Falling Through the Cracks
by Aimme,
with touches by My Note Book

Summary: His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

Author's Notes: This is when you ask, "Aimme? You still alive?" in your best incredulous Mr. Moseby voice. Go ahead. Give it a shot. You know you want to, because you know you've wondered...you've had to wonder...because, in all honestly, I have been really and truly absent. Yet, obviously, yes, I am still alive. You may now all release a sigh of relief you were holding for this story.
So, one would think that after all of this time, I would have more written and a smashingly amazing chapter to share. No. I don't have anything written past this (well, rewritten; I have a rough draft), and the jury's still out on how good this chapter is.
By the way, Cody's part does serve a purpose. It shows something...something that is revealing about what will happen after this.

BlackKeys96, you are welcome for the dedication! I am glad you enjoyed chapter 17. I have to agree with you on the flashback. Zack definitely has a strong protective side of Cody even though he doesn't show it very often; I am glad you liked getting to see it! Dark thoughts, indeed, and yes, at the tender age of five! (Maybe one day we'll see what he was thinking.) I enjoyed writing Carey and her musings. And you're right, it is hard for mothers, and I think it is summed up best in this line, "Wasn't being a mother hard enough without having to learn how to let go time and time again?" Although I do not know the specifics of what's to come after the ending of her scene, I am glad you liked the cliffhanger suspense of it! I was excited to hear you thought getting to see his thoughts during his attack was amazing! And it is sad to see him like that, I agree. He is very emotionally damaged, and it is ruining him. I'm not sure why I decided to that he has stress-induced asthma, but it just seemed to just...fit. He has so many different sides and so much more to him. And you're right, it is very self-sacrificing of himself, but I think he just needs to come out about it and talk to his family. Cody's cluelessness shows that Zack is doing something exceptionally well, to keep it that hidden. Thanks so much for your well-wishes and your review! We both appreciated it very much. Once more, you're welcome for the dedication! You are such a dedicated and amazing reader! We hope we enjoy this next chapter!

Kitsune, thanks so much for your review! My Note Book and I were so excited to find a like-minded person! We feel sorry for him too, and I am glad that this story is refreshing for you! We hope to see you around more in the future!

And now, enjoy...

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Chapter Eighteen - One Good Reason

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*Cody's POV*

"At the approach of danger there are always two voices that speak with equal force in the heart of man […] the other […] says that it is too painful and harassing to think of the danger, since it is not a man's power to provide for everything and escape from the general march of events; and that it is therefore better to turn aside from the painful subject till it has come, and to think of what is pleasant." -Leo Tolstoy (War and Peace)

"Cody? Cody? Can you hear me, Cody? Yes, yes. Please stop staring straight through me. Cody?"

The voice washes over me. It doesn't make sense. It sounds distant and removed, as if disconnected from me.

Or am I disconnected from it?

"Cody? Cody, come on now. Seriously."

I jerk. My cheek stings. I blink.

"Bailey?" I whisper.

She sighs. "Yes." Then, relieved, "Thank you."

I stare at her, uncomprehendingly, but much more aware than I previously had been when I last did that. "For what?" I ask blankly.

"You weirded out on me," she starts, and I can see her wringing her hands. "I dunno. Just, you were, like, staring straight through me. You wouldn't react…" she trails off into mumbling.

I lean towards her. "What was that?" Honestly, any form of conversation will be enough to ground me, and I need it. I need to be grounded after-after—whatever that had been. It had felt like drifting, plummeting, shattering, suffocating, and being suspended over a fathomless chasm all at once.

"I…I said…" she wrings her hands some more, avoiding my gaze. "You had this blank stare, like you weren't all there."

I nod, absently. My mind drifts, wandering…wondering.

She grips my arm and I return my preoccupied gaze to her. "What happened?" she asks.

I shrug, helplessly scrambling for answers of my own.

"Cody…" she starts, the hint of an edge to her voice.

I frown. "I…I don't know."

She raises an eyebrow. "You zone out, and you can't give me any kind of answer?"

I sigh, only now noticing that I had, at some point, lurched out of my seat on the bench and we are both kneeling on the floor of the hallway. The stiff carpet bristles prick my knees and I can feel the rough surface beneath my listless hands, which rest on either side of me.

"It felt…felt like suffocating," I start slowly, trying to articulate the confusing jumble of messages scrambled inside of my mind. Even my own thoughts, scattered as they are, do not make sense to me. "Forgive me if none of this makes sense, Bailey, my head hurts and nothing makes much sense to me at the moment."

She gives me an uncertain nod, but I know I have to forge past that.

