Title: "In Time"
Author: monimala
Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: SAC, angst, LoCa-ish, Lo/Sophie
Disclaimer: Nope. I don't own them...but, damn, Ted King is amazing sometimes.
Summary: Just a filler for Lorenzo realizing Carly was on the plane coming back from France.

There is one ghost clinging to his shadow.

After tonight, there may be one more.

He wonders if Sophie will be there to guide her...to bring her over, where he will feel one's breath raising the hairs on the back of his neck and the other's touch on his shoulder.

"Lori," she laughed, once, after she met Luis. "He call you 'Lori'!" Her eyes shined with amusement, growing brighter as embarrassment darkened him...and, much later, in their bed, she urged him, "Make love to me, Lori ...make love to me..."

"You're a sick, sick, woman, Sophie Germaine," he'd growled, hushing her with his lips, his body, until the only sound that came from her throat were moans.

Is Carly screaming?

His palms flatten against the window and his knees refuse to hold him up. The flesh-and-blood ghost of his own creation is watching him, he knows, with the accusing eyes of his own conscience. What has he done? What in the world has he done? He doesn't need her to say it.


"Shut up," he hisses. "Please...shut up."

He can't bear to hear his name right now. Not from her collagen-enhanced, manufactured, lips.

Not when, forever, it should be one woman's hushed "Lori" and another's sharp, annoyed, "Lorenzo!" with the accents on the wrong syllables.

He sobbed like a child when he received that first call. He waited till Luis had left the room and he stumbled just like this...took a sheaf of papers with him to the floor and sat just as scattered amongst them. He rocked back and forth and remembered kissing her at Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey... trying to teach her to play football on the lawn at Oxford...

Luis came back into the room with a smile on his face.

"Lo siento, Lori. It had...it had to be done. In time, you will come to understand."

This...this...no...no, it didn't have to be done. It didn't have to happen. It wasn't *supposed* to happen. And he will never understand.

Will he remember backgammon this time? Lips pursed in concentration? Holding a white-knuckled hand? Feeling a baby leap beneath his palm?

Will he remember saving her?

Or will he simply remember killing her?



October 14, 2003.

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