Title: "The Fool's Parade" 2/2
Author: monimala
Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: SAC, AU, Skye/various, Ric/Evangeline, (non-ship), crossover, humor, angst.
Disclaimer: Nope. I do not own these characters.
Summary: What if? What if? What if? Skye confesses to killing Ross and Ric has addictions to kick.
A mountain of briefs, two appeals he needs to glance though, and a birth
announcement. That's the contents of his In basket. His job still sucks, it's not getting better, and he's a father.
Audra Smith Lansing, six lbs and four oz. Eighteen inches long. There's
a tiny ink footprint and Elizabeth's fine calligraphy states that her daughter has dark eyes and dark hair and her daddy's smile.
Motherhood has apparently made his child bride a perverse bitch. Now,
he's infinitely glad she's not around. Zander would agree. Well, he'd agree if he wasn't shot full of holes and buried in a lonely plot where cheery cream-colored cardstock can't be mailed.
Lucky popped in and said, "Congratulations!", a copy of the same
announcement crumpled in his hand. He was trying to look smug and
failing. Lucky is an overgrown Boy Scout. He always looks earnest. Although, that might have more to do with the way his current hair-cut makes his ears stick out.
Ric snapped his rubber band instead of saying something snide and
inappropriate like, "How's *that* for a permanent lock, Kid?"
His self-restraint is improving in leaps and bounds. So is his fixation
on "recently betrayed by the Bunny." He passed him in Kelly's the other
day and didn't even stop to whine, "Mommy loved you best." Things in that
department are going swimmingly.
He can't say the same for the case of the State of New York Versus Skye Chandler Quartermaine. It's downright abysmal. And he's ludicrously happy about that fact.
Never has he been more relieved to have holes shot into a case (much like the holes shot into Zander) by the defendant's team. The unfailingly
irritating Luke Spencer agreed to a wire tap on the phones at the Haunted
Star and bugs underneath the roulette wheels. And despite the fact that
Sergeant Dixon is apparently missing his father's gold pocket watch and he
persists in blaming Coleman, they've found a pawn shop owner who may or may not have sold an ice pick to a blond woman four days before the murder.
The "may not have", of course, hinges on whether or not the man winds up floating face down in the Port Charles River. He's in protective
custody...but Ric knows all too well that when it comes to Faith, that
doesn't mean much.
The boys at the safehouse are mostly making sure nobody brews the guy any lemonade.
As it stands, they have almost enough circumstantial evidence for his
office to drop the case against Skye. This is a relief...because it means he's close to never having to see Jasper Jacks again. Unless they bump into each other on the Elm Street Pier. And now that he's added that qualifier...it's probably going to happen.
He bumps into everybody on the Elm Street Pier.
He bumped into Jason there this morning. (And didn't even apologize!)
"Ow!" Morgan's really not on his habit-to-kick list, but he's an
addiction by proxy.
Elizabeth probably sent him a stupid announcement, too. Maybe on his, it says "Audra Smith Lansing-Wish-It-Was-Morgan."
Ric's self-restraint is great. His pettiness still needs work.
One goal at a time.
For now, he's just happy to be sitting across from Evangeline. Her smile
isn't Cheshire Cat this time. Merely beatific. A partnership struck
between the DA's office and opposing counsel seldom goes so smoothly. Alexis would have torn strips from his skin by now. Evangeline Williamson just looks like she wants to hug him.
He's tempted to move around his desk and see if she'll actually do it. Maybe if he's nice, she'll suggest they go to dinner. And he can take her to the Grille so everybody else in town can whisper and wonder what she's doing out with a psycho. She told him about the Todd Manning case over a power lunch last week, so he knows she's all ready quite used to the sensation.
"I have a boyfriend," she says, abruptly, interrupting his intricate
fantasy of feeding her creme brulee while Carly seethes and mouths "you
miserable pig!"
"I'm sorry...what?" He shakes his head, noting for quite possibly the
umpteenth time that Evangeline has great eyes. And she's his age. She's
not a twenty-two-year-old college drop-out who likes to waitress and sleep
with mob errand boys and dash the hopes of reformed Panic Room keepers.
"I'm seeing someone," Evangeline expands, a rueful grin tugging at the
corners of her lips. "Back in Llanview. I just wanted to tell you in case
you were planning on asking me out once this case is closed."
"Uh no..." he lies, swiftly. "Wasn't planning that all. Why would you
think that?" And he gestures to the framed photo on his desk, turning it
around for her to see. "Besides, I'm married." He stares, hard, at the shot ...trying to remember if it's from the first wedding or the second. Did Elizabeth wear the same dress?
Come anniversary time, he's going to be in more trouble than the average husband. That is...if she comes back. And if he still wants her to.
He should ask "needs a drop of honey" for tips. Since he's married Carly four times.
"Ow!"
"Ric?" Evangeline leans forward, her brows drawing together with concern. "Are you...okay?"
He sheepishly raises his wrist, sliding back his suit sleeve to show her the thick blue band he took off of a copy of the Port Charles Herald.
"Cigarettes?" she asks, sympathetically. As a lawyer, there's no doubt in his mind that she probably smoked like a fiend as a 1L or a 2L.