"It happened too quickly. It was like…the bitter taste of horror at the back of my mouth, the heart-pounding adrenalin rush of panic, and my lungs felt heavy and lax, as though I couldn't breathe. I felt like I was being crushed, everything darkened, and then, nothing. It was a quick flash, all of it, and then…just nothing," I wave my hand, frustrated at the confusing way my words sound. They seem stupid and crazy even to me. I snort. "My stomach was a frenzied tilt-a-whirl and my heart cramped, burned. Then everything settled, was like normal, except I suddenly felt…"

Terrified for my brother, I think, but do not tack on.

But Bailey nods firmly and wraps an arm around my shoulders. "You're overwhelmed. It's been a difficult day for you, I'm sure. Why don't you just sit down again and try to relax and don't think about it anymore."

I have to agree with her, but some part of me thinks there is no way I can just not think about this.

Significantly calm, all things considered, I return to the bench, letting myself relax. Rubbing a weary hand over my face, I find myself disbelieving the way my day has gone. I want to forget this day ever happened, because it has been absolutely ridiculous.

Now, emotionally drained and rather done with all of this, I am ready to get myself calm and stay calm. Everything else before, all the varied emotions of this day—it is time to put it all behind me. Like the way you put a bad dream out of mind—you move on and don't let it affect you again.

That's what I'm going to do.

Mind made up, I catch sight of London barrelling down the hall. She fits the bill of the expression "on the warpath" and I tell myself I really would rather not note the haggard look beneath it. I would really rather not mess with it.

I would really rather not deal with any more of this day.

"The speed of the human mind is remarkable. So is its inability to face the obvious." Simon Mawer

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*London's POV*

"Are you still hurting
Even after all these years?
And what's your explanation?
Just give me one reason
Just give me one good reason"
-(One Good Reason) This City Awaits

For the first time in a long while, I don't care what kind of appearance I present. "Death has a way of rearranging one's priorities," the handsome Johnny Depp as the odd Captain Jack Sparrow had explained to one super-hawt Orlando Bloom character in that one movie about who-even-knows (that movie had a drool-worthy cast in its leads, but this is all beside the point).

What is my point? Oh, right.

I have one purpose in mind, and that was not how I looked. This time, I have to look into an unpleasant situation, and this time I do not care.

I have to see what I can do. I have to make it right.

I can do that, can't I?

Of course I can. I am London Tipton, and I always get my way. And this time, my way is for a noble cause.

And that has to count for something.

So I round the corner, determined, and I barely acknowledge Cody and Bailey—in fact, I only note them in my peripheral, in some vague, disconnected side of my mind. I have more important things to be caring about than that, and I know I am nearly to my destination. I quicken my pace, hands fisting at my sides.

My world has zeroed in on one purpose, and I hurry towards the door, only to try it and find it locked.

I pound two harsh, sharp raps against the door.

"You kids again? Go away!" I hear a voice snap from the other side. "I will open the door in time!"

I am un-amused with her response, and none too happy to oblige. I am not in the mood for games or side-tracks or, bottom line, anyone getting in my way.

"No, you will open this door right now!" I bite, somewhat surprising myself by the dangerously protective note sneaking around in my tone. If I felt the need to divert brain energy to it, I would still mentally shrug it off. I roll with it. "Do you know who I am? I am London Tipton! I am the richest heiress in these waters, and I will blow you sky high and out of these waters if you don't open this door!"

I am not getting an immediate response, so I forge on without missing a beat. "I will have my daddy fire you," I lay out my plan of action, "and take away your license, and make it so hard for you to get a job you won't have a penny to your name—anywhere!"

I seem to have finally garnered the snooty attention of the brainless nurse on the other side, and she at last begins to turn the lock. It clicks, and not a moment too soon. I was ready to take even more drastic measures, because while Cody might be able to sit down the hall, wallowing, I was ready to take action—because I am ready to see one who had, somehow, managed to be -and become- a brother to me.

Where was I going with that?

Uh…

Oh, right.

I have to see Zack right now. I have to find a way to make this right. There has to be a solution, some way to fix things. If only money could stop death. If only this was all a matter of money, something to be neatly paid off and dismissed.

If only somehow all that money to my name actually had value.

I had already rushed through the opening door, giving the nurse no time to open it fully before I burst through. Now, I pause, because after casting a rushed look around the room, I did not spot him.

I turn on my heel. "Where is he?" I demand, and my voice holds so much emotion I am shocked, but I don't care much. I don't remember the last time I was this shaken, but I have to focus on the here and now, and the here and now involves a life slipping away. I have no time to lose.

