Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: SAC, angst, Dillon/Georgie-ish.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, nope.
Summary: A filler ficlet for Dillon Quartermaine's first few days back in Port Charles.
Classic faces. He doesn't need Heidi Klum or Britney Spears or Angelina Jolie. No, he gets off to Marlene Dietrich. To Greta Garbo pleading, "I want to be alone, leave me alone." To the scene in the taxi cab in "Roman Holiday" when the Princess pleads for Joe to keep from watching her as she turns the corner. When he was eight, he convinced himself that it was that kiss that made him cry and not the fact that his mother was dragging him out of bed, once again, to go somewhere new.
It doesn't surprise him that Georgie Jones is his Hepburn. Audrey, not Katherine. Big dark eyes and fragile neck. All that self-doubt. She's the Princess, she's Sabrina., she's his Fair Lady.
He wants to have madcap adventures with her on a train, a bus, a boat. Watch her smash a guitar over Lucas's head. He wants to be "Spellbound" "From Here to Eternity." He wants her to grab him in a diner again and kiss him...not to distract her idiot sister and her not-quite-cousin... not to shield them from police who are looking for them... but because she wants the taste of him. Of *him*.
Because he's her Greg Peck and Bogey and Cary Grant.
He wants to have Georgie in black and white.
Because he's spent most of his life caught between shades of gray and obscenely bright colors.
"Tell me something about you, Georgie Jones," he says, as suavely as he can manage, staring at her profile instead of the images on the screen. "Something interesting."
She blushes and stammers and stares down at her palms. "I'm not interesting."
"Oh, bull. Everybody's interesting." Except Lucas. Who just needs a punch in the face. He pokes her in the side. "Come on...tell me something about you. Do you have a tragic past? A secret identity?"
She looks at him then and a shy grin tugs at her lips. Her big, round, ingenue eyes smile, too. "Well...I guess there is one thing..."
"You're Batman," he deadpans and she giggles.
She shakes her head solemnly after getting the fit of mirth under control. "No...but I was born under a table at a blues club," she confides, the red tint to her peaches-and-cream face only deepening. "Mr. Spencer has a plaque on it and everything...the Georgie Jones table."
"Really?" He's suitably impressed. "See...and you think you're boring? You've been defying convention since birth!" He pokes her in the ribs again, converts it to a tickle so he can hear her laugh. "Stick with me, Dollface, and I'll take you places," he says in his best Sam Spade.
And when her ingenue eyes focus on his face, *only* his face, he feels like...he feels like he might finally have some place he wants to go.
He turns up the volume on the t.v., watching George Chakiris whirl Rita Moreno around on a rooftop. Normally, he doesn't go for musicals...or anything colorized, really, because the bright purple swoosh of Anita's skirt is too complex...too fraught with a myriad of mysteries like sex and lies and politics for him.
His mother, he thinks, is a colorized movie that the projector can't handle. That always breaks down mid-reel and needs to be re-fed. And the Quartermaines... 3D Surround Sound. No...IMAX. Larger than life and inescapable.
And even the boisterous strains of "America" don't drown out the shouting from one wing over and downstairs.
Marlene and Greta and Audrey...even the ghostly thought of their smiles and their gentle fingers slipping against his palm...can't make his tears stop. Neither can the hesitant thought of Georgie wielding a guitar and her soft pink lips with the same vibrant naivete.
He's sixteen, too old to cry, but there are no taxi cab scenes in "West Side Story" for him to blame. There is nothing, at all, he can blame.
Because he's spent most of his life caught between shades of gray and obscenely bright colors...and all he wants to be is blind.
He doesn't need Heidi Klum or Britney Spears or Angelina Jolie.
He needs a home.
And he's found it.
April 28, 2003.