A/N: Inspired by the events of "Paid in Full", I present my interpretation of Erica's thoughts during the later events of the episode. Additionally, there is a little scene of my own design between Erica and Lloyd—a softer moment between two of our dear cons that I thought would have been a kind of cute alternate ending to the episode. Please note, this is my first time writing for Erica. I know I probably didn't get everything right, but I was writing from a slightly softer side of her personality. I readily accept any constructive criticism. Thank you in advance.

Title: I Get It

Summary: For a few short moments, things can just what they are, good or bad. For a few short moments, he and I can exist without any barriers, without any emotional obstacles, and without the memory of what we've done, of the mistakes we've made. We can just be two people who get it—who get each other in some small way.

Characters: Lloyd Lowry and Erica Reed

Rating: T for mild language

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or plot segments of "Breakout Kings". The show belongs to A&E and its producers. I own only the idea for this story.

"Nothing is permanent in this wicked world—not even our troubles." ~ Charles Chaplin

"Go get Lloyd and put him in the car." Charlie says quietly, his dark eyes focused (for now) on Ray. "I'll be there soon."

A pause follows, and then his eyes shift over to us—where Shea and I are standing in silence. Right now, there are no words to be spoken, at least none that I can find. Clearly, Shea doesn't have much to say, and frankly, I'm not too upset about it. I don't know that I can handle any more words right now. Silence has been my friend for the last three years I spent behind bars, and when all else fails, it still proves to be the most reliable companion I have.

"Go, now."

There is a firmer edge to Charlie's voice now, one that does not invite further argument or debate. Shea is the first to move for the door, with me close behind. I can see Lloyd before we even get out the doors—or at least, I can see the back of his coat. Shea starts to head toward him, but I'm faster—I'm always faster, faster than all of them. I would be disappointed in myself if I ever stopped being the fastest.

My shoulder deliberately pushes against Shea's as I move past him. "I've got it." I whisper, my words simple and brief as I head for Lloyd. Shea has the common sense to not argue; I hear him turn on his heel and move for the car. The door closes behind him a few seconds later.

Ray's words still ring in my ears, almost as though someone took the damn Liberty Bell and hit it with a two-by-four right next to my ear. My blood is boiling, like lava smoldering just beneath the decidedly thin surface of my skin. I feel hot from the back of my neck all the way down to my fingertips, yet I can feel my body trembling—shaking from the sheer willpower it's taking for me to not turn around and snap something (or someone) in half. I think I would love nothing more than to rip Ray's face off, or at least remove his vocal chords clean out of his throat so he can never, ever say those words again.

"A psycho-vigilante who chose revenge over motherhood."

I'm not psychotic.

I am not psychotic.

I am not psychotic.

I clench my jaw, repeating those damned words over and over again, as though just by doing so might make them true. I don't want to believe that I'm evil, that I'm some wicked and twisted animal. For three years I've been telling myself why I did what I did.

The answer is so obvious, isn't it? Of course it is—I know it is. I did it for my daughter. I did it to protect her, to protect all of us. Everything I've ever done has always been for her. Always and only for—

I stop and close my eyes tight, so tight that I can feel the pressure building up one hell of a headache. When it comes down to it, I know the truth. I don't want to face it—I don't. But I know Ray was telling the truth, and even though I don't want to hear it, there really is no point in me denying it.

What I did…every single thing I did was for one purpose and one only. I did it to get even with the bastards who killed my father. I did it to make them pay for taking away the only parent I've ever had—the most precious person in my life, aside from my daughter. I did it because I wanted revenge, and I got it.

I did it for myself, not for my daughter…or anyone else for that matter. Myself, that's it.

My anger is still there…I can feel it. My hands are still shaking, my blood still running hot. And the more I think about it, the more pissed off I get. I want nothing more than to grab Lloyd by the collar and drag him back to the car, where the three of us will sit in blessed silence until we get back to the office. And if Lloyd tries to give me any grief, so help me—

He's standing at the back wall of an alley, his body rigid, almost frozen in place. He looks so different now, and I'm reminded of the way he looked when Ray directed his volatile ranting towards him. The soft plea he'd first uttered was a far cry from the icy posture he assumed mere seconds later. The anger etched into every inch of his face was so different, almost frightening.

I can still feel the anger now, where I stand a mere five feet away from him. He probably knows I'm here—he's just as perceptive as I am when it comes to sensing other people around him (for the most part). But he's not moving, and my earlier thought about having to drag him away reoccurs as I observe his body language. He's so rigid, cold and frozen in a way I've never seen him before—hell, I never imagined I would ever see him like this. That casually cocky attitude is gone, replaced by this overwhelming sense of icy silence. I never thought I would actually find myself wanting him to talk—I'm the one usually telling him to shut up.

Now, I wish he would say something, anything at all. But he doesn't.

