Family Ties

by suerum

When Jason agrees to let Michael live with him he has no idea of the destruction he would create in his life.

A/N: I have no rights or affiliation with the characters presented within this piece

Family Ties

Chapter 1:The Discovery

It was the last, the final time that Sonny, Carly and even those unclaimed Quartermaines would make an incursion into Jason's life, costing him more than he was willing to pay. Ancient loyalties combined with the insidious call of guilt had made him sacrifice the one thing which lay outside their corrosive sphere of influence. Because of him, his history, his connections and, most of all, his choices-Spinelli lay in a coma. Jason knew intuitively that there would be no phoenix-like arising from these particular ashes.

He closed his eyes to block the vision of the sullen boy resentfully putting the penthouse back to some semblance of right. He could still hear the sound of shattered glass being deposited in garbage bags along with broken furniture being up righted. He didn't care, absolutely none of this disarray, this destruction mattered to him, they were simply things and as such of no import. What he wouldn't give for the whole apartment to be demolished entirely razed to the ground just so that when he once more opened his eyes Spinelli would be standing there among the debris. He would be whole and healthy, his messenger bag slung across his chest, his messy hair framing his eyes as he grinned happily at Jason.

Then he would speak, would say something inane and convoluted. "It would appear to be the time for Stone Cold and his Jackal to vacate these premises open as they now are to the depredations wreaked by Thor's mighty hammer. Might I suggest a removal to sunnier climes with perhaps a room for the grasshopper's residence painted in any shade except regrettable pink…?"

That wouldn't happen, couldn't happen and it was all their fault. His for taking in this savage young man in his living room, Carly's and Sonny's for destroying the sacred trust he had given them so many years ago, AJ's for passing his genetics along and Michael for his suspected heinous actions. The only innocent in the whole situation was the one lying in a hospital bed with a tube down his throat and ruined hands pillowed upon his chest. He had paid the tab, the debt for all of them and he owed no part of it.

Between them they had managed to remove everything that mattered in Jason's constricted world-the light, purity, faith, and trust. All that was left in the shambles, the destructive wake was the husk of a man who had once contained and transmitted each of those irreplaceable qualities. Only the shell was left for Jason to claim, to attempt to rehabilitate, to love and shelter from the dark forces which with Jason's tacit, passive approval had destroyed him in the first place.

"Uncle Jason," the voice was tentative, uncertain. "I'm done, I cleaned it all up."

Jason opened his eyes, his fists clenching reflexively as he looked with icy, unfeeling eyes at Michael. "Don't call me that. I'm not your uncle anymore. You're nothing to me." His voice was a harsh rasp underlain with grief stricken exhaustion.

"But…" He was stammering, disbelieving and the familiar flicker of angry self pity began to flare within him. "You can't say that, mean that…I am your nephew. It's a blood connection, you can't just say it isn't. Besides," and now the fury was rising, the blood rushing to his face as he gave into it, the wonderful self righteous flow of it. "I chose you, over my own parents, I chose you!" That would have done it, reminding Jason how he was the lucky winner in the Michael lottery.

"I wish to hell you hadn't." Jason said it with a quiet, self loathing emphasis. "I wish you had chosen anyone else but me. Most of all, I wish that I had said no, just no, when you asked if you could live here." He ran his hands over his face trying to scrub some energy, some life back into his mind, his body. He had to get back to the hospital that was the sole thought that consumed him.

"It's Spinelli, it's him!" Michael couldn't keep up the façade any longer. His jealousy boiled over into his words, his tone, his body language as he stood stiffly rage emanating from him.

"Yes, Michael, of course it is Spinelli. How could you even think otherwise? He's lying in a coma, he can't breath on his own, his brain, his hands…" Jason paused, the enormity of how truly serious the situation was once again engulfed him. He looked over at Michael who was staring back at him a triumphant gleam clearly visible in his eyes as he gloated over the litany of grievous wounds Jason had just recited. "If," he was speaking slowly, with crystalline clarity. "If I find out that you had anything to do with this, Michael…" He let the threat hang in the air between the two of them and was viciously pleased to watch the boy's face pale, his eyes standing out in stark relief as he absorbed the realization that his father's enforcer, his uncle had just threatened him-Michael Corinthos Jr.!

"Now," Jason was done, if he had further business with the little monster it would have to wait. "I am going upstairs to pack some things for Spinelli, for me and then I am going back to the hospital. You aren't welcome here anymore, Michael. You need to go and get your stuff. If you aren't ready to leave by the time I get back down here, I'm throwing you out anyway."

It had been a starkly adamant statement but still Michael couldn't accept it. "Where am I supposed to go?" He pleaded, never before having faced life without a safety net.

"I don't care," Jason said, already starting up the stairs with a heavy tread. "You have parents, grandparents, maybe your mother can get you a room at the Metro Court." He had to check himself from offering to pay for the room. A momentary sadness for the loss of the innocence that had been Michael when he had lain in Jason's arm a lovable infant swept through him. "You had better hurry, I'm not going to be long. I want to get back to Spinelli." He said that last intentionally knowing that it would twist the knife, make it clear that Jason was finally picking love and family over biology and obligation.

Jason had sped home from his meeting with Sonny. He didn't know where the urgency had come from but it permeated every part of his being, he had to get home. Yet, even as he rode the bike faster and faster, taking the curves almost flat to the ground, rushing the lights as they turned yellow, darting in and out of less mobile vehicles, he felt oppressed. He knew somehow that it was too late that whatever was waiting for him had already occurred and all he could do was react but not prevent.

He tried to tell himself it was just the aftermath of another interminable meeting with Sonny. He couldn't understand himself which was becoming a more common thing in his life. He didn't know if this was true of other people that they became less not more certain about their choices, their decisions as they grew older but it sure seemed that way for Jason. He thought that perhaps asking to go back as Sonny's enforcer was one of the more egregious mistakes in his recent life. They no longer fit each other, they were harnessed together as the leaders in the Corinthos-Morgan operation but more often than not they found themselves pulling in opposite directions.

He knew Sonny felt the same disappointment as he did about their re-established partnership. It was clear in the exasperated rolling of his eyes, the disdain in his expression, which he didn't bother to hide, whenever Jason spoke his mind, held an opinion that differed from Sonny's. It had all been exacerbated of late, ever since Michael had sought shelter with Jason. Sonny had harangued him for a good twenty minutes this evening about the arrangement. He repetitively emphasized the fact that Carly and he were his parents and that he should be with them, with his family and not with Jason.

If he had been so inclined, Jason could have countered his complaints, his arguments with logical ones of his own. After all, he had more of a genetic claim on Michael than Sonny if he wanted to underscore the point. Still, as ever, he contained himself and simply said, "It was Michael's choice, Sonny. You know that."

Yes, Sonny knew that-Michael had chosen Jason over him, over Carly-and it was precisely that decision that galled him, that made him obsessively revisit the issue. His son should have been with his parents, with his father is what he really meant. Jason was good for business matters, for striking terror into the heart of the competition, for bouncing ideas off of as long as the final pronouncement was always Sonny's. Yet, he wasn't allowed to take Sonny's heir, that was overstepping the bounds of their relationship and Sonny couldn't comprehend why Jason didn't see the inherent disloyalty in the act. He should have told Michael no and sent him back to his parents where he belonged, that's what the old Jason would have done. This new model though, Sonny couldn't predict anything about him and it disturbed him almost as much as the fact that his son had rejected him out of hand.

Sonny had no idea how much Jason had come to agree with him but for entirely different reasons. He was regretting that he had acquiesced to Michael's request. He had done it as reaction to his guilt for Michael ever having been put in the coma conjoined with his relief that he had awoken from it. He knew at the time there would be problems but he had miscalculated their number and source.

True to form, Carly had shown up at his door in tears but Michael had been stony faced, had refused to hear her pleas and had abruptly ended the encounter by retreating upstairs to his room. Then Carly had turned on Jason, had spat vituperative words at him as she accused him of turning her son against her. She had cracked Jason's heart and he attempted to explain his reasoning for his actions but following her son's cue she had stormed out of the penthouse, the slamming door reverberating through the silent air of the living room. Jason hadn't seen her since and he missed her but he had expected her reaction, her rejection of him, he knew her well. He could only hope that she would eventually relent, would return to him, especially if she and Michael reunited at some point.

