Title: "Contagion" 5/6
Author: monimala
Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: R, 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.
Dawn breaks gently over the city...merciful pinks and oranges just barely tinted with the deep crimson hue of blood. It is the only time when things are still beautiful, where everything is serene, pristine, and balanced on
the edge of hope. In between the elongated shadows of darkness and the harsh lights of day.
As he opens the sixth lock with a few murmured words of an old tongue, the sunlight creeps towards the battered door. He yanks it shut behind him, grateful for the boarded-over panes that allow him just enough time to move through the diner and up the back stairs.
The wolf will not be here.
She'll come home alone.
He knows that as surely as he knows the locks were never meant to keep him out. Simply the rest of the world.
He knows her space, he knows her scent. He knows where she keeps the candles and he lights only one, placing the simple white taper on the crate that serves as her bed side table.
She has never shared this bed with anyone. The sheets smell crisp, like detergent and her body. Like her sharp sarcasm and her haunted eyes. Like all the yesterdays and no tomorrow.
"Lorenzo." She is not surprised to see him bathed in the meager candle glow. She strips her clothes even as she navigates the hallway, kicking off her shoes, stepping out of her pants. When she comes to him, all she is wearing is her shoulder holster and the gun...and her map of scars.
Each faded line, each raised brand, points the way to who they once were. "Carly." Blood rises in his throat, he chokes it back, closes his eyes, and it is only in that true darkness that he is blind.
"I always knew I couldn't keep you out." Her laughter is soft, dull-edged with liquor and something that might be fear. Not of him. Never of him. "No matter what I do..."
The points of her knees are sharp against his hips. Her skin is warm under his palms and as he unsnaps the leather, places her weapon beneath the pillow, she strips him just as bare. No...barer.
She gasps as he traces the puckered skin at the corner of her lip with his tongue. He makes the same inarticulate noise when she guides him inside her. There are no locks here.
No need for magick words.
No need for words at all.
***
Once every few months, she makes preparations for death.
She leaves a lock box on her desk with the deeds to Kelly's and the club for Jax. Money and a letter to Mamma, too. She cleans her gun, sharpens her switchblade, and makes sure she has at least three extra clips tucked away. Boot, trenchcoat, waistband.
She even briefly debates saying a prayer. Instead, she winds up tracing her fingertips over the delicate cross at the base of her throat, remembers Sonny hanging from a larger version with nails through his wrists.
It is six p.m., afternoon blurring into evening, when she heads out. A vampire is still asleep in her bed. Asleep. Resting. Re-charging. Whatever it is they do.
"Warm...you're so warm..." Lorenzo had whispered, with the sun high in the sky outside, licking the sweat from where it pooled between her breasts. "Warm me up, Carly-girl."
She is not cold.
She cuts through the Wharf. Shortest route from point A to point B. Not very wise, but she's never going to get any wiser. If Jason is right, then tonight is the night she dies.
She wonders if she believes him. If Lorenzo knows, too. Eight years of resolve being broken needs some explanation and impending doom is as good enough as any.
She is not cold.
It was so easy. Lugging the body out into the dumpster with Jax's help. Cleaning up the floor with Maxie, their eyes watering at the strength of the bleach. She gave both of them the next day and night off. "Go," she said. "Get outta town for a while." And then she came home, unlocked six deadbolts, and made love to the man waiting for her...even though he's not a man anymore.
She didn't abandon him. Or her son. She did what needed to be done. For their survival. For hers. In a world like this, what more can a person do?
Exist. Fight. Survive.
She fishes the keys for the club's back door out of her pocket, listening for footsteps, for anything...anything beyond the normal sounds of the warehouse district. But there's nothing...nothing but silence. Not even the sounds of dumpster divers looking for their nightly meal...or rogue weres whining for scraps.
She works the padlock with one flick of her wrist, re-locking it just as easily as she pulls the reinforced steel door shut.
The lights are off, everything cloaked in shadow and the stale odor of spilled liquor and dead air. She knows her way around by instinct. First things first... always fortify. The bottle of Cuervo is right where she left it fourteen hours ago, balanced on the edge of the bar.
There's still a good two fingers worth left. Enough to get her through another visit from Morley. Enough to get her through the night.
As she raises the bottle to her lips, there is a scratch-hiss sound, like rats scurrying beneath the tables. Only...only there are no rats. There may no longer be a working Health Department in Port Charles, but she still keeps to its standards.
"Wh-who's there?" she asks, swallowing a mouthful of the cheap tequila. "Caleb? Jason?" She reaches into her coat for the Glock, for her blade. With one in each hand, she slowly steps away from the bar. "If tonight's the night... I'd like a little heads-up on who's coming to the funeral."
The two-legged rats flip the lights and they come on blazing, bright. She squeezes her eyes shut automatically, giving them time to adjust.
When she opens them...
"Hello, Mommy," says a tall, skinny, boy with auburn hair.
"M-michael...!" she gasps, taking in the sight. Merry blue eyes, the same dimpled smile. Patched-over jeans and a baseball jersey. Oh, oh, he hasn't changed at all.
He's still pale, like a true redhead.
His skin is like porcelain...so smooth...flawless.
He...he looks just like his grandmother.
"Michael...? No." His smile grows wider as she repeats the single syllable. "No. No. No."
She's cold.
She's a killer.
She lacks a conscience.
And her precious baby boy...lacks a pulse.
***
Chapter Six
"Contagion" Home