Title: "Special Needs"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: PG-13, language, slash, het, Dillon/Lorenzo, GQ.
Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own them. I swear. Although...? Scott Clifton and Ted King...? Rawr.
Summary: Dillon Quartermaine gets a little more than he bargained for.

"So, I make people disappear? I'm the terror of your high school? Quite a valiant show you put on in front of that third-rate restaurant. Did you really think all that senseless chatter would grant you more than a temporary reprieve?"

You've seen his type in movies. Mostly Tarentino stuff. Anything where there's a bunch of bad-asses with guns. There's always the guy with the silky voice that says banal things with an underlying threat of "I'll fuck you up so bad you'll never walk again."

And there's always the smooth-talking hero who doesn't let him know that he's shaken. Who doesn't flinch. Who always wins in the end.

You're not entirely sure that's you.

But the former...the former is definitely Lorenzo Alcazar.

"Hey, Man...I gave your thing back...so...um...let's let it go, huh?" you attempt, forgetting everything you told Georgie about not being a wimp.

"Technically, your pretty little friend gave my 'thing' back, Dillon," he says, moving around you. Being banal. Like you're discussing the weather. You should feel safer without his henchman holding you against a wall, cutting off your air supply, but you don't. His eyes are worse. Like one of those paintings that seems to be looking at you no matter where you stand in the gallery.

"L-leave Georgie out of this." You stutter less this time. Take a deep breath. "She's just young and innocent and she doesn't know anything."

"And you're so wise? So world-weary?" A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. A white slash against the darkness of his beard. "You lived with your mother in Europe, didn't you? Pulled from pillar to post, fancy hotel to hotel, by Tracy Quartermaine? You think that makes you experienced?"

You try not to show surprise. He's an international arms dealer. Of course he's going to research you. He probably researches everybody he meets. Waiters. Bellboys. The maids who fluff his pillows and put the mints on them. Not just dumb teenagers who pick the wrong pocket.

"No," you lie, efficiently, finally finding your cool. Your zen. Your inner Paul Newman. "*Experience* makes me experienced."

You sought the shadowed corner of the Elm Street Pier for a little down time. For shelter from the summer sun and hours in an ugly orange vest. Not this. Not your own personal "El Mariachi". You picked up the wrong guitar case. Whoops.

He laughs, abruptly. And it's both creepy as Hell and oddly charming. Something you'd have to take years to cultivate. "You're...what...seventeen?" He arches an eyebrow as he stops moving and settles himself against the wall beside you...blocking your escape route. "When my brother Luis and I were seventeen...we killed farmhands on our father's ranch for fun. We would race them...the cowboys...along the plains...and then round them up like cattle to the slaughter. We buried them in shallow graves...with perfect bullet holes between their eyes."

You swallow...and he watches the motion of your Adam's apple. Like he wants to take a bite out of it. "I killed a spider in my bedroom this morning," you offer, evenly. "Big. Huge. Ugly sonofabitch."

He reaches out and brushes his knuckles against your face. Palms your cheek. Like he did outside Kelly's. You think, maybe, he's about to make you an offer you can't refuse. You think, maybe, you've been getting your genres mixed up. "I kill things in my bedroom all the time," he says, barely audible.

This isn't Tarentino. This is Coppola. Subtle and deadly. With a killer classical soundtrack. An Oscar-worthy sequel. The Alcazar II.

Georgie thinks you're everything you just told this man you are. Wise. World-weary. Experienced. She can't sense your lies like he can. She doesn't want to. She doesn't know that she's the first person you've ever kissed. The only. That you've never stolen a motorcycle before. Never mugged somebody. Never stepped one foot out of line. You spent more time in air-conditioned cinema halls than prowling the streets of Rome after dark and squiring continental beauties around on your arm.

Lorenzo Alcazar can see you slouched in those plush faux velvet seats. Staring up at the screen and taking in every second of "La Dolce Vita." And life...life, to him, is far from sweet.

"Learn your lesson, Dillon," he whispers. "You don't... *ever*...steal from me and get away with it. I can, and will, exact my revenge."

"W-well...Georgie did say I'm slow," you point out, flippantly. "Special needs."

Amusement glints like sparks in his eyes. And promise. "Then perhaps we should make sure this lesson sinks in?"

An arm across your throat. A knee pinning you flat against the wall as your head connects, hard, with the bricks. A mouth cutting off your witty retort, your air supply. Your brain functions.

You don't let him know you're shaken. You don't flinch.

Besides...the hero always wins in the end.


You pull the wires from the panel beneath the steering wheel. Touch the relevant exposed ends together and grin up at Georgie when the engine roars to life. Success! Every step. Like clockwork. Just like he said.

When she leans over to kiss you, your foot takes the accelerator up to 85 and you fly. La Dolce Vita. She's the sweetest thing you've ever tasted. But not the only thing. Not now.

She'll never need to know that you're taking classes in bitter.

That only experience makes you experienced.

And exactly what she wants.


July 4, 2003.

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