Sonny's reaction to the situation had been equally predictable, hence this evening's debacle, only the most recent of many. Jason fervently wished that his response had been more on par with Carly's, that he had banished him from the business, from his very presence. He knew he would have met that outcome with an external equilibrium and an interior sense of fierce satisfaction at finally being free of the toxic constraints that his acquaintance with Sonny placed upon his existence. In summation, he had lost the one he wished to keep and got to keep the one he wished gone.

Still, Carly and Sonny they were known factors and had reacted to specifications, in time honored patterns. It was the unexpected dynamics of the new living relationship that had caused Jason to pause, to reevaluate his choice. He wished he had thought more of Spinelli, that instead of announcing it as a done deal he had solicited his input, his desires in the matter. After all, it really had become just as much his home as Jason's and he had a say in who stayed there. Yet, in the final analysis, Jason knew that Spinelli would have intuited that Jason wished Michael to reside with them. He would have made that his response, a positive and enthusiastic endorsement while he hid any misgivings, any sense that his place in Jason's world might be usurped by the incoming interloper.

He was close now, so close and still the bike wasn't moving fast enough. Jason needed it to fly. Spinelli, how could he have been so blind not to see the friction, to see how it was between them? Michael hated him and he took it out on him in ways little and big, physical and psychological and Jason knew it, he knew it and did nothing. It was déjà vu all over again when Sonny had tormented Spinelli had even physically abused him and all Jason had done was make excuses and try to limit the damage done to the Jackal's ever sensitive ego. Michael had changed and Jason didn't want to accept it because then there would be another result of his life's choices negatively impacting someone he loved laid squarely at his door. Still, what was he doing now? He was leaving Spinelli exposed to the angry young man's manipulations, his possessiveness and his poisonous envy. His friend had no defense against such machinations and so once again he was failing him.

"Well," he thought grimly to himself as finally he was turning the corner heading towards the Harborview Towers' parking garage, "It ends tonight. I'm going to talk to Michael and set some boundaries. If he doesn't agree with them and start respecting Spinelli then he can leave. His parents can have what they want and Spinelli will be able to breathe again." Content with his plan, his resolution to act and to try and repair the damage he had wrought on his undeserving roommate, he slowed as he started to turn into the garage. He was almost home.

He decelerated even more as he saw the crumpled figure off to the far side of the entrance. Jason sighed, this was all he needed tonight! He often ran across vagrants, mostly homeless men who rummaged through the Towers' dumpsters situated right outside the garage. Usually, he felt compassion for them and would give them money and try and steer them towards one of the city shelters so they could get a bed and a hot meal. The cynical side of him knew that the money was almost always spent on alcohol or even drugs but it was all he could manage. Occasionally, he had cause to call an ambulance and once he had found a dead man which had involved the police and the coroner's van. It looked like this poor soul tonight was going to be in need of one of those two services…

Jason climbed reluctantly off his bike. This wasn't an attractive chore at the best of times and tonight his mind had been preoccupied, focused on his discussion with Michael, with setting things right for Spinelli. Still, he was the only one here and someone needed to help this man. So, as he strode forward towards the body which was at least unconscious, if not in a worse condition, he braced himself for what he might find, for what he would need to do and the lost time involved.

As he got closer and the light hit the man, a chill ran down Jason's spine. "It couldn't be," he muttered to himself, disbelievingly. He shook his head and closing his eyes looked away briefly as though his prior thoughts had somehow contaminated his current vision. "Oh, my God! No, Spinelli!" He could feel the bile rushing up his throat and he turned towards the dumpster unable to deny the reflex. Up it came, hot and acrid, he stood bowed over, suffering the final shudderings of the attack before he could manage to stand upright and wipe his mouth.

Jason was impatient with his weakness, it had detracted from what he needed to do, to help Spinelli. The thought flashed across his mind, "If there were help to be given," but he resolutely damped the unthinkable idea back down into the recesses of his brain. He would be fine, he just had to be.

Now he was crouching next to him, peering at him in the shadowed light. "Spinelli?" He spoke tentatively, reaching for him, his face scrunched up in distress as he placed his fingers on his neck, desperate to find a pulse. It was there, weak and thready, but there. Jason sighed a silent prayer of thanks. Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed 911 and gave the requisite information in terse sentences.

There wasn't anything left to do but wait. Spinelli was unconscious and Jason dreaded looking too closely at him. Still, he couldn't help himself, he knelt next to him and removing his leather jacket laid it over him. It was all he dared to do. He really wanted to lift up his head and cushion it with the jacket or better yet use his lap but he knew he shouldn't. There was blood, a large pool of it underneath his head and it frightened Jason so much that he couldn't even contemplate it. Instead he turned his attention to the rest of him and there wasn't good news to be had anywhere.

His face was unrecognizable, even when Jason had first approached him; he hadn't known who he was until he had seen the messenger bag lying abandoned nearby. The bag had undergone the same battering as his friend, the laptop inside was shattered, pieces of black plastic erupted from rough tears in the canvas, the result of unbridled ferocity. Jason tried as hard as he could to focus only on Spinelli and not draw parallels between the destroyed machine and the body scant feet away. His eyes were irresistibly drawn again to Spinelli's face, it was a bloody mask, he had lain here long enough for the viscous fluid to begin to crust and congeal.

His hands trembling, Jason pulled his jacket back not wanting to see what lay beneath it but needing to look, to witness what Spinelli had endured. His hoodie was filthy, coated with blood and oil and dirt that in one case formed a perfectly discernible shoe imprint. Jason drew in his breath sharply, the police would confiscate it for evidence he knew but that wasn't what he cared about. He understood now, Spinelli hadn't been run over as Jason had first assumed, a hit and run driver, probably drunk, had been the scenario he had been running over in his thoughts.

Seeing the footprint, made his mind reel, his vision dimmed and he felt nauseous all over again. Then he felt the familiar bite of ice stealing through his body as he began to plan his revenge, what wrath he would unleash on those who had dared to do this to Spinelli. Spinelli, who saved spiders from his bathroom, for him to be brutally assaulted like this was unendurable and it would not be allowed to stand.

Still his eyes prowled, unable to stop looking, taking inventory of all that had been done to this boy who, he was belatedly discovering, was his world. Jason groaned in agony, his hands, he hadn't seen them at first hidden as they were in the shadows on either side of his body. He picked up the one nearest him, the left, and nearly dropped it in revulsion and disgust. The shoes, the boots that had been used to stamp out the existence of the unoffending laptop, which had aimed vicious kicks at Spinelli's defenseless head and vulnerable torso, here they had been in their glory.

It ran through Jason's head like a movie, set in shifting shadows and with only a soundtrack of pained groans and gasps for mercy while the assailants cursed in unending streams of hatred. He knew that it had been the final moment, the crowning effect when they held each of his hands flat to the pavement and stomped on them the crunch of bone considerately supplied by his mind which had picked this inopportune moment to develop an imagination.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" He was speaking to the prostrate figure cradling the ruined hand in his as unacknowledged tears coursed down his cheeks in his irrefutable grief.

He knew now that this attack hadn't been random, hadn't been a mugging gone wild or a pack of young men out seeking thrills by attacking someone so clearly inoffensive. No, this had been aimed directly at Spinelli or at Jason through him. It didn't matter which because they would pay and he would have them screaming for release from the pain coursing through their pathetic bodies before he delivered the coup de grace. He would make sure that each one knew why and for whom he suffered such exquisite anguish before slowly dispatching them. The hands, the hands and the head were the giveaway that illustrated the malign and directed convergence of this unexpurgated act of pure animalistic hatred, those were the foci of Spinelli.

They, together with his heart, formed the triumvirate that defined who he was, his uniqueness that shone out on the darkest night of the soul. Tonight though, Jason feared perhaps one or more of them might have been extinguished permanently and he couldn't bear it, he simply couldn't.

The piercing shrillness of sirens alerted Jason to the approach of the ambulance. "They're coming, Spinelli, they're almost here. They'll take care of you, make you better and everything will be okay." The lies tumbling from his lips were useless, unable to reassure him and not capable of penetrating the unavailable mind of his protégé.

The paramedics were efficient, the ambulance screeched to a halt and they were with Jason and Spinelli in a matter of moments. Jason had hoped that his impressions, his evaluation of Spinelli's condition was extreme that he had overestimated the damage, the injuries because of his emotional involvement the added impact of his fear and love. He could tell from their expressions that it wasn't only as bad as he had perceived but possibly even worse. They were working in grim tandem-checking vitals, moving limbs, placing a cervical collar around his neck in case of spinal damage.

The younger one of the pair blanched when he saw Spinelli's hands a raw, "Jesus Christ!" expelled from his lungs.

