A/N: I have no rights or affiliation with the characters presented within this piece
The Choice
Jason stood looking out through the window, the room behind him was silent except for the monotonous humming and beeping of a myriad of machines as they kept constant vigil on his condition-even breathed for him. It was only because of his reliance, his dependence, his trust in those selfsame machines that he could afford to have his back to him, that he could even-albeit temporarily-relinquish his eyes on him, a standard that he had maintained for the past endless days. How many had it been now-three? No, he thought four at least, maybe more. Time had a habit of eluding one's grasp in hospitals, of bending and shifting until you thought it was mid-afternoon when it was actually midnight, when you knew positively that hours had gone by but according to your watch it was only mere minutes.
Ah, but back to the machines, they weren't anything like time, those unreliable, shifting grains of sand blown hither and thither in any breeze that happened along. No, they were steadfast, there to serve and without them Jason didn't know what he would have done. They were his only allies in this silent, this quiet unassuming life and death battle he was engaged in. He couldn't believe in anyone or anything else except himself and these medical sentinels. Truth be told, only they remained above the sordid fray, only they remained untarnished by the deeds and decisions preceding his move to a new address-to Mercy Hospital.
How ironic it was, here he was standing on the tenth floor, the goddamned tenth floor, of Mercy Hospital in a corner suite. It was the best room that money could buy and in order to prove it some long forgotten interior designer had hung floral curtains on the windows in an effort to underscore the point. The only good thing that could be said about it was that it wasn't painted some abysmal pink color. Not that his room was any longer either. In an act of contrition, a recompense for that which couldn't be reimbursed, he had ordered the alteration of the wall color to an Adriatic blue. It had sounded like a name he would appreciate, a color that might work but if he didn't want it, didn't like it then it would be painted, a dozen times if necessary, in order to get it just right.
This private room with the private nurses and almost a private doctor in Patrick Drake was in no way capable of assuaging the massive weight of guilt that Jason was carrying around like a dark pulsing cloud sending lightning bolts of pain down to throb inside his skull. If (as if) he needed any additional reminder the view was being oh so considerate in providing him with one. Sometimes he wondered if that is why he spent so much time in the masochistic embrace of the little window alcove. After all it was a corner suite. He'd paid good money for it and he was certainly entitled to look out either window. Yet, he always came back to the southwest one, was drawn irresistibly to the distant vision of the black column of hovering smoke and the more and more infrequent tongues of flame he could see shooting up that were quickly quenched by a forceful assault of water. It was funny but after all these years of residing in Port Charles, after all his visits to General Hospital he had never realized that the two institutions were visible to one another.
It seemed strange that as one hospital underwent its death rattles its often belittled counterpart was bursting at the seams with its sister hospital's refugees. You could recognize the staff, the patients, the family members that had come to Mercy for sanctuary, to crowd its corridors and double up its occupancy. They were the ones with grim faces and frightened eyes who jumped every time a dinner tray was dropped. They looked nervously for the exits and sniffed the air in order to check for the smell of smoke or the more insidious odor of poison. They were the ones that queried the staff as to the location of the operating rooms and to make sure that there was no leaking gas. Could they please have a ground level room or at least nothing above the second floor in case they needed to jump to safety.
Jason walked back over to the bed. He was incapable of staying away more than a few minutes. He reached out to touch him, to tousle his hair. He both longed for and dreaded the moment when he opened his eyes, when their green would look into his blue and he would ask the inevitable question of "what happened?" At first he would be told the basics, the outline. Hospital, fire, explosions, you're safe now-some burns, smoke inhalation (well, more than that, but it could wait).
Jason sighed as he looked down and saw that the tell tale smudge of black had reappeared under his nostrils. He reached over for a Kleenex and swiped away at it, the gritty, dark substance discoloring the white tissue. With a grimace, he tossed it in the trash can where it nestled up against uncounted of its fellows used for exactly the same purpose. He despised that outer sign of what was occurring within the depths of Spinelli's lungs. He had been in the fire way too long, had inhaled too much smoke, too many toxins and particles which had ended up clogging the delicate passageways and tissues. He would have scarring, for the rest of his life he would tire more easily, be out of breath after running short distances and be at risk any time he had the slightest respiratory infection.
That was the hopeful outcome, the one where he started breathing on his own, woke up and didn't have brain damage. Jason couldn't even bear to contemplate what lay behind door number two. Spinelli lying in a bed, his lungs being externally inflated and deflated, his eyes never opening. It would be Michael all over again and Jason couldn't face that once more, he just couldn't.
