Title: "Contagion" - 1/6
Author: monimala
Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: AC, AU, various pairings, language, violence, sexual situations.
Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own these characters.
Summary: A little revisionist history and some cross-over inspiration make for a very different Port Charles. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
"'Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes
out
Contagion to this world."
-Hamlet, III.ii.413.
"It was you
Breathless and tall
I could feel my eyes turning into dust.
And two strangers turning into dust."
--Mazzy Star
Industrial smog hangs heavy in the air, winding around the gloomy spires and dead cranes that make up the skyline of Port Charles, New York. This is a place where hope is dead, where lights are better left unlit to spare one's eyes the glare of the peeling paint on every building, the broken bricks in the streets, and the homeless sleeping in the gutters.
This was a different place once... before.
Now, even day belongs to the shadows. Gangs run the hospital and trade bandages for cash. The churches are littered with used needles and condoms and the only holy words still housed in them are the four-letter ones
sprayed on the walls.
Nothing is sacred... not anymore.
He watches...he mourns...from the safety of his high-rise penthouse,
surrounded by the stars and the night sky, and memory.
***
She speeds up, the sharp heels of her boots clicking against the pavement as she artfully avoids the potholes and curses under her breath. Walking through the Wharf after six p.m. is never wise, but it's the shortest route between points A and B and, these days, expediency is wiser than anything else.
The weight of the eight inch switchblade against her hip is a small comfort. The strategic slit in her trenchcoat allows for easy access and she knows she can give a potential attacker a few pretty souvenirs before he pries her legs apart and then dumps her body in the lake.
"Calm down, Carly-girl," she mutters, shaking her head. Her over-active
imagination needs no fueling from the stink of the docks and the sound of rats scurrying beneath the rotted boards of the Pier, but it succumbs just the same.
"Oh, no, by all means, Carly-girl... stay on edge." The mocking amusement comes from the overturned park bench near the steps. He's perched atop it carelessly, as if he routinely lounges on off-kilter furniture. And he doesn't even look awkward, she notes with disgust as she tightens the belt
of her jacket. All hulking and black-clad and strong chin. He looks ungodly handsome and completely at ease.
"Don't you have something to maim?" she wonders. In addition to her
trusty switch, there's the 9mm Glock in her shoulder holster. It tends to be a bit excessive for basic target practice, but gets the job done when she needs to explode somebody's head like a ripe cantaloupe. "Aren't the boys popping cans of Type O at the ranch tonight?"
"Poker nights are Wednesdays," he says, succinctly, flowing from the bench like a cloud of mist. "And I only maim on alternate Mondays." Arrogant
bastard. "May I see you home?" he asks, politely, as if he's a Victorian gentleman strolling along the freaking Thames.
"Did you not get the memo?" She avoids the glitter of his bright blue
eyes and ignores his offered arm as she keeps walking. "Me: licensed vampire hunter. You: bloodsucking fiend. It means we do not fuck, we do not date, and you sure as Hell don't see me home."
"It happens all the time, Querida. In fact, in St. Louis..." he reminds,
with that tiny, knowing, smile.
"This *isn't* St. Louis," she interrupts, coolly.
So much for expediency. She sighs, only slightly comforted by the fact
that at least nothing else nasty will try to munch on her or blow a hole in her with her oversized can opener keeping her company. "Why do you do this?" She sidesteps a sleeper next to the abandoned diner, fumbling for her keys as she reaches the door. "Why do you follow me, Lorenzo?"
"Because you remind me..." He shrugs and it's such an unabashedly human gesture that she has to blink. "You remind me of the way it used to be."
"Yeah?" As she wrenches the sixth lock open and shoves her way in, she
turns to look at him. The eyes...you're supposed to avoid the eyes... but sometimes she can't resist. She sees so much in this particular pair. "Well, I'm tryin' to forget."
He waits, patiently, on the other side of the door after she slams it. She can feel him there as she draws each deadbolt. Years ago...years ago, she would have invited him in. They would have danced to the jukebox and laughed and laughed.
She was a different woman, then.
She had a different life.
And her overactive imagination needs no fueling from the man she used to love...or the vampire he's become.
***
Chapter Two
"Contagion" Home