His right hand is fisted against the brick wall, the skin stretched white across the tightened knuckles. Yet even with the rigidity of his stance, I can see him shaking. Just like me, he's shaking with the effort to control his anger, to keep himself in check. Vaguely, I find myself wondering when the last time he actually got angry was. I've heard him get ticked at his mom over the phone, but nothing like this. This isn't annoyance or mere frustration. This is anger—real and honest anger.

And for reasons I don't really want to think about, it upsets me to see him like this.

I stare at him for what seems like hours, though I know it's probably only been five minutes. I'm surprised Charlie hasn't come looking for us yet, knowing how paranoid he and Ray are about any of us running. The thought occurs for me to mention this to Lloyd, or rather, to say anything to him that would get him moving toward the car.

Charlie's waiting for us.

Let's go.

Come on, move your feet.

Plenty of words form in my head, but they never make it past my lips. They don't even make it off my tongue before they fall dead, heavy and useless like I swallowed lead. Nothing sounds right. Nothing seems appropriate for everything that needs to be said right now. And much as I'm loath to admit it, there are a lot of things that need to be said. By the rules of common society, you can't hear what we just heard and then go about your day.

The problem is…I don't have a damn clue what to say.

What do I say to that? Is there anything I can say—should say? His anger seems to speak for itself pretty well right now—speaking for his guilt, his self-loathing. All those feelings he's been bottled up for God-knows how long…they're all coming out with a vengeance now. He has to face what he did, has to accept the reality of it. There are no more lies, no more deception or façade that can protect him now. It's all out there for everyone to know. He can't run anymore.

I feel a dead, icy weight sink down into the very pit of my stomach. Suddenly…I think I get it.

I know I get it.

No more words come to me now. They are completely useless here. For him, words pass judgment. I have no interest in being his judge or jury right now. He'd probably done a fine job of being both for himself. Besides…I have nothing to judge him for. At the end of the day, I guess we're not so different after all.

We're not friends. But we're not so different…not really.

Not that I have any intentions of telling him any of this.

My hand comes up to wrap around his, firm, swift and deliberate. A soft touch is completely out of place here—and besides that, soft has never been my style. If I act soft around him, he'll probably start questioning my mental state—as if he doesn't do that enough already.

I wrap my fingers around his fist, and it suddenly amazes me how small my hand looks in comparison to his. I don't like being smaller than anyone else, not in any way, shape or form. It's a sign of weakness, of vulnerability. And I am not weak. I am not vulnerable.

I am strong. I have always been strong. I will always be strong.

And there is nothing anyone can say—or do—that can change that.

Nothing.

My anger abides slightly as I see Lloyd's hand shift in response to my touch. He doesn't try to touch me in response—he isn't that stupid. His fingers just relax, loosening the vice grip of his fist. I can see his posture change, the tension seeping away from his posture. He's still not quite his "usual self"—if he can ever be called "usual" (or more specifically "normal")—but he's getting there. Or at least, as much as can be expected.

He turns to face me, pale eyes still dark with his frustration. But I can see something else, something much more telling than mere anger. He's tired…tired and weary. Maybe in a strange way, having his secret revealed is a relief for him.

But somehow…I doubt it.

I don't say anything to him—I don't have to. He knows why I'm here, and before I would even start to speak, he's already moving for the car. I watch him go, his posture no longer frozen in anger but slumped in exhaustion, in defeat. And I still have that damned weight in the pit of my gut. Unlike before, now I know what this heavy feeling is—guilt.

And I hate feeling guilty.

"I wrote that prescription." He whispers quietly, his eyes steady even if his voice is low. "But it was an accident."

"Give it a rest, Lloyd—"

"No."

I won't deny my surprise, even if I don't let it show on my face. This is definitely a side to Lloyd I've never seen before—hell, I didn't even think it existed before now. And if I wasn't seeing it with my own two eyes, I probably wouldn't believe it. Lloyd Lowry standing up to Ray Zancanelli…this might be as close to a miracle as we'll ever get.

First time for everything, I guess.

Lloyd continues, his expression determined to tell his story without any interruptions. And for once, I don't think he's going to be interrupted. "The girl's boyfriend broke up with her." he whispers, "So she went to her apartment, swallowed a handful of pills and a bottle of Vodka. How was I supposed to—?"

He comes to an abrupt halt, swallowing hard. His hand curls into a fist again, and I feel that weight inside me again. It's heavier than before now, almost painful. I hate it. I hate it more than anything, and yet I know there's only one way to really relieve it.

Namely, I'm going to have to shelve my pride.

God, this is going to be a real pain in the—

"Lloyd," Shea's voice interrupts my thoughts, and it's a blessed distraction, "You don't have to explain yourself to anyone."

He doesn't respond, at least not to Shea's words. "What happened was my fault." He whispers, biting at his lower lip firmly. His tongue swipes out briefly, probably to soothe the pain. It's another moment of silence before he speaks again, and this time his voice is strained.

I don't like hearing him talk this way. I don't know why, but by God I don't like hearing it.

It's not normal. It's not like him.