Yet, in point of fact if he had to he would. He hadn't just painted Spinelli's room to make up for the numberless and nameless acts he had perpetrated against him. He had done it as part of the preparation to get his room ready for when he came home to the penthouse. Jason knew it would be coming soon one way or the other. Either he would wake up and be checked out and would be sent home to recuperate or he wouldn't. If he didn't wake up and start breathing, Jason was still taking him home. He wanted him where he had lived, had-he hoped-been happy.
Jason sat down in the chair he was beginning to think of as his, he'd spent enough hours in it. He was relieved for once to be on his own with Spinelli. There had been a parade of visitors in and out of his room. Some stayed for a few minutes making awkward conversation with Jason and then leaving, looking ashamed at being in good health at being among the lucky ones who had made it out of the hospital more or less intact.
Then there were the ones that came prepared to stay for the long haul. They pulled up the matching chair and sat on the opposite side of the bed, the side that Jason hadn't claimed. Sam had been among that group until even she had to retreat from Jason's unyielding condemnation, the way he refused to leave Spinelli whenever she was in the room. She tried to talk, to get him to listen to her.
"Jason, you saw what it was like, it was an inferno. We couldn't see our own hands in front of our faces. We were breathing in pure smoke and you were weak from blood loss. We didn't know where he was or even if he was still in the hospital. We made a decision, the best that we could make at the time, with what we knew."
He didn't respond, didn't say anything, just stared at her in impenetrable silence. He knew rationalizations when he heard them. He didn't want to stand behind Sam's excuses. He wasn't going to compound their-his-actions by trying to explain away the unforgivable. What he felt towards Sam was hate because it was a reflection of what he felt towards himself. Jason would always be thankful for the time she went in after Jake, he knew he owed her his son's life. So, it was difficult to know how to reconcile that against her decision to leave Spinelli. He counted as much as Jake did, at least he did to Jason. So, how could two people who claimed to care about him so much have managed to fail him so utterly?
Nothing Jason could do or say would deter Maxie from occupying that mirroring chair. She was impervious to Jason's wants, his opinions, his presence even. Her concern, her worry was totally focused on Spinelli. Jason's objection to her visiting Spinelli was totally different than his opposition to Sam. He applauded and admired the fact that Maxie had actually gone into a burning building after her friend. He wasn't capable of saying 'boyfriend' though, not after the way she had been behaving.
Ever since Spinelli had been at Mercy, Jason kept stumbling across Maxie and Johnny Zacchara intertwined with one another. He escorted her to Spinelli's room and he would somehow sense when she was leaving or taking a break and there he would be. She leaned against the wall with one foot bent behind her while he tilted in against her, imprisoning her with his arms. Her head was ducked down and she was blushing while he whispered something to her, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Jason glared at them. Wishing he could ban Maxie from Spinelli's room but knowing he was powerless to do so that Maxie would ignore any demand from him and furthermore, that Spinelli would want her there, holding vigil. Still, every time he saw them together it was all he could manage to do to not rip Zacchara away from her and slam him up against the nearest wall grinding out a warning to stay away that she wasn't his, she was Spinelli's. He had to settle for venting his feelings by glowering at them and intentionally bumping into them and forcing them apart as he passed by. Still, it didn't seem to have the desired impact, the next time he turned a corner there they would be again, tears coursing down her cheeks and he brushing them gently away.
"Spinelli," he leaned in towards him, he only talked to him when it was just the two of them. "Come on. Enough of this. Everyone's worried-Maxie…Sam, Lulu…me. You just need to wake up, come back to us. I know you can do it."
He sighed, dispiritedly. Once Spinelli woke up everything would be changed. He would have to learn the truth, hear what had happened. The awful thing is that he wouldn't even understand why it was a problem, why Jason should care, be upset never mind be wracked with guilt. He would just treat it as a case of business as usual. Spinelli himself wouldn't have expected a different conclusion.
Jason thought back to the Metro Court hostage situation. That was not long after Spinelli had come to Port Charles, he pretty much only knew Lulu, Jason and Sam. Yet, he had volunteered to go in with Jason, to save Lulu who certainly wouldn't have bothered to return the favor. Jason didn't know who might have saved Spinelli if the need arose, he might have if it didn't interfere with the bigger picture with helping to rescue Carly, Elizabeth, Sonny, Emily and the list went on. No, back then no one in particular occupied Spinelli's corner, cared too much whether he lived or died.
Over time, that changed. More people came to appreciate, to value Spinelli-Carly, Jax, Mike, Claudia, and of course Maxie. Jason himself formed a more positive bond with the kid. He started to depend on him, to need him-his support, his advice. The next time a crisis arose-the shoot out in the ER at General Hospital, the Black and White Ball at Wyndemere-Jason actively protected Spinelli, made sure he was safe, tried to keep him out of harm's way.