The elder paramedic was a man in his forties, a veteran of what the city streets could churn up and deposit on his gurney but Jason could tell that even he was affected by the multitude and degree of Spinelli's horrendous wounds. "Did you see who did this?" He asked it quietly, almost conversationally but his face was a mirror image of Jason's as they both contemplated what they would do to the inhuman beasts that could perpetuate such an act of violence.

Jason swallowed over his rage and grief and shook his head. "No, but I will find out." It was a promise.

As gently as they could, they transferred Spinelli to a gurney and began to load him into the ambulance. It was evident that they were very concerned about Spinelli even surviving the short journey to the hospital as they conducted a rapid fire exchange with the General Hospital Emergency Room. The younger paramedic was assigned to drive and his older, more experienced partner was riding in the rear with the patient.

Jason began to clamber into the vehicle when the paramedic held up his hand, stopping him. "We can only allow family members to ride along and in this case," he looked dubiously down at a battered Spinelli, "I think we shouldn't even allow that."

Jason hadn't even paused, he sat down on the bench running along the length of the ambulance. "I'm coming," he said with finality, "And yes, I'm his family." He hadn't hesitated making the admission, he was merely stating the truth.

Two minutes into the ride, Spinelli began to convulse, his body and limbs jerking and vibrating in random terrifying tremors. The paramedic reached behind himself yanking open a drawer and pulling out a prepared syringe wrapped in plastic. He ripped the plastic open with his teeth and pulling down Spinelli's pants injected the drug into his thigh muscle. The drug took effect quickly and Spinelli reverted to his prior unresponsive state.

The paramedic sat back breathing heavily and stared across at Jason who was pale and drained as he looked down at Spinelli his concern for him having notched up immeasurably. "It's the head wound," he explained compassionately, "He has a fractured skull and I'm sure there are bone fragments in his brain." Ordinarily he wouldn't have given this explanation to a relative. They were trained to let the doctors notify family members about the condition of a patient.

Yet, he had made an exception in this particular case for two reasons. The first was that Jason appeared to him to be someone who could handle bad news that he would always prefer to know what he was dealing with rather than denying it. The second was that he felt he needed to start preparing him. Spinelli was grievously injured and it was one of those situations where the paramedic thought the most merciful outcome might be for him to die. Friends and relatives always assumed that life was the goal, that their loved one simply be saved and be alive. In their emotional state, in the extremity of the moment, they were incapable of registering that perhaps there were circumstances wherein it wasn't always enough to be alive, that the quality of the reclaimed life might matter more. He knew, based on his years of experience, that Spinelli's injuries were a textbook example of that unfair dichotomy. He didn't know if the boy were physically salvageable or not but he was absolutely positive that if he lived he would be facing potentially insurmountable challenges. His brain injury was severe and the damage to his hands, he had never seen anything like that and the knowledge that it had been done intentionally sent cold shivers of repulsion down his spine.

Jason nodded his head, indicating his reception of the information about the seizure. The paramedic couldn't tell if his more subtle underlying message of the true nature of the boy's condition had reached him. Jason's eyes hadn't once swerved from Spinelli's unrecognizable visage. He felt that he had to stay in visual contact with him that he could will him to remain alive, nothing else mattered right now.

They were at the hospital. The seriousness of the situation began to dawn on Jason when he saw their reception committee. Every other time he had ever come to the hospital as a patient or, as he was tonight, an escort, they always dashed into the ER calling out the situation as whatever doctors and nurses who were available would congregate around the gurney escorting it to an available cubicle. This evening though was starkly different. The team was already assembled and waiting. Jason saw three doctors-Patrick Drake, Matt Hunter and some woman he didn't recognize-awaiting them. There were also several nurses including, he saw with relief, Epiphany Johnson the most experienced R.N. on the staff. Still, the fact that they were all cued up and ready to go must mean that every second counted and that realization filled him with dread, things must be bad, extremely bad…

They rushed Spinelli away from him into the rear of the ER. The new hospital ER was more sequestered, patients were treated behind swinging doors with staff only admittance signs on them rather than in flimsily curtained cubicles. Jason just stood there forlorn, he had contributed what he could and now it was up to the practitioners of medicine to produce the miracle that he needed.

It was a weeknight and the ER was relatively quiet, there was only an elderly man awaiting news of his wife, she had Alzheimer's and had slipped and fallen at their home. Jason sat next to him in the empty reception room letting his worries and reminiscences flood over him, the soothing cadence of the man's voice temporarily blocking out his own frantic thoughts. A nurse wearing a practiced expression of sympathy came to get him, to bring him to his wife's side for the final time. Jason stood up in helpless camaraderie, grabbing the grief stricken man as he swayed and nearly fell, he helped the nurse escort him to those verboten doors and had to watch, excluded, as they vanished behind them.

Now Jason was alone without the borrowed memories of the older man as a buffer against his own awful debilitating thoughts. Image and sound fragments swirled through his mind until finally an isolated recollection popped up like a winning row of Bing cherries on a slot machine console. "Stone Cold, how may your grasshopper be of assistance this bright sunny morn'?" He had been wearing some absurd shirt with a peculiar logo on it-a stork or an ice cream truck-and it was buttery yellow reflecting the lovely day outside.

That had been before Michael, back when it was just the two of them. Jason hadn't realized, not really, how much Spinelli's presence had permeated the penthouse as he stampeded up and down the stairs twenty times a day or swigged orange soda after orange soda sitting on the couch, his fingers working their lightning magic on the keyboard of his laptop. "His fingers…" the words came out as a low groan. Jason shut his eyes willing the horrible memory of those grotesquely injured hands away but they stubbornly remained, incised on his retina.

When Michael had awoken from his coma it had seemed to Carly, to Sonny and most definitely to Jason as hope reborn. The boy the three of them had loved, fought over, nurtured and then lost to the bouncing passage of a bullet was once more amongst them. At first he had been dazed, barely aware, taciturn to a degree that even outstripped Jason's formidable abilities in that arena.

Slowly he responded to them but it wasn't according to their plan, their concept of how Michael should be-happy to see his parents, his brother-as sunlight streamed through the windows of his room. It was supposed to be like the ending to a film, a family gathering, everyone smiling for the camera as it was recorded for posterity that there was no longer a hole within, a yearning unfulfilled but joy and completeness as they looked to the future.

Michael rejected his father first. Jason had told him the unembellished story of how he had come to be lying in this bed in the aftercare facility for so long. He hadn't let his voice indicate any condemnation of Sonny, no the only guilt evident was his own. He apologized raggedly to Michael for not having protected him, for not being there when he needed him. Yet, Michael had heard the subtext, recognized that the one who had no guilt was carrying the entire burden of it while the other-his own father-seemed to feel that his culpability was limited, was unimportant particularly when measured against the fact of Michael's return to him.

Sonny's sole contribution to the topic, his only inkling of remorse was a gruff, "I wished it could have been different that night. I wish I hadn't dismissed the guards…"

"Well, yeah, so do I!" Michael thought indignantly as he heard this half-hearted confession of responsibility from his father. He just looked silent and implacable at Sonny, refusing to offer words of forgiveness, of consolation for having spent over a year in a coma.

After an awkward pause, Sonny offered brightly, "That's all over now. Dr. Drake says you'll be fine, a little physical therapy and you can come home to us." He smiled, genuinely happy that the stars had once again aligned the way they were meant to be in Sonny Corinthos' universe. His reward was a disdainful glare from his son as he deliberately remained quiet and turning his back on his disbelieving father, rolled over on his side and pretended to sleep. Sonny tried a puzzled, "Michael?" and getting no reply uttered a resigned sigh at the obdurateness of his elder son, leaving his room to try again another day.

Michael didn't permit another day not from Sonny whom he refused to acknowledge or speak to until he in turn grew angry and in a fit of pique stopped coming to visit. He also was uncommunicative with Carly. He wasn't even sure why he was rejecting her as she came to see him her arms always overflowing with gifts-video games, junk food and the newest action DVD's. He didn't blame her for the shooting, at least he didn't think he did, and she like Jason was remorseful about it as though it belonged on her shoulders rather than entirely and solely on Sonny's which was Michael's cold and calculated estimation of the matter.

No, he just couldn't bear to look into his mother's tear stained, joyful face as she spoke to him, her voice tremulously awash with emotion at the fact she had her baby back. She brought Morgan to visit and Michael barely managed to abide him as he climbed over his bed, leaving the covers in disarray. The final break in his tolerance for Carly, her incessant need for reassurance that he was all right followed immediately by details of her self-involved life with Morgan, the hotel, Jax, even the self-sacrificing vigil she had held over him for so many months, came when she announced her pregnancy.

