privacy."

"Erica-"

"WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS!?"

"TO PROTECT YOU!"

"You throw your money around and dig up everything you can on -"

"THIS IS NOT ABOUT MY MONEY!" I yell and I hate that wealth is such an easy button to push on me. "THIS IS ABOUT YOU AND A COMPLETE STRANGER WHO FOUND MY NOTE! I JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE HE WAS WHO HE CLAIMED TO BE!! I DIDN'T WANT YOU TO BE HURT!"

"WELL IT BACKFIRED!" she screams. "DON'T YOU EVER, EVER STICK YOUR NOSE IN MY BUSINESS AGAIN!"

Okay, that really couldn't have hurt worse if she had punctuated every word with a whip. "You are my business."

"Not anymore."

I let the paper fall from my hand and stand up. There's a vague part of me that hates being naked and exposed and completely bare, but at least my body is not alone in that state. My heart is the same way. "You - you don't mean that."

I don't even recognize my own voice when I say it and she's not looking at me anymore. She's staring at the closet and I translate that she's silently telling me to pack my things and go. In an act of defiance or maybe a momentary lapse of sanity ... I stalk forward and slam the closet door so hard that I swear I hear something crack somewhere in the house. Or maybe it's me. Hell, it could be her. We've both become as wooden and hollow as the an empty shack. "I am not leaving."

She doesn't move.

She doesn't give me even a fraction of an inch to indicate that my stalwart outburst has phased her in the slightest.

"Erica -"

Her response is to yank back the cover and climb into the bed. She pointedly turns away from me and settles on her pillow. I can see the tension in her shoulder and I can tell by the curve of her jaw that she's gritting her teeth to keep from saying more and really, call me a coward, but this is one time that I'm not going to throw a rock at the caged tiger. I'm not that damn stupid.

As quietly as I possibly can, I gather the papers that were faxed to us by an unknown private investigator and I make a mental note to thank my father for nothing as sarcastically as I possibly can. I don't bother neatly stacking the story of who Erica's father is and instead I leave it lying haphazardly on the dresser. When I'm finished, I turn back to face her and like a concrete slab, she hasn't moved at all.

I have a choice to make.

I glance at the bedroom door and I know that I could walk across the hall and be alone with my thoughts in the guest room, but when you break it all down into what matters the most I'd rather go through a silent hell WITH her than without her. My hand is shaking a little when I flip off the light and turn the ceiling fan on. I pick my way across the floor in semi-darkness, going on instinct alone, and when I peel back the cover my hand is shaking. I hear her sigh and hold my breath as I brace for another outburst, but the only thing that happens is that the bed shifts and I know she's turned the other way.

A cold shoulder is better than no shoulder at all.

I'm usually a side sleeper and truly rest the best when she's got me cradled in her arms, but I stretch out on my back and gingerly pull the cover up over my chest. This is truly a discomfort the likes of which I have never endured in my life. My foot is itching and I'm terrified to scratch it. There's a wrinkle in the sheet under my arm and I don't want to tug at it. My pillow desperately needs to be plumped because my head has sunk into it far enough that it's marshmallowing up on either side of my face, threatening to suffocate me and I should have set the alarm on my phone and didn't.

Not that I'm in any danger of falling asleep.

This is possibly the worst fight we've had except for maybe the one that had me fleeing the cab and seeking refuge in Mark's apartment for the night. At least this time ... I'm still here.

I suddenly remember our conversation the day after that particular fight ... when she told me that she had purposely pushed me away because she wanted to be alone in her pain. She wanted to be alone on the anniversary of her parent's death and burial so she picked a fight about nothing.

And tonight she wants to be alone because she's finding out about a sister so it's a tragic, ugly birthday on the eve of her own.

I refuse to wake up on her birthday tomorrow with this tension between us.

I won't do it. I can't.

Turning toward her, I make a great show of plumping my pillow and tugging on the cover. She doesn't respond so I slide closer, until I'm spooning against her and she finally tenses just a little. I have to force my arm under hers and around her waist and since I get that far with no visible damage, I pull her back against me until there's nothing between us at all. Except, you know, the Grand Canyon. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I should have talked to you about it before I did it. I shouldn't have kept it from you."

No answer.

But I'm not in the floor either so I'll count my blessings where I can.

I kiss her shoulder, then her neck. "You're not getting rid of me. You can push with both hands, Yellow, but I'm here. And I'm staying."

Maybe it's the promise.

Maybe it's the use of 'Yellow'.

Maybe it's the realization that spending most of your adult life as an orphan when you're really anything, but ...

I don't know exactly what causes it but she starts to cry.

I loosen my grip on her only long enough for her to turn toward me and wrap her arms around me. She holds on with everything in her as we tangle together and she doesn't say one word, she doesn't apologize for what she said and she doesn't have to. I know what the heat of the moment can roll off a person's tongue and I don't need to hear her apologize to know that she didn't mean it. She's telling me by letting me carry her through the storm and trusting that I will get her to the other side relatively unscathed.

I do my best to reassure her. I rub her back, her arm. I keep her hair off her sticky cheeks and drop kisses on her face every chance I get.

After a while it works.

Exhaustion, defeat, something merciful and just, drags out the final sheets of her pain and lets her sleep.

I take a deep breath when I feel hers even out.

That raft we built together has taken a beating tonight and we're still on it.

We haven't capriciously cast it aside and set ourselves adrift on opposite sides of the roaring sea, each of us holding an oar of accusation that we point in the other's direction.

Just look how far we've come.

And how far we've yet to go.