"He's in the back," she says, snappish, but I have no time, no time, to threaten her again.

I rush into the adjoining room, grabbing the door frame to steady myself, swinging around the edge and into the back.

His head snaps up in surprise, and I barely have enough time to catch the alarm sweeping across his face before I have barrelled into him. I hadn't paused, for all I cared about was making everything alright, fine, perfect. I think I would lose my mind even more already if he actually…

"Zack!" I shout frantically, relieved, for some inexplicable reason, to see him sitting up and on the edge of the bed, alive and healthy. Of course I hadn't expected him to be…well…dead.

I hate even thinking that word.

I had crossed the distance, tackled him in a hug, and I am crying hysterically now, I realise as I begin to register the last few moments, and it takes even more before I am able to speak, but Zack's arms are awkwardly around me as he pats my back all the same, more than likely unsure what to do with a hysterical heiress on his hands in this manner.

Because, of course, he has dealt with me acting hysterical before. Just not in this manner. And this time, this time, the reason is profoundly different…profoundly worse. Isn't it?

And I can't lose him.

I take in a deep breath sharply, and, attempting to speak coherently, I instead go on to babble disjointedly, "It's all going to be alright. We're going to make it alright. Whatever you need, Daddy will pay for it! Doctor bills, medication, treatment, therapy—you're going to get it! I swear, whatever you need, you can have it." Are those big, fat tears still slipping down my face? What posh. What nonsense.

Yet there's nothing thoughtless about death, except that it is insensate. Which means it's not something to pass off as trivial twaddle.

And that reminds me about that funny word I discovered and have been meaning to use in a conversation with Zack. Too bad we rarely get to talk sense to each other. But that is beside the point, the point being the here and now, and the here and now being…

"Air," he barely manages to gasp out, and now I realise how tight I am hugging him.

"Oh, sorry," I say as I loosen my grip and place my hands on his shoulders, at last pushing myself back. I do not release his shoulders, though, as I stare into his eyes as he shies from meeting my gaze head-on. He looks exhausted, but I can see the sharp shards of his mask beginning to pull themselves back together and I know all too soon he will have once again mastered whatever issues are at him and displaced them from his face. He will look like some kind of normalcy we all expect and no one will be any wiser; everyone will know nothing of his reality.

I don't know much, but I know enough to recognise another hider. I recognise someone else who also wears a mask, even if I don't know what is being masked on the face beneath, of the truth beneath the braced lies.

I forge on in reply to his plea for air. "I don't think that's something I can buy. I'm pretty sure it's free, actually." I suddenly gasp brightly, as part of the part, as I continue trying to lighten the mood and bring a smile back to his face. "Maybe I should talk to Daddy about buying the copyrights to it and making other people have to cash-in for the air they breathe," I say stupidly, empty-headed idiot persona with a bright idea.

I get a smile for that.

But the smile quickly drops; he turns serious. "London, what are you talking about?" he references earlier, I know, and not to my blockhead get-even-richer-quick scheme.

I know exactly what he is trying to do, playing stupid. "You know what's going on. You out of all of us should know the most. And I am very mad at you for not telling anybody about this! How could you let me be the last one to find out?" I demand accusingly, suddenly feeling very vulnerable and betrayed.

He looks shocked and confused all at once. "London, I have no idea what you're talking about."

My face drops, I duck my head, and my chin trembles at just the thought of what is coming out next. "You're d-d-dying," I try to remind him, to put it so he can't beat around the bush with me, but I can't take anymore. I hate that word. So I let go of his shoulders, my hands move to my face and I cry into them. I cry hard.

"Wha-what?" his voice sounds surprised, startled.

I wipe my face with the sleeves of my jacket, then I look back up at him. He looks so lost, so shell-shocked. There was no way he could not know that he was dying! How would everyone else know but him? I may not let on, but I do know sense—and that makes no sense.

Before I could say anything, question or clarify or rant, his words are heard before mine can be.

"How do you know?" he asks, and the sharp stab of confirmation runs my heart through. "Did Nurse Moustache say something?" I am the one too shocked, now, though; too shocked by what is coming our way. "London!"

I snap out of my sadness long enough to mumble, "N-no. Woody told me."

I am beginning to wonder what is going on, because his behaviour is odd, but he drops his head into his hands and his voice drags out, "What?"

And then I notice it on his arm. My arm snaps out, my grip snatches his left hand away from his face, and I look at it in horror. The white bandage stares back at my gaping from four inches above his left wrist.

"You promised me," I say disappointedly as I run my finger up and down the bandage. I note the gauze strip, and a queasy feeling sinks into my gut at the sight and the knowledge which comes with it. The bandage covers too much of his arm -and it is gauze- for it to be a scratch. I imagine it must be deep, too. Too much for a band-aid to handle.