It was all too much to absorb. Michael remembered other pregnancies, Morgan's and the one that hadn't come to term, and now this, another child he was expected to be happy about, to mentor. Well, he didn't want to and he really didn't care if that made him a bad person or not. He had spent years propping both his parents. They had been more child-like than he had and to wake up and find out that nothing, absolutely nothing had changed, put Michael into an internalized fury that only had expression through quietly cutting remarks and rejection of his parents' overtures of affection.

That's when his attention began to shift to the one person who he couldn't categorize as selfish or needy, the only one who seemed to be interested in Michael's actual needs, how he really felt not the feelings projected onto him by others-Jason. He would sit with Michael saying absolutely nothing sometimes or at others listening or even talking when it appeared to be what he required of him. He seemed to know intuitively what Michael's moods were, what he needed in the moment and he didn't get upset or offended if he was angry or depressed or wanted to be alone. Jason seemed to be the only real adult in his world and the child in Michael found himself clinging to him, wanting only his presence by his bedside.

All his life he had called him Jason, just that nothing more. Yet, Michael knew that their bond was complex a mixture of blood and choice on either side. So, as the only offering in his power that he felt could acknowledge what he perceived as a new found depth of connection between the two of them he began calling him 'Uncle Jason'. Jason recognized the newly bestowed title as an indication of some desire on Michael's part for security, to remind Jason of their actual familial tie so as to ensure his continuation in his life. Jason didn't object to the switch to the more formal name, he only wished he could do something more concrete to make Michael feel safe rather than adrift on a sea of unfamiliar sensations and emotions. It wasn't that Michael's world had shifted while he had been in the coma it was that he now perceived it differently and it frightened him. Jason was the only source of normalcy as he struggled to adapt to his new surroundings.

Six weeks ago, Jason had been getting ready to go over to Carly's for Michael's welcome home party. He knew Michael would need him there, to keep him calm to try and help him keep his temper in check. These days he was unpredictable, liable to flare up at the most innocuous of remarks and it was only Jason that seemed to be able to reach him, to bring him back under control. Carly had recognized this and had asked that he stick close to Michael all afternoon long. She was actually more nervous than excited at the long awaited homecoming of her son, she had sensed the waves of alienation emanating from him but she had no idea of their root cause and was hurt that Michael was so dismissive of her love and concern for him.

There was a knock on the door just as he came downstairs and he opened it to find the unexpected sight of Michael in the hallway. "Michael!" He exclaimed, genuinely surprised. "What are you doing here? Your mom's expecting you." He didn't mention anything about the party because it was supposed to be a surprise but Jason was dubious about the wisdom behind the thought.

"I'm not going," there was a sulky, rebellious look to his face. It was an expression that had become familiar to everyone since Michael had woken up but around Jason it wasn't as often in evidence. Then the other words spilled out of him spontaneously. "I don't want to live with her or Morgan or Jax or my father!" The dismissive, contemptuous way he spoke of Carly and Sonny wasn't lost on Jason.

"Well, then what do you want, Michael?" Jason tried to sound reasonable as his mind raced and he thought of Carly hearing of Michael's decision, his rejection of her.

"I want to live here, with you." The response was prompt, practiced. He had bent his head as he spoke fearful of seeing outright rejection of his plan in Jason's eyes. "Please," the last was a heartfelt, whisper.

Jason stared at the boy before him, his head bowed awaiting his verdict. He hesitated, he didn't know what to do. "Well…" he began entirely unsure as to what he would say.

"I'll run away!" Now Michael was looking directly at him, defiance gleaming in his eyes. "If I can't live with you then I won't live with them either. I'll run away and nobody will ever find me." He was adroit at manipulation, at knowing the fears of those who cared about him and utilizing that knowledge to get his own way.

Jason wasn't going to be blackmailed into having Michael live with him. He cocked his head looking speculatively at the boy. "Tell you what,' he said finally, "You call your mother and tell her where you are and what you want to do and if she says yes then you can stay here for now."

Michael's eyes lit up with delight and a wide grin split his face as he turned pulled out his phone. He dialed Carly's cell phone and Jason could tell that from the squeaking sounds audible through the cell phone speaker that she was frantic, that Michael had left the after care facility without telling her. His face hardened at this sign of cruel thoughtlessness on the part of his potential new roommate.

"I'm fine, Mom." Michael finally cut Carly's remonstrations off with an ill-concealed impatience. "I'm at Uncle Jason's." There was a pause as a spate of new questions erupted from Carly's side of the conversation. "No, I'm not coming home." He said it with absolute finality and his flat statement succeeded in stunning Carly into silence, a feat on its own. "Uncle Jason says I can stay with him and that's exactly what I am going to do, what I want to do…" Now the squawking began in earnest and Michael pulled the phone away from his ear, looking over at Jason with a grimace of irritation.

Jason sighed and gestured for him to hand the phone over. "Carly? Yeah, it's Jason. I told Michael that if you agreed he could stay here for the time being."

Again there was silence as Carly adjusted to the exchange of the phone. "Jason?" Her voice was small, uncertain and he could hear that she was close to crying. "Why doesn't he want to come home? The party, everyone will be waiting…"

"Carly," he thought a moment before continuing. "You can't expect his reactions to always be what you want or expect them to be. He just needs some breathing space. He can stay with me for a while and after things settle down we can all revisit the situation."

There was no response, and then Carly spoke her voice hard and resentful. "He can stay for now, Jason. Take care of him." There was a click as Jason found out what it was like to be on the receiving end of having a phone call ended before he was ready for it to be. He flipped the phone shut and handed it back to Michael who was gazing at him an expectant look on his face. "You can stay for now. Carly's not very happy and I can't say I blame her." He narrowed his eyes as he looked intently at Michael. "You're positive this is what you want to do?"

Michael nodded his head, his face was open and eager all traces of temper and sulkiness had evaporated. "Absolutely sure! I promise you won't regret this, Uncle Jason. We'll have such fun living together…"

Just then the door to the penthouse opened and Spinelli came in calling out, "Stone Cold, whose luggage is that in the foyer? Are we having guests?" His glance skittered from Jason to Michael and he stared at the boy with a surprised expression. "Why it's young Master Corinthos. Is yonder baggage yours?" He looked between the two of them curiously.

Michael spoke first. "What are you doing here?" He spoke with a bluntness that verged on hostility. "This is Uncle Jason's home. You didn't even knock!"

He was revving up to become even more angry and indignant on his helpless uncle's behalf, all the while enjoying the astonishment and uncertainty appearing on Spinelli's face as he spoke. Jason interrupted him abruptly, "Michael!" He was furious at his attitude towards Spinelli and for a brief moment he questioned the wisdom of agreeing to let Michael move in with them. "Spinelli lives here, this is his home and if you intend to stay here, I expect you to show him appropriate courtesy and respect."

Michael lowered his eyes and muttered an unconvincing "Sorry." He peered calculatedly up at Spinelli through his eyelashes, trying to determine the dynamic between him and Jason and what he might do to disrupt it. He remembered Spinelli from before the coma, that he had always been hanging around the coffee shop and that he did live with Jason but he just presumed that he would have moved out by now. Why wouldn't a grown man want his own place, his freedom? Michael sure as hell would as soon as that would be an option for him, once he was of age. Meanwhile, if he was going to be living here he would have to find a way to convince the computer geek that it was to his advantage to move out and leave the place to just Michael and his uncle.

"It's all right, Stone Cold." Spinelli said trying to placate everyone as usual. "I imagine that young Michael presumed it would just be you and he residing at Casa de Stone Cold. Well, let the Jackal be the first to welcome you to our humble abode."

He felt a strange tug at his heart as he looked at the teenager that had removed the permanent gloomy expression from Jason's face ever since he had woken from his coma. Spinelli knew that he was probably looking at the heir to his position in both Jason's world and his esteem. He was trying to accept it with good grace. After all, Michael was his flesh and blood while Spinelli was nothing more than a stray that Jason had been induced to take in off the streets. He knew he often got on Jason's last nerve and while he had showed that he cared about the Jackal, it was a given that family came first-always.

"Casa de Stone Cold!" Michael sneered, "What kind of stupid name is that?"

Spinelli flushed unhappily, he had spoken with welcoming sincerity despite his own emotional turmoil and this was the cruel response he had received. He tried again gamely, "Yes, my language is often strange to others-a quirk if you will. I will go and retrieve the bags and bring them up to your room which abode Stone Cold can show you."