"I regret it." Lloyd's voice is quiet—too quiet. Never thought I would actually want him to speak up and speak out. God knows I tell him often enough to shut his mouth. But for the umpteenth time tonight, I'm wishing for the old Lloyd back.

He swallows, and I can see how much of an effort it is for him to make eye contact with us. But he does, and I find myself admiring him for it—not that I'll ever admit it. After a moment, he quietly continues, "And I just want you guys to know that."

Charlie's footsteps grab all of our attention, seeing him there outside his office, expression solemn as always. "Alright, listen up." He says quietly, "This task force was put together by Special Deputy Ray Zancanelli. And the only reason I agreed to head it up was because I believed that it would be motivated by people who just…" he pauses for a moment before continuing, "…wanted to get their lives back."

He looks over all of us for a moment, and then he sighs quietly. "That's gonna require that each and every one of us looks past each other's baggage." his gaze is more serious—this is much more normal. This is how he always looks, how he talks. Finally, some stability, some normalcy during this crazy day. This is what I need.

It's what we all need.

"So," he continues, "If you feel you cannot do that, raise your hand. We'll take a ride back to maximum security when they come pick up Virgil."

There is silence all around. I know that none of us are going to raise our hands. We're not that stupid.

"Good," Charlie nods, "Let's just move on."

He moves back toward his office, where Virgil is still cuffed in the chair. Suddenly, he stops and turns back toward us, "Oh, by the way," he adds with a casual gesture, "I have a congenital heart defect. I could drop at any minute."

There's a shocked silence between all of us—except Ray, but that's not a surprise. Go figure that Ray would already know everything before the rest of us.

Charlie shrugs, calm as could possibly be. "There," he nods with a calm expression, "Now we've all seen each other's dirty underwear."

As he goes back into the office, I can only shake my head. Yeah, great…now we all know each other's dirty little secrets. Is this supposed to build trust or something between us? Do Charlie and Ray still not get that we're cons, and that by being such we've spent the majority of our lives never trusting anyone? Life doesn't work that way. You don't just build trust by spilling your guts to everyone, and then expecting everything is going to be alright.

And yet there's still something I have to say to Lloyd. For better or for worse, he needs to hear it. More importantly, I need to say it, or I'll be carrying around this goddamn weight for the rest of the week.

It's child's play to slip into the men's changing area, and I don't think anything of doing so. I've been in far stranger places than this. All I care about is Shea isn't here right now. This is none of his business. Besides, if he hears this at all, I will never hear the end of it.

Lloyd is still in his civilian clothes when I get in there, staring at his prison uniform with a blank look on his face. I don't need to be a child prodigy to know what's on his mind.

"Hey," I keep my voice calm and cool—the last thing I need is him trying to psychoanalyze my tone inflections. Though frankly, I'm not sure if he has it in him to do anything of the sort right now. It's actually kind of sad to see him like this.

If he's not back together by our next case, I'll just have to slap him back to reality.

"Believe me or don't—it's your choice." I continue, feeling a slight twinge of irritation when he doesn't look at me. If I thought he wouldn't collapse into a puddle of devastation, I'd probably force him to look at me.

But I'm not that much of a bitch. Not today anyway.

"But I get it, Lloyd." I lift my voice, and this time he finally turns around to look at me. Swallowing slightly, I add in a softer tone, "I get it…I do."

His expression is a mix of surprise, and another emotion that I think I could classify as relief. For some reason, I feel a sense of accomplishment, seeing the relief on his face. No one on God's green earth will get me to admit it, but I like seeing him this way. It's normal—as normal as we'll ever be.

I release a soft sigh, meeting his gaze and finding the darkness gone. His eyes are as clear as ever, now only fogged slightly with his emotions. I nod slightly, maybe to him or maybe to myself—I don't know that it particularly matters right now. "And I just want you to know that."

Time almost seems suspended, but not in the romantic sense. This is pure relief, for both of us. For a few short moments, things can just be what they are, good or bad. For a few short moments, he and I can exist without any barriers, without any emotional obstacles, and without the memory of what we've done, of the mistakes we've made. We can just be two people who get it—who get each other in some small way.

Somehow, it seems to make all the difference in the world right now.

He finally smiles, and I feel the weight lift from me in barely a second's time. I've never really thought of it this way before, but he really isn't himself—isn't normal—when he's not smiling. And even when I want to rip it off his face, I like it when he's smiling. Just the way he's smiling now—this somewhat innocent expression that speaks to his relief.

It's cute or something, I guess.

After a short moment, he nods, still smiling. "I know." he whispers. Somehow, I can't help but smile at that. I think this is the first time I've smiled in months, and it feels good. Strange, but good.

I turn back for the door, stopping only briefly to look back at him. He's still wearing that ridiculous smile on his face. For once, I don't have the urge to slap it off. For once, I think I'm actually kind of happy to see him smiling.

It is kind of cute.

"Now come on, Lloyd," I say, finally back to normal as I shove my way out the door, "Move your ass."