Disclaimer: I do not own the characters on the show, "General Hospital". This is a work of fiction written for entertainment purposes only.
A/N: Written for Animegirl1129 as part of a meme on livejournal.
Spinelli absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck and surreptitiously glanced around the crowded café. He'd been unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched for the past two hours. He was working on an idea for a new game that had come to him the night before. He scanned the room as nonchalantly as possible and saw nothing out of the ordinary, no reason for the sudden onset of paranoia that left his palms sweaty.
Reaching for his third mocha of the day, he took a greedy swallow, grimacing at the taste, and resisted the urge to swivel around in his chair. His gut clenched anxiously and he studiously ignored his instincts which were screaming at him that he was being watched and that he should leave now. He determinedly focused his attention back to his computer screen and attempted once more to work on ironing out the basics of his game.
He'd initially gone to the small, out-of-the-way, café rather than staying at the penthouse or going to his and Sam's office to get out of the creative rut that he'd been in, hoping that the idea he'd woken up to would not flee his mind as so many of them often did. The initial mocha that he'd ordered had been a part of his hastily constructed plan and, though he'd have preferred an orange soda, it suited his purposes well and seemed to act as a catalyst for his creativity. For the first few hours, he'd been rewarded for his change in venue as the creativity seemed to flow in and through him and his fingers virtually flew over the keyboard.
It was a freeing experience. He'd never been to this café before, it was just outside of Port Charles and he liked the anonymity it offered him. No one knew him and he didn't know anyone either. It enabled him to focus his entire attention on his creation without the possibility that someone would come along and take his attention away from his work as they exchanged pleasantries.
He'd taken few breaks, to refill his mocha or perform necessary bodily functions. He'd also gotten a rather nice sandwich from their deli and had eaten it ravenously with one hand, while his other had continued to work on the code necessary to bring his game from concept to reality. Chips had accompanied the sandwich and he absentmindedly worked his way through them long after the sandwich had been demolished and forgotten.
Before he'd truly noted the passage of time, the shadows coming in through the window-filtered sunlight had lengthened. Completely bewildered he had looked around the café and noted that the after work rush was upon him and that was when the feeling that he was being watched hit him like a sucker punch.
He tried to shake it off at first, writing it off as a case of unsubstantiated paranoia sparked by the recent dealings he and the rest of Port Charles had had with the darkly focused one, known otherwise as the world-renowned artist, Franco. Sure that it was just a bad case of delayed stress from helping Jason deal with the stalker combined with having imbibed one or perhaps two, too many mochas, he had shrugged it off, but as time went on and the shadows continued to lengthen in the cafe, the paranoia had mounted and he'd been unable to focus on his work.
Maybe he should call Jason. And tell him what? That he felt like he was being watched? He'd sound like some little kid. Besides, Jason had enough on his plate dealing with Michael's situation and he was so wracked with guilt that Spinelli didn't think he'd appreciate it if he bothered him with something as ridiculous as this.
It was probably just his overworked imagination getting the best of him. After all, the game that he was working on was based on a murder mystery; rather several, that had to be solved by the player who got to choose which detective he or she wished to be: Dick Tracy, Sherlock Holmes, Nero Wolfe, Father Brown, Poirot, Lord Peter Wimsey, amongst several others.
Whether or not the game could be marketed or would even find a market, was not really the point, rather the work on it, the creative outlet it allowed for him was what mattered to Spinelli. He took immense joy in creating games and, though his fondest wish was for them to be played and enjoyed by others, the process itself, as well as its end result, was fulfilling.
Deciding that sitting at the café and not getting any more work done on his project was a waste of time, no he was not running away or giving into his paranoia, he shut down his computer and packed everything up and headed for the door, thanking the baristas on his way out. The sun had begun to set and Spinelli's breath caught in his throat as he tugged his cell phone out of his pocket to snap a picture of it. It was hauntingly beautiful, the sun, a large red orange ball was dipping low into the midnight blue sky, sinking as if into a murky pool of kaleidoscopic purples, grays, greens and reds.
He shivered once and drew his arms about himself in a self-conscious gesture as he rushed to his car in the now crowded parking lot. It had been nearly empty earlier that day, now it was packed. He looked around, still that feeling he was being watched stalked him. Seeing no one in the approaching darkness, he fumbled for his keys. His hands were shaking, whether from cold or fear, he didn't know, but it made it difficult for him to press the correct button to unlock his silver hybrid.
"Get a grip," he reprimanded himself beneath his breath. For the first time that day, he took a good look around the neighborhood the café was situated in and realized, rather belatedly, that it was in a rather rough-looking area. Shaking his head, he reached to pull open the car door and stopped mid-movement.
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