Title: "Seeing Green"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: PG-13, Skye.
Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own her.
Summary: Just a little idea that wouldn't leave my mind. Set during the Dead Man's Hand storyline.

He's seeing the maid.

Heiress? Ha. Skye can spot an heiress at twenty paces and that skinny little creature looks more comfortable in sea-green polyester than in Donna Karan. She believes in a lot of strange things. Fate. The Easter Bunny. Elvis being alive. But there's no way in Hell she'll believe that girl comes from money.

And that he's seeing her.

No. She's known a dozen girls like that. She knows what they're about. And she knows *him* all too well. What they're doing together has nothing to do with their eyes.

He's...*screwing* the maid.

It must be some sort of strange way of acting out. Being drawn to that ...that...*Sam*. One exit before Viagra on the mid-life crisis highway. She knows he's been lonely for a long time. She knows he had to re-group.

It's the only rational explanation.

He glances at her from across the room...his gaze is guilty, doesn't linger, and she watches him put his palm against the small of Sam's back...guide her forward. His whole hand nearly spans her waist. She can't possibly imagine how they fit together in bed... how he keeps from crushing that little slip of a thing.

He never had to worry about that with Skye.

They fit perfectly.

*Too* perfectly.

The only place they ever really communicated.

She feels him...even now. Listens for his voice and picks it out of the crowd noise, the clink of glass and the music.

"Come on," he's murmuring, low and husky. "Come on...I bet I can beat you at the game."

"You're on," says the maid. "Winner gets the cash...loser gets naked."

She debates the plausibility of "accidentally" dumping her club soda over the girl's head. She *is* dreadfully short. It could happen. A little bump against the pool table. *Oops*.

"I don't recommend it, Darlin'." The voice comes from the stool beside her. Low...barely above a whisper.

She tilts her head, tightening her grip on her tumbler to keep from pitching it. "Recommend what?"

"What you're thinkin'. Although, I'm sure it'd make for a lovely floor show," Luke chuckles, knowingly. "You *are* a lovely shade of jealous. I've seen wars fought for less."

"Why are we here, anyway?" She sighs, staring ahead so no one will notice her speaking to the man with the atrocious comb-over. "Oh. Right. Because you found my private stock lacking...because you *drank it all*."

"What can I say? I have discerning tastes." He smirks, patting her thigh beneath the bar. "Besides, Darlin'...you picked the place. *You* picked Jake's."

She flinches away from his hand... from the implication. "The odds of you being recognized here...even with that ridiculous disguise... were slim," she protests.

"Right. Mhmm. You did this all for *my* benefit, Miz Chandler." Luke laughs... and, for a moment, leans close. "I think...I think you *miss* him," he accuses...tilting his head towards...towards...


Miss him? Ha.

She believes in a lot of strange things. Fate. The Easter Bunny. Elvis being alive.

There's no way in Hell she'll believe that.



October 21, 2003.

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