"It was an accident," he says quietly.

I don't believe him. How can I?

"Don't you dare lie to me, Zackary!" I snap, suddenly furious. "You can pull that over on anyone else, but you can't fool me!" How could he lie to me? How dare he! After that promise? It may have been a long time ago now, a little over a year ago, but we had made each other a deal, a promise, a vow, that if and whenever things get to the point where we can't take life anymore, we would go and talk to each other.

We would be there for another. Help each other through.

We had agreed to help each other hold on and realise that it is just life, we'll win in the end, and I had kept up my part of the bargain. Whenever I thought I needed that knife, an escape, an out, a release, I would run to him for help…and he would remind me that it's hard right now, Daddy's got it all twisted, people are people and there will always be bad lots, but things will get better, the sun has to shine again, the seas have to calm, we continue to breathe.

And now as I sit here, rain-soaked memory of a morose and blank look on his face comes to the forefront of my mind again.

I never should have left him that evening, this is true. But there's no changing the past, we can only learn from it. Unfortunately, I've more blonde moments than is healthy, I'm sure, so a learning experience for me is kind of maze-like. Anyway…my point is, he never came and talked to me about whatever was bothering him that day, and as I now consider that he broke his promise to me, I know this isn't the first time.

Now he was sitting here, lying to me, having done this -this, having broken our promise- again, and he hadn't even tried to come and talk to me. I know, I know he didn't, because we haven't talked all day.

"Why didn't you come talk to me?" I say as tears threaten behind my eyes for the hundredth time today, but I look him in the eye, demanding an answer, demanding truth.

"I told you, London, it was an accident." He looks back at me with fire in his eyes; I know it is all an act he is trying to fool me with.

Deep in my heart, I know that deep in his he is scared that I can read him so well. I'm not even sure when that happened, but I suppose those who hide subconsciously recognise a fellow hider and we had just always known there was more to the other than met the eye and we never questioned it or brought it up. We've never even discussed it, and yet we both know…

I know this scares him, it scares him that I know, yet he has a need—he needs someone to know what's what with him, and what he does to himself. I hadn't known he cut, but I definitely know now. There is no doubt in my mind. I can see straight through him to his core, though I don't understand everything or know everything or have it all clear in my head, and I know straight to the centre of who I am, he cuts.

Amazing, just knowing things, without having to say anything. Knowing things without ever opening up about it.

And I know, I know he doesn't need someone to feel sorry for him, but rather someone he can relate to and someone who would stop him from this. But I don't think I can do either, honestly. I have never cut, so we can't relate on that level, but I guess since we both hide, he can relate to me. But someone to stop him? He's still claiming it was an accident!

Not that I had never considered what cutting was like, had my share of times where I suspected I could understand why someone would disfigure themselves that way…

"London!" I jumped at the unexpected voice, hearing the startle and horror in it. My head snapped up, distracted from my rather enthralled staring at the blade I held open in my hand. Zack stood there, a shocked, queasy look on his face. He rushed over, knelt in front of me.

"London," he said softer, gently taking the blade out of my lax fingers, where I had been contemplating the merits of using it. To see if it would really help me feel better, less numb or more numb, or both, after the disappointment and pain upsetting me.

"Don't do that," he looked up at me seriously. I hadn't laid blade to skin or even said anything, and my stomach twisted as I realised he just knew, just knew what had been going through my head. "It won't be worth it for you. You don't need to do that; it won't help you. I promise you that the means won't justify the end or the end improve the means."

Zack's smarter than he gets credit for, but as I remember that day, so long ago, even before we had made our pact, I find my anger rises.

"You hypocrite!" I snap. "You told me it wasn't worth it!" I levied an accusation I felt was all too terribly true. "You promised me…" my voice dropped again.

"London-"

I don't want to hear another excuse about it being an accident. I can see in his face that is what he is going to repeat; I also remember that I know he is scared.

He's scared to open up that much, scared because he has before and people have abused and abandoned the trust he had in them (why do the names of his family come to mind?). They let him drop like a rock, only for him to not be as strong and hardy as they think him to be. Obviously.

It's like…it's like…it's like they walk all over him and then scrape him off their shoes as you would some particularly bothersome refuse, and then they walk off, like it all meant nothing. But, is it possible that they walk off as though they had not just left someone dying and bleeding when in fact they did? I don't suppose I treat him much better, but my situation is unique, and by unique, I mean precarious, and by way of that, for the most part, I mean that I have to act aloof. But we see through each other's charade, don't we? We always recognised another song and dance routine, however much of a sham of insipid stupidity it is.