He now perceived him as family-a younger brother, a son, the exact designation was blurred but real nonetheless. He thought that he belonged in that charmed circle of people that Jason would do anything for, go to any lengths to save. That sense of commitment was challenged when the FBI arrested Spinelli and demanded that Jason work to undermine the Zacchara organization and incidentally-Sonny Corinthos-in order to earn Spinelli's freedom. Jason took the deal, he didn't have a choice. He said all the right things, took the responsibility for the situation and claimed that it was his fault that Spinelli was in such danger.
Still, deep down he was furious with Spinelli. How else to explain the fact that he stayed out all night instead of finding his roommate, talking to him, calming his anxieties and reassuring him that the decision he had made was voluntary and that Spinelli was worth what Jason had to do. Every time he saw him he was reminded of the immense changes in his life. That because of Spinelli's negligence, his inability to guard the sensitive secrets contained on his computer's hard drive Jason had been put in an intolerable position, had been forced to choose between two of the people that meant the most to him in the world. His integrity was on the line and he wasn't sure anything could ever be the same again.
Looking back, he was ashamed of his behavior. He knew Spinelli had never done anything to intentionally compromise Jason or even Sonny. It was just all bad timing and the dogged determination of Agent Raynor to bring down the Port Charles organized crime syndicates. Spinelli had been a small, unfortunate fly in a very large, very sticky web. Things had been improving between the two of them, actually had been back close to normal right before the whole biotoxin incident at the hospital had spun wildly out of control.
There had been poison released through the ventilation system, people were dying and collapsing, the OR exploded and General Hospital had caught on fire. They had managed to save everyone. Jax had made multiple hazardous trips to the roof to rescue people in a helicopter. Others had made their way down one or the other of the smoke filled staircases, that is everyone but Damian Spinelli.
Jason sighed and scrubbed at his face in exasperation. He didn't know how many times he had gone over these same thoughts in his mind during the past several days. He knew that when, not if, but when Spinelli awoke he would want to know that everyone was safe-everyone that was important to Jason, to Patrick, and to Spinelli. The final person on his list would be himself. He seemed to feel that it was the correct order of the world. He should come last, be a natural after thought.
Jason believed that it probably had been one of the few constants in Spinelli's insecure existence. No one ever chose him, not even when he was young. A picture of a baby Spinelli or a toddler Spinelli with messy brown hair and puzzled hurt green eyes being deposited in his less than tender grandmother's arms had been haunting him. It was a sign of how little he truly knew about the young man that he claimed to care about. He couldn't even say if it was a true version of events, he'd never bothered to find out, to ask.
It was acid poured on Jason's soul to know that the victim had colluded in his own abandonment, his own betrayal. Spinelli wouldn't have been surprised to find himself crawling through the overhead ducts, to be battling fire and fumes with no one by his side. He would have stayed behind to help anyone-friend, foe, stranger, it wouldn't have made a difference in his dedication, all life mattered to him. All life that is except his own.
Jason knew that about his friend, his roommate, his brother, his undefined other. It was one of the reasons he did rescue him, did sit by his bedside when he was ill, listen to him when he talked. He needed to prove to him that someone cared and that he counted just as much as anyone. Hell, he'd even made a speech to Patrick, he told him clearly that he wouldn't leave-not without Spinelli, not without Sam.
He'd only kept half that promise. He'd tried, it's true he'd tried. They had gone in search of Spinelli, had walked the corridors ever more increasingly smoke filled, ever more perilous with flames shooting from every corner. They had tried, just so far and no further. Sam had convinced him to leave to save themselves, or had she? Maybe she had just voiced what he was thinking, what he wanted to do which was to flee, to get out, to once again breathe snow flecked air. He would never forget the expression on Maxie's face as they exited the hospital doors just seconds ahead of another explosion, a pursuing fireball. She looked behind them, waiting expectantly for Spinelli to materialize and when he didn't she looked back at Jason her face clearly communicating her shock, her agony, her loathing.
It wasn't Jason Morgan who saved Damian Spinelli. No, it was some brave, anonymous firemen that had once again entered the blazing building and had somehow managed to make their way to the eighth floor. That was high enough. The ninth and tenth floors had collapsed in the intense heat and Spinelli had been found lying unconscious and broken on a tilted slab of concrete.
Five days ago Jason had a friend, a brother, a confidant. Four days ago he had chosen Sam, had chosen fresh air, had chosen himself. Now, he sat beside his bed, hoping against hope that there would be a future, a chance to attempt to get back what he once took for granted. He knew Spinelli wouldn't forgive him because he wouldn't see any need for forgiveness. Jason had made the decision he would have made himself. Spinelli would have absolutely picked Jason over himself. That knowledge, that recognition, that choice was the one thing that Jason could never, would never make peace with.