"Yeah, good idea, Spinelli." Jason looked grateful for his roommate's sincere attempts at defusing an unpleasant situation that was entirely due to Michael's unexpected pique at the fact that Spinelli lived with Jason. "Come on, Michael let's get you settled in your room."

The two of them trekked up the stairs followed by Spinelli struggling with Michael's duffel bag and his additional suitcase. Jason turned and went back down to take the duffel bag, he hefted it with ease while Michael stood waiting, his face an expressionless mask but not managing to quite hide the antagonistic glint in his eye as he stared at the unwelcome addition to their dyad.

Michael strode confidently down the hall, only stopping when he reached the last door on the right. He flung open the door and stepped inside, exhaling in a self satisfied way. "This will be perfect, Uncle Jason! Of course we'll need to repaint to get rid of…" he waved at the walls, unable to think of an appropriate descriptive adjective. "This yucky pink color," he finished finally, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

"Michael!" This time the voice was like a whip crack. "Look around you," he really couldn't believe how the boy was behaving. One look at Spinelli's face told him that every single insecurity which had slowly gone into abeyance was resurfacing at this very moment based on Michael's non-stop belittling of him and his world. "This is Spinelli's room." He said each word distinctly, intent on conveying the fact to both young men that nothing about the arrangement was going to change.

"Uncle Jason," it came out as a protesting whine. "This is the best room in the penthouse, it has the balcony and it's big and if we just painted it…" He was oblivious to the twin stares being directed at him-one of incomprehension and the other of slow forming misery.

"Stone Cold," it was Spinelli, he was trying hard to be gracious, to be a good host. "If residing in the regrettably pink room is what young Michael requires to feel…"

He wasn't allowed to finish. Jason held his hand out towards him, forestalling any other speech. "No, Spinelli. What Michael needs to learn is to listen." He glared at his nephew who was just slowly beginning to discern the difference between dealing with his parents-especially his mother-and his uncle. "This is Spinelli's room and will be for as long as he lives here. It isn't open for negotiation, Michael. Your room is across the hall."

"I just thought that my being your nephew would count for more than some hacker who wormed his way into your life. Now that I'm here you don't need him, Uncle Jason." Michael managed to make this astonishingly insulting and derogatory discourse without even slightly intuiting its effect on the two men standing before him.

Spinelli did the only thing he could with all the conflicting emotions roiling around within him, the predominant one being a terrible sense of abandonment, he fled the room. Jason stepped after him calling out, "Spinelli, wait!" It was no use, he had already clattered down the stairs and through the door, they could hear it slamming behind him. He turned back towards Michael, his eyes twin chips of ice. "That is last time you say anything like that to Spinelli, Michael. Are we absolutely clear? I thought you understood downstairs but since you are still harassing him, let me lay the situation out for you so that there can be no future misunderstandings. Spinelli lives here, in this room. I want him here, he wants to be here. You are my nephew and I do love you but he is my family as well and I love him. Don't think you can make me choose, Michael, you might not like the result…"

Michael heard the sincerity in every word Jason was uttering. He knew that he had to switch tactics. What had been born of jealousy and irritation had now solidified into hard core hate towards the geeky usurper of his proper place in his uncle's universe. He would get rid of him, make him pay but he knew that he had to be subtle, to fly under Jason's very perceptive radar.

I'm sorry, Uncle Jason. I was really out of line with Spinelli. I'll apologize to him when he comes back. Of course I'll be happy with whatever room you give me. It's just been a long day what with getting out of the aftercare facility and coming here and whatnot. It'll be great living here with you…and Spinelli." Michael gritted his teeth as he got the last out but he had managed to sound sincere throughout.

Jason sighed as he turned around and picking up the discarded bags walked across the hall to the only other bedroom in the penthouse. "I know it has been rough on you, Michael, and that's why I'm willing to cut you some slack. Just leave Spinelli alone, he's a good person and he's never done anything to deserve what you said to him. Here," he pushed open the door and stepped aside to let Michael see his new living quarters.

Michael disliked the room on principle. True it wasn't as large as Spinelli's and it didn't have a balcony but it was a comfortable room with its own bathroom and plenty of closet space but it wasn't the one he had wanted. Still, he would have the correct room and Uncle Jason all to himself, just give him time…

Jason rubbed his eyes wearily, they were scratchy and dry. He looked blearily at his watch. They had taken Spinelli away almost an hour ago and still no word on his condition. He had been kept busy filling in the admittance paperwork but now that was finished and once again he was left trapped within the quagmire of his thoughts.

Looking back he knew that Michael had gone guerilla on him that first day. He hadn't decided to live in peace with Spinelli or abide by Jason's dictate that he treat him respectfully. No, he had just decided to pursue his single minded goal of getting Spinelli out of the penthouse in a more underhanded manner, without arousing Jason's suspicion. If only he had said no, when he had asked to live with them, if only…Then he wouldn't be sitting alone under buzzing fluorescent lights in a hard contoured plastic chair waiting to hear if Spinelli would be coming back to him.

That night they had ordered pizza and when Spinelli had come back into the penthouse, tentatively walking through the door instead of banging in with his usual exuberance, Jason had offered him some. "Hey, Spinelli, there's pizza in the kitchen. Help yourself and come out and join us." He was trying to bring things down a notch from defcon four as Spinelli might say, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy as they all adjusted to living together.

"Oh," It was Michael piping up as he looked apologetically at Spinelli. "We had pizza but I didn't know you were going to be eating with us. I just polished off the last piece." He held up his plate as evidence with nothing but some crusts sitting on it. "Sorry." He shrugged his shoulders in mock regret.

Spinelli just stared at Michael for a moment. His clear green eyes registered a vague wretchedness. "That's quite all right, the Jackal wasn't particularly hungry anyway. I think I'll just retire for the evening. Fair Samantha and I have a busy day tomorrow. 'Night, Stone Cold, Young Michael."

Watching the dejected slump of his shoulders as he ascended the stairs caused a pang of regret in Jason's heart. "Had he made a mistake?" He pondered to himself as he looked at the self satisfied set of Michael's jaw as he proceeded to look through the DVD's under the TV almost all of them Spinelli's.

"Want to watch a movie with me, Uncle Jason?" Michael was grinning at him, an open happy expression on his face.

Now, as Jason sat in the waiting room becoming increasingly concerned about the passage of time with no accompanying news, he wondered how he could have been so blind. There had been so many clues, little ones like the deliberate consumption of the pizza, to huge glaring ones that should have sent him running to get psychiatric counseling for Michael and most of all to get him out of the penthouse and away from Spinelli.

He remembered the night he had come home from a meeting unexpectedly early. Jason had opened the door to the penthouse and had stepped into a full blown party. He had heard the music throbbing out as far as the elevator when the door had opened. The music had masked the sounds of voices, he wasn't sure but he thought there must have been thirty or more people in his living room. He stopped stunned, looking for Michael, for Spinelli, for whoever was responsible for this unsanctioned act. He groaned as he thought about the calls he would have to field from the building's association, they only just barely tolerated his presence as it was.

He pushed through the crowd of revelers-dancing, drinking, making out, smoking-it was disgusting and it was occurring in his pristine home, his refuge. Jason found them in the kitchen, they were arguing, it was strange to see Spinelli in full blown righteous anger.

"This is not an approved event. Stone Cold will be most displeased. Tell them to go, now, or I shall!"

"You!" Michael sneered at him, a bottle of beer in his hand, "You couldn't get a five year old to do what you want."

"Enough!" Jason's roar caught both their attention. "Michael, get out there and shut that music off and get those kids out of here, now!"

Startled, Michael turned to look at Jason, his face still set in the vicious mask he had worn while talking to Spinelli. He tried to compensate, tried to backtrack, unsure of what Jason had heard but realizing what he had seen was damning enough. "Uncle Jason, I…I didn't expect you back so early…"

"Obviously," Jason said dryly. "Get out there and do what I said." His tone was inflexible.

Michael shot a look of pure hate at Spinelli. "You called him didn't you? God, what a prissy, sack of…"

"Michael! Shut up and do what I said or you'll regret it. Give me that!" He whipped the bottle of beer from Michael's hand, earning a rebellious glare as the teenager slinked by him, indignation and fury radiating off of him.

"Stone Cold, I assure you the Jackal had no idea of Young Corinthos' intentions." Spinelli was wearing an expression that only Michael seemed to be able to create-it was a combination of inadequacy and dejection-as though nothing in his world was right any longer.