"No, racketeers," he replies, with an irreverent laugh. "I'm actually thinking of starting *up* smoking again. Possibly drinking. Maybe heroin."
"Surfing the Internet? Reality television? No...Euchre!" Evangeline giggles. Damn. It's entirely unfair that she has a boyfriend. He's probably big. Massive. The kind of person who would gladly break Ric's legs.
For one night...he'd almost be willingly broken.
And then, months later, she can send her boyfriend a stupid announcement saying she's given birth to Baby Lansing Massive Guy.
His pettiness may need to be worked on, but his bitterness is in top condition. And it must show...because he gets the invite he was hoping for... just with the wrong angle.
"Would you like to buy me dinner, Lansing?" She sounds sorry for him. *Looks* sorry for him. Like they should get out their college sweatshirts and split a pitcher of beer and a plate of cheese fries. "We can pretend we're talking about the case but really discuss anything but."
"And write it off as a business meeting?" At her nod, he smiles. "I'd love to."
It's still the best offer he's had in a long time.
The desk, his steadfast companion, is probably jealous when he switches off the lights and they leave, pulling the door shut behind them...but the In basket seems considerably lighter.
***
There is no fanfare.
Evangeline came in and had her sign a bunch of paperwork, telling her that her confession had been thrown out and the state's case closed. Her release date was written on one of the forms.
Three days shy of her purported trial date.
Three months after the first restless night, when she clung to the wall and prayed there weren't spiders or butch biker women with tattoos waiting to attack her in the dark.
She still had polish on her nails then.
Now, they're naked, bitten to the quick. And her hands are callused from sorting sheets in the laundry.
"The guys helped me go through your closets," her lawyer had indicated, gesturing to the shopping bag at her side. "We didn't think you'd want to wear out what you wore in."
She can barely remember what she was wearing before they gave her the first pair of coveralls. She doesn't know what personal items are in the brown envelope marked with her identification number. A watch? A couple of rings? A cross her uncle Stuart gave her a very long time ago?
Riker let her take the bag without searching it. They all knew she'd get out. They knew more than she did. That garners a carton of cigarettes left on her neatly-made bunk with a "thank you" note to her block.
She could tell, immediately, who picked out what outfit. Three men standing around her open closet doors, squabbling. The form-fitting hot pink cocktail dress she'd worn a few times on the Haunted Star is most definitely to Luke's taste. He never came to see her. He has no idea that she's lost twenty pounds and the satin would hang on her like a curtain. The demure brown suit, with an Italian leather belt and a silk blouse is only marginally better. Jax. Who doesn't realize that with her dull, lifeless, hair, and her gaunt face, she'll look like she got it at the Goodwill for a job interview. The blue velour track suit, with its drawstring waist and its soft, worn-in material, makes her remember doing yoga in the living room of the lake house. Sitting on the couch and crying over "Roman Holiday" as she gives herself a pedicure.
Coleman's eyes light up when she sees him standing at the double doors that lead out to the public side of the prison, the gate, the parking lot.
She nearly drops the brown envelope. Watch, rings, cross. Phone. The battery is dead.
Her mother and John Sykes are standing there, too. They look tanned and healthy and...teary. Alan is conspicuously absent. He probably had a row with Monica over coming here. That's all right. She understands.
Luke and Jax are each leaning against a wall.
They remind her of the guards.
Except that Luke fidgets too much. He hates this place. He doesn't want to be here. She wonders why he bothered at all.
She left the dress and the suit in her cell. Somebody will enjoy them. Or sell them.
She wasn't willing to part with the small selection of Enchantment products Evangeline had tucked in between the track pants and the cigarettes. A Shea butter cream, lip gloss, eyeliner. A hair brush. Just enough to make her feel human but not alien.
The hallway is a long stretch. She'd accepted that a journey like this would lead to a gurney propped up in front of a two-way mirror. A machine filled with poison. Not to freedom.
She still doesn't remember what happened during the hours that Ross was killed. Three months and all she has is her sobriety. Her mortality. Her strength.
What do you do with time you'll never get back?
"Oh, Skye..."
Rae steps forward, clasps her close, and she hugs her mother for minutes on end. It's an unfamiliar sensation...hugging a woman she still barely knows...and yet it is the first thing that feels right since she fiercely rubbed cream into her palms this morning.
"Mom," she whispers, almost a sob. Not "Mother," not "Rae." Mom. That feels right, too.
And so does handing her things to John and hugging him "thanks," before she moves into Coleman's waiting arms.
"Hey, Babe," he drawls, as if she just walked into Jake's. But his voice is shaking. "Nice to see your sweet face."
Even though he saw it twice a week for nearly fourteen weeks.
Coleman doesn't seem to mind her blunt nails against his skin when she kisses him. He takes her fingers and kisses each one before coming back to her mouth.
Maybe it's Jax that makes the sound of protest.
Or it's Luke clearing his throat.
What does she do with time she'll never get back?
She lets it go.
"Break my heart?" she asks of Coleman as he slides his arm around her waist and guides her towards the world.
"Don't worry, I'll leave you alive," he promises, with a chuckle.
She murmurs something that might be "thank you" and could be "I love you, too" as she steps into the light.
--end--
April 17, 2004.