It seems to me, though, that whenever people need him, they come running back to him and completely ignore what they have done to him. I know I have done it, but as I said, my situation is sadly unique, and everyone else is without excuse and therefore not to be excused. And I know, whenever he really needs people, he never says anything. It's obvious. He's never expected anyone to know, but there are some people he's well within his right to expect them to be there—and Cody is the perfect candidate of this example.

He needs someone by his side, especially considering his own twin brother has left him this way…

But how can I help him if he doesn't let me? I really want to, in the ways that I can when I can, but right now I am too mad at him.

"It was an accident," he insists staunchly.

"Zackary Martin!" I bark. "Stop it, or I'm going to slap you!" I threaten, and I am so close to following through with it.

"London, that's the truth!" he tries to convince me, but I won't have any of it—I am London Tipton, and what I won't have, I won't have. And I have had enough, and no more.

I react, but I am still fighting with myself. So although I put my hands up to his face, I slap one hand against the other instead of his cheek. Then, mind instantly changed, I follow back through and whack him a solid backhand.

The horrible, sharp sound lingers in the following silence. We freeze. Neither of us move, my hand in the air between us and his head turned to the side from the impact of my hit.

I am breathing hard and my hands begin to tremble. He blinks, dropping his gaze, looking a little stunned. Not physically (I didn't hit him that hard), but rather emotionally. Did either of us see that coming? Well, I did warn him.

Slowly, his gaze travels back to mine; he looks at me briefly, then drops his eyes. Cody and Bailey enter then, but pause abruptly just inside the doorway.

"Hey, is everything alright in here?" Cody asks, his tone unequal parts concerned and cautious—mostly nonplussed, though.

I stare at Zack, feeling my insides still burning with anger at him. And at me. Mostly at myself, though. And Zack? Zack refuses to look at me, keeping his gaze riveted on the bed we're sitting on. He moves a fingertip ever so slightly on the sheet. I notice a red print of the back of my hand appearing on his face where I had slapped him.

Ah Benjamin Franklin. Did I really hit him that hard?

"Yeah," I answer Cody shortly, feeling frustrated. Shaking my head, I turn to the two. "Yeah, we're just fine in here," I lie, but inwardly, it is a sarcastic reply. Still shaking my head, I push past them, heading out of the room. Better say something London-ish. "So keep it that way or I'll fine you!"

Not the best, but it would have to work.

I ignore the nurse as I exit the infirmary, heading down the hall the way I had come.

London, you idiot, you shouldn't have hit him. You know, he doesn't seem un-fragile right now. While busy reprimanding myself, feeling horrible, I sink into the seat Cody and Bailey had been at earlier. Why did I hit him, again? There is no response, other than the fact that I was mad at him. But is that reason enough? Why? I can hear the monosyllabic question echo in my thoughts. I have never wanted to hurt him, least of all like that. I may get spiteful or rude or mean, but I don't really want to hurt my friends or see them hurt.

I try to make sense of everything, but it isn't working. I feel hurt and angry and sorry; and I definitely feel confused, and I definitely feel like crying. I drop my gaze.

My hand, the one that has done this wrong, I realise has a diamond ring on. Now that I think about it, he's probably got more than just a red backward hand-print on his face, but also a raw spot where the edges of my ring bit into him.

"Great." I heave a heavy sigh.

"Well I tried, with my fingers crossed behind my back
I deny everything
And this never happened, it's not what it seems
And this is the way that it was meant to be for me
To live and breathe in insecurities"
-(Beautiful Start) This City Awaits

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Author's Notes:Now that you have read it, anyone want to take a stab at what Cody's part foreshadows? (It's okay. Don't stress yourself over it; guessing isn't a huge deal.) And, for the record, being in London's head is kind of...funny. The way her mind jumps around or blanks out—it was fun to write. And there were several things mentioned in her part which I will get around to writing the stories to which they belong, eventually.

I hope, at least, that the chapter was enjoyable. I'm not sure if it will meet with approval, so I have to confess I am a little uneasy about that, but I'm going to let that go and just hit post. I can't apologise for writing the story the way I write it, and I can't very easily fight the way the story insists it must be written. (It occurs to me that writers have very little control over their stories.)

Vocabulary:

insensate - (1) without feeling: inanimate and thus unable to feel anything; (2) cold and heartless: entirely lacking in sympathetic feeling or human kindness (formal)

twaddle - nonsense: nonsensical or pretentious speech or writing (informal)

insipid - dull: dull because lacking in character and lively qualities