"I know, Spinelli, I know." Jason cut him off, walked over to him and looked down into his guileless eyes. "You wouldn't do this or condone it. I know this is all Michael. Teenagers do crazy shit like this. It's a rite of passage." He grinned down at the hacker and ruffled his hair. "Looks like I got home in the nick of time."

"Indeed, Stone Cold, the Jackal was at something to a loss as to what action he should take since Young Michael has his efficacy at crowd control, particularly over wayward teenagers, pegged to a T." His voice reflected the relief he felt at Jason's timely intercession.

Not willing to feed one more instance of his insecurity, Jason said, "I'm sure you would have handled it just fine. I just lost my temper that's all. Anyway, Michael is going to have a long evening cleaning things up around here."

"The Jackal would be more than willing to extend a helping hand."

Jason looked at Spinelli in amazement. He knew the offer had been heartfelt even after the way he had been treated by Michael. Yet, if Michael had heard him say it he would have pegged it as sucking up as that would have been the case for him in the identical situation. "No! This is one mess he's going to take responsibility for. Maybe it will help him start growing up."

Jason had followed through on his promise. He had made Michael clean up every beer bottle, every cigarette butt, vacuum the carpets, use stain remover on the carpet and the couch, polish the woodwork on the pool table and coffee table until all stains from spills and bottle rings were eradicated. It was four in the morning before he was done. Spinelli had long since headed up to bed unaware of the baleful glare Michael sent after him as he bagged up the detritus of the party.

"Okay," Jason thumbed towards the stairs. "Go to bed. You don't need to worry about getting up early because you're grounded."

"But…" Michael was looking at him in dismay, "We were going to the Mets' game today!" His eyes were filling with tears and his lower lip was jutting out, he looked like he had when he was five.

For a moment, Jason's resolve wavered and he briefly thought about postponing the grounding a day but then his face took on a determined set as he shook his head. "Sorry, Michael. but you have to learn that you can't just ignore the basic rules of someone's home without facing the consequences."

"I did what you said. I kicked everyone out. I've cleaned up the mess." He gestured around the living room and looked pleadingly at Jason. "Please, Uncle Jason, I'm sorry about throwing a party without permission and I won't do it again. I was really looking forward to going to the game with you."

Jason knew he had to hold firm and so he shook his head once more, this time there was an element of regret evident in his voice. "There'll be other games, Michael, but you're not going today."

"So, what?" He spat at him, venom underlying each word. "I'm not going so you'll ask him," he pointed at the ceiling, "You'll ask, Spinelli?" He was on the verge of crying, tears of frustration and anger filling his eyes and threatening to brim over.

Stung by his consistent denigration of Spinelli, who, as far as Jason could tell, hadn't done one thing to earn Michael's dislike, his abhorrence except exist, he responded in kind, his tone cold. "Yeah, that's a great idea, Michael. I think I will ask him. We never seem to find the time to do something like that and I'd hate for the tickets to go to waste, they're right behind the dugout."

Jason sighed miserably and stood up from the uncomfortable chair, he began to pace, he was wringing his hands together in an unconscious action that occurred whenever he was perturbed or upset. Looking back he recognized that impulsive decision and its announcement which he had done purposefully to make Michael feel threatened, to pay him back for his odious treatment of Spinelli had been the equivalent of waving a red flag at an enraged bull.

Michael had torn off upstairs and another banging door was added to the repertoire of such sounds that had begun to permeate the previous placid atmosphere of Casa de Stone Cold over recent weeks. Jason had done just as he had intended and asked Spinelli if he wanted to go to the Mets' game. Spinelli had been hesitant and diffident at first. He knew that Michael had been anticipating the outing ever since Jason had gotten the tickets. When Jason made it clear that it was a case of he and Spinelli going or no one, he agreed, a huge grin crossing his face. Jason recalled feeling guilty that they hadn't done anything like this before and had vowed that he and Spinelli would do more such outings in the future. He had meant it too, the day had been a lot of fun and had only marginally been spoiled by a sullen and silent Michael sprawled out on the sofa watching some science fiction movie of Spinelli's when they got home.

Spinelli had walked over to Michael and tried to give him the pennant he had bought him at the game. Michael took it and breaking the stick in half, threw it on the floor before running back upstairs followed by Jason's reproving, "Michael!"

"Leave him be, Stone Cold. His feelings are sorely tried and he blames the Jackal for his current predicament. I take no umbrage." Spinelli spoke softly, resignation clearly evident in his tone as he bent down to pick up the broken stick and the discarded triangular flag.

"I just don't understand why he behaves this way towards you. It's unreasonable, it's not like you've done anything at all to provoke any of this…animosity." It was the kindest word Jason could come up with at the moment. He was reaching the end of even his legendary patience in dealing with Michael.

Spinelli sat down on the couch and looked at Jason with an expression of bemusement on his face. "Surely Stone Cold knows the reason why Young Michael so despises the very presence, even the passing mention of the Jackal, of myself." He spoke unhappily, jumbling up his personal references even more than usual.

Jason sat down in a chair nearby and looked intently at Spinelli who had reached for the remote and was switching off the movie. "No, I don't understand it. Please enlighten me." He caught the unconscious mimicry of Spinelli's speech patterns and almost smiled despite the seriousness of the conversation.

"It's simple, Stone Cold. I threaten Michael. Well, to be more precise, my relationship with you threatens him. He sees me as an intruder, an interloper if you will, in this time in his life which he thought would be an idyllic interlude wherein he would reside with you and have your undivided attention. The first day I walked through this door and he didn't expect to see me, I destroyed his heartfelt illusion of how things would be, were meant to be."

He gave a sigh as he sat back against the cushions. Now, was a perilous time, the moment where Jason would recognize the truth in what he said and as a consequence suggest he leave. Spinelli was sure the dismissal would be couched in tactful terms of their friendship being unaffected but the Jackal knew better. The minute that outer door swung shut behind him he would be well on his way to being forgotten by all and sundry but most especially his master, his hero, his male role model. He didn't know why he was always the pawn in the game of life, the one who was sacrificed so everyone else could attain their goals and live their lives but he was long resigned to the reality of it. Welcome to his life…

"I know that, I mean I didn't know it the way you just explained it but I was getting those signals from him. I just don't understand why he can't understand that you're in my life and important to me and that it doesn't have any bearing on Michael's position in my regard. You can care about multiple people." He didn't know why Spinelli had sunk back into the sofa cushions and was looking anywhere but directly at Jason. Between Michael's unbridled hostility and immaturity and Spinelli's intrinsic insecurities, he felt like he was constantly navigating an emotional minefield.

Spinelli had barely heard what Jason had said. He was basically practicing a dignified acceptance speech in his head. "Certainly, the Jackal will remove his undesired presence from the premises in a timely fashion." Or perhaps, a more truncated version. "Yes, Stone Cold, I will be packed and the room vacated within the day." Suddenly he realized that Jason had said his name, sounding impatient. "Of course, I'll be out as soon as feasible." He had spoken the words out loud without even realizing it.

Jason was looking at him, a puzzled expression on his face. "Out from where? What are you talking about, Spinelli?"

Now it was Spinelli's turn to be confused. "I just thought…that is the Jackal thought that now you perceive the reason for Michael's untoward behavior, his constant fluctuating temper that you would wish to have the cause of such troubles removed. I was just acquiescing to the inevitable." He couldn't look at Jason as he spoke, couldn't show his flayed heart, his destroyed spirit at the thought of leaving the only home he had ever claimed for himself.

Jason's mouth was literally hanging open as he did the Spinelli to English translation in his head. He was something of an unacknowledged expert in what was admittedly an arena of narrow scholarly study but even he wasn't sure that the processing center of his brain had interpreted this particular statement correctly. "You're talking about moving out?" He was surprised at how vehemently opposed he was to even the thought of such a shift in his domestic world. "Why on earth would you want to do that? Unless, it's because Michael is chasing you away…" Jason positively knew the real culprit in this situation and if he were the one offering to leave he would probably have helped pack his bags.

Spinelli didn't understand it, Jason wasn't eagerly accepting his offer to end their informal tenant's agreement. Could he have miscalculated how much Jason liked having him as a roommate? It was a radical idea, the thought that someone could know all his flaws intimately and still want him not only in his orbit but actually residing with him…"Stone Cold doesn't wish the Jackal to depart the Casa de…the penthouse?" If ever a time called for clarity and plain speaking this was it.

"No, absolutely not!" Jason spoke with complete conviction, about this one thing he was entirely positive. "I just thought Michael being here might be too much for you and that's why you wanted to leave. Look, Spinelli, I know it's been rough but I'll try to stay more on top of things, to rein Michael in. I just want you to stay, I need you here." It was the most sentimentality that Jason could achieve and they both knew it.

Spinelli had gone from the depths of gloom to the peaks of euphoria. "The Jackal is entirely content with the continued residence of Young Michael. All he cares is that his Master is not desirous of his removal." He was beaming in delight and Jason couldn't help smiling back at him.

Jason was leaning against a wall, his hands scrunched in his jeans pocket as he vaguely watched the first incoming patient since his arrival over-how long exactly? He looked at his watch only fifteen minutes had gone by since the last time he had checked it but that was fifteen too many minutes when a life hung in the balance. The gurney coming in contained a pregnant woman who had been in a motor vehicle accident, the shock of which had sent her into labor. Five minutes after her arrival the sound of a newborn wailing filled the emergency room, she had given birth right in reception.

Jason smiled grimly at the affirmation of the cycle of life but the smile faded as he thought superstitiously of Spinelli behind the uninformative doors. "What if there had been a trade, one life force exiting while another entered?" He never thought in such mystical terms but now he was frantic, ready to burst into the back, to grab anyone, to get to Spinelli…

If he had acted on impulse earlier today, done what he should have, what it was past time to do, then this…this unbearable waiting might have been bypassed. "Jason," it was Sam calling him, "You need to come down to the office, now. It's about Spinelli."

"What about him?" Jason was trying to think when he had last seen Spinelli, not for the past several days, except in passing, he concluded.

"I can't talk, he's just in the other room. Look just get down here and I'll tell you then…"

Sam was pacing downstairs in the lobby when Jason arrived at their building. "Where is he? What's wrong?" His anxiety level had spiked on his way to meet Sam.

"He's upstairs in the office. He's okay but he won't talk to me. I needed to hear from you about what happened." Sam was upset and she seemed to be blaming Jason for something but he had no clue as to what the problem might be.

"Sam," he was becoming exasperated and wanted to see Spinelli, to fix whatever was wrong. "I don't know what you're talking about. The last time I saw Spinelli he was fine."

Sam just looked at him, her gaze filled with a mixture of hostility and worry. "Well, he's not quite 'fine' right now. Come on!" She turned away from him abruptly, not even checking to see if he was following.

Jason sighed, he had no idea why Sam was so angry with him but he was glad that she was finally taking him to Spinelli. They ascended the stairs in silence and together walked into the offices of McCall and Jackal. Spinelli was sitting with his back to them, clacking away on his keyboard. At first Jason was relieved, based on Sam's attitude he had thought that something was the matter with Spinelli but he appeared normal enough.

"Spinelli…" Sam called out to him causing him to turn towards them.

"Fair Samantha," he responded easily to her, seemingly not impacted by Sam's tension which had transfused itself to Jason. He froze upon seeing Jason, "Stone Cold…what are you doing here?" Spinelli hurriedly turned away from them but it was too late, Jason had already seen enough.

"Spinelli," he walked over to him and leaning across the desk reached over and gently grasping his chin turned his face towards him. "What happened to you?"

"He said he ran into a door." Sam's said with total skepticism in her voice.

"I know that's not the truth.' Jason said absently as he tilted Spinelli's head to get a better look at the injury. His left eye was swollen and blackly bruised, the green glitter of his iris was barely visible through the slit. There was a nasty gash just below the damaged eye, it was sore and red looking and Jason examined it critically trying to determine if stitches were required. "That cut, it's classic, it was caused by a ring. Who hit you, Spinelli?" He said it softly but inexorably, he wouldn't be denied.

Spinelli shrugged uncomfortably and tried to remove his chin from Jason's grasp but it was firmly held. "It was nothing, Stone Cold. The Jackal was at Jake's last night and got into a bout of fisticuffs when a lady's honor was impugned. He only wishes he could have the distinction of saying 'you should see the other combatant' but alas, he escaped unscathed."

Jason shook his head. "I'm not buying it, Spinelli." He took one last look at the evidence of someone hitting his roommate before releasing his hold on his chin. "Look, I know this is hard…complicated but I will fix it…if you just tell me who hit you." He thought of the gold signet ring Michael wore and he winced as he envisioned his fist crashing into Spinelli's face.

Spinelli looked up at Jason in silent appeal. "The Jackal has nothing further to add, no embellishment to his tale." He spoke quietly but there was an unyielding resolution to his voice that Jason was familiar with.

He sighed, a sound that reflected both his frustration and relief. If Spinelli refused to name names then Jason could plead ignorance, turn a blind eye or any other cliché that someone would care to utter which would brand him the coward he was.

Sam knew that something else was going on, it was obvious from the way that Jason and Spinelli were behaving. "Spinelli," she tried her hand at convincing him to tell them the truth. "If you're worried about whoever did this to you, it's okay. Jason and I will make sure that whoever it is won't hurt you." Now, that it was apparent that Jason didn't know about Spinelli's black eye, she was united with him in assuring Spinelli's welfare and finding and punishing the person who had done this to him.

"Fair Samantha," Spinelli gave her a wry smile. "The Jackal appreciates such unmerited concern on his behalf, it is most gratifying to have both you and Stone Cold so intent on avenging me but I assure you it is most unnecessary. The event is forgotten, it is in the past and so it shall remain."

Jason and Sam exchanged a glance. It was clear that Spinelli was in full stubbornness mode and he wasn't going to tell them the identity of who had actually hit him. Jason gave in for the moment and left Spinelli and Sam to their business while he tended to his. He fully intended to pursue it though because if things in the penthouse had escalated to where Michael was actually hitting Spinelli, he needed to know it in order to prevent it ever happening again.

Now standing in the starkly sterile and uncompromisingly utilitarian ER waiting room, Jason knew that this morning's misjudgment might have cost Spinelli everything. If he only had gone directly to Michael after seeing Spinelli then he might just have the black eye and nothing more. Now, because of Jason's dilatoriness, his inability to face facts he was fighting for his life and as much as he might wish to deny it, Jason knew that the life he was fighting for would be forever altered from what it had been.

They were pushing the new mother and her infant who-in terms of lung power anyway-seemed healthy, through the doors back into the examination area. As the gurney passed through Patrick came the other way looking for Jason. He pushed himself away from the wall and went to meet him, his hope dying as he got a closer look at the grim set of Patrick's face.

"Patrick, how is he?" Such a mundane simple question and yet everything hinged on the answer.

"He's stable, for now. We have to operate, Jason. I brought the paperwork for you to sign."

"Operate?" Jason repeated the word numbly. It wasn't like it really was any kind of shock, he knew that Spinelli's injuries were bad enough that he would require surgery. Yet, now the blunt fact that they were going to cut into him with scalpels leaving scars and removing pieces of him, somehow it all seemed like some type of unforgiveable desecration. "What's wrong with him?"

Patrick looked at Jason wearily, it was going to be a long endless night. He had to call upon his surgical prowess to try and save the life of a young man he had quite a bit of affection and respect for. He wasn't even sure if it was a feasible goal and that even if it were, there were also moral ramifications involved. One thing was absolutely clear to Patrick Drake, without the intervention of modern medicine Damian Spinelli would die and who had the hubris to say which was the better outcome?

"Well, he's got extensive injuries, Jason. We had him in for a CT scan and there's bleeding in his abdomen. It looks like his liver is involved and other sources we'll find out when we get him on the table. I'll be focusing on his head injury. He has a fractured skull and there are penetrating bone fragments in his brain as well as bleeding which has caused swelling. We need to get the fragments out and relieve the swelling to prevent any more damage."

Jason looked at him in despair, "Wil…." He swallowed and tried again, "Will he be all right….eventually?" He already had a pretty good idea as to what the answer was but he was hoping against hope that Patrick would walk him down a different path than the dark and stony one he was currently treading.

Patrick shook his head, unwilling to commit himself either way. "I can't say, Jason. Really no one could. It's an inexact science predicting the outcome of brain injuries. Spinelli's fracture is a bad one and it covers an extensive area and then the fluid in the brain…Well, we need to get that drained as soon as possible to give him the best chance." Chance at what, he couldn't or wouldn't say but they both knew it was going to be on the south side of normalcy. "So, I know you're not officially related to him but you're the closest thing to family he's got. If you sign these forms, we can get started."

Jason took the clipboard from Patrick and scrawled his name indecipherably where indicated. "Can I see him before he goes into surgery?"

Patrick looked at him regretfully, "He's unconscious and intubated." He had hoped to avoid telling Jason this. "He had another convulsion when we were treating him and stopped breathing…we got him back but right now he can't breathe on his own."

Jason stared at Patrick unable to comprehend that what was already bad enough had just become worse. "Can't breathe? Spinelli can't breathe by himself? He could before…" He knew he sounded accusatory, like someone saying "It wasn't broken until you played with it." He couldn't help himself though the situation just kept getting bleaker.

Patrick sighed heavily, "I know he was, Jason. It's because of the buildup of pressure from the brain swelling and all the fluid-the blood-inside an enclosed area. The brain pretty much fills up the skull cavity and when there's swelling or pressure on it then the delicate tissue is at risk of being damaged. I fully expect that when we relieve the swelling, if we do it in a timely manner." He looked impatiently at Jason to underscore the point that this time spent talking was time lost in helping Spinelli. "That he will get his autonomic, his reflexive functions back and that includes breathing."

Jason nodded his head to show he had comprehended what Patrick had said. "So, that's one good thing anyway," he said dully, thinking of all that was still so unutterably skewed in his universe.

"Look, Jason, I have to get back and scrub in, the team's waiting. We'll be up on the eighth floor and there's a surgical waiting room up there or you could go home, get some rest. It'll be a long surgery." He said this last encouragingly but without much hope that Jason would do any such thing.

Jason just looked levelly at him. "You should go, take good care of Spinelli. I'll be waiting."

He appreciated Patrick's attempt to help but there was no way Jason could leave. He needed to stay, to be here for Spinelli. He had been the one to find him, he had been alive then and breathing and now things were worse and he somehow felt that if he left they would continue to deteriorate. Spinelli might do the unthinkable and shuffle of this mortal coil if Jason weren't around to mentally coerce him into staying on the planet.

Jason watched Patrick once again retreat behind the double doors, going into battle against nature which had decreed more than once this evening that Spinelli's body was too battered, too damaged to be allowed to continue to exist. Jason could feel the pull of the forces that were trying to take him away, to free that remarkable spirit of his to wander unencumbered through the cosmos. It was a conceit that might delight his young roommate but it petrified Jason. He had come face to face with mortality tonight and it had brought to the fore the unconscionable idea of a world where Jason existed and Spinelli did not. He didn't care what he had to do to ensure it but Spinelli was staying not going and he would strike a bargain with the devil himself in order to get what he wanted.

He was in the elevator, crouched into one corner, as it rose steadily to the eighth floor where Spinelli's date with destiny was scheduled. "You listen to me, grasshopper," he said with a grim seriousness that belied the banality of the words, "Your Master says you're staying, no matter what, you are not leaving me…" His only response was a low whirring as the elevator cables smoothly pulled him and his unending desolation upwards.

The hospital, everywhere he went, was eerily deserted on this midweek night. It was as though all of Port Charles had ceased fighting, driving, eating, making love, taking ill, any and all actions that could detract from the gargantuan life and death struggle that was occurring in the newly furbished operating room of General Hospital. Jason knew it was a fanciful construct but it fit his mood for indeed that was true for him, he couldn't imagine ever again engaging in a single one of those activities were Spinelli to die.

He had been in the small anonymous waiting room for a half hour, pacing up and down like a caged animal but Jason's bars were all internal. "Mr. Morgan?" It was a light voice, it wafted towards him. He looked around wondering if he were hearing things until his gaze moved downward and alighted on a petite woman with bright red hair pulled back into a French braid. She was looking up at him, her gray eyes steady and considering. "I'm Detective Ciara Brennan; I work in the Violent Crime Units of the Port Charles Police Department." She extended a hand that was as small as the rest of her.

Jason shook her hand gravely. She seemed too small and delicate to be involved in the investigation of such heinous crimes. "You're here about Spinelli?"

She nodded her head. "Yes, we've done what we can with processing the crime scene and now I'm here to interview you as a material witness."

The flat cold words 'crime scene' and 'material witness' tried to turn what had occurred into something seen on a television show rather than the reality of a viscerally impactful event which had led to Jason standing in this room waiting for Spinelli's future to be determined. "I didn't see anything. I got there too late." Jason hated saying those words, hated his failure.

"I am aware of that, Mr. Morgan. Still, you were the first person on the scene after the attack on Mr. Spinelli and your impressions might be valuable." She spoke quietly but her dedication was evident.

All of a sudden, Jason was exhausted, was tired of life, the perpetual cycle of violence that dominated his existence. It wasn't supposed to touch the innocents in his life but it had time and time again-Alan, Emily, Michael, Jake, Sam and now Spinelli. It was all too much and for the first time in his recollection he looked at the police officer standing before him with renewed interest. Perhaps it was time to hand the resolution over to her, to the justice system. Then he could focus on what mattered-Spinelli and his needs. There would be time enough for Jason's style of intervention if the law failed him as it had so often in the past but for now he would put his fragile faith, his tattered trust in the small but capable looking hands of Ciara Brennan.

His decision made, for the first time ever Jason Morgan spoke forthrightly to the police. "I really didn't see anything. I was concentrating on Spinelli, he needed my help. I thought…" he looked away from her clear gaze, trying to ride out the wave of emotion sweeping through him, "I thought he was dead." There he had said it and thunderbolts hadn't struck and red flashing lights and sirens hadn't activated. It was just a word and it had no power until it became the truth.

"I know this is hard, Mr. Morgan." Her voice was gentle and filled with empathy. Staring at her, Jason once more failed to see how she could deal with crimes like what had happened to Spinelli on a daily basis.

"His laptop," He closed his eyes against the memory of Spinelli's faithful cyber companion shattered to bits. Then I knew it was him, until I saw his computer I didn't even recognize him…how is that even possible?" Jason looked at her, imploring her to explain the inexplicable. "How could someone do something like that to him, how? He is the gentlest, kindest, most sensitive person I have ever met and they just smashed him like he was nothing, not even a person…" He was trembling with anguish, with rage, with sudden all consuming fear that Spinelli would be forever lost to him, to everyone who cared for him. He sat down abruptly in one of the waiting room chairs, his knees buckling under the combined weight of his emotional disintegration and fatigue.

Detective Brennan took the chair next to him. "My job is to find out who did do this but the why…" she shook her head, her eyes reflected his distress, "That's something we don't ever really know and we're lucky that we don't. Whatever it is that makes people do something like this to another person-fortunately, it's not common." Now her tone had changed, had hardened and developed an edge of steel to it. "Still, that's where I come in, I will find out who did this heinous deed and they will be punished."

For the first time since she had come into the waiting room, Jason had an inkling of the detective's abilities beyond her obvious advocacy for the victim. Looking into her eyes, filled with a mixture of righteous anger and compassion, he thought perhaps he wouldn't want her on his trail if he had transgressed against the law or perhaps even more tellingly-her concept of morality.

"There was a clear footprint on his hoodie." Jason said it was the only piece of relevant information he had to offer.

She nodded her head. "Yes, we have bagged his clothing for evidence. When we have a suspect we'll match his footwear against the print. "Mr. Morgan," she began, not knowing how to phrase what she needed to know delicately. "There was some vomit at the scene…"

Jason looked at her a slightly shamefaced expression on his face. "Yes, when I saw Spinelli, I just…couldn't help it."

"No," she agreed reassuringly, "I needed to make sure for reasons of attribution. It's an entirely understandable reaction." Detective Brennan stood up. "Well, I need to get back and drop off the evidence, file my report and see what leads develop. I'll keep you apprised of the progress of the investigation and if you could give me a call if you learn anything or remember any detail, no matter how small." She pulled out a business card. "I am truly sorry about what happened to Mr. Spinelli. I hope he…" she stopped not wanting to utter platitudes to this man who clearly had no use for them. Again she shook his hand as Jason took her card. "I'll be in touch, Mr. Morgan."

"Detective Brennan," he acknowledged her. She was a rare creature, a police officer that Jason Morgan liked and perhaps even trusted.

After she was gone, loneliness and despair reinstated themselves as his companions of the vigil. He resumed his obsessive pacing until it was once again disrupted, this time it was due to the vibration of his cell phone. He was tempted to ignore it but he relented and pulling it out looked at the screen. He wished he had just let it go to voice mail. Flipping the phone open, Jason uttered a sharp, "What?"

"Uncle Jason?" The tone was querulous. "Where are you? It's late and I got worried when you didn't come home."

"I'm not coming home, Michael. I'm at the hospital." Jason hadn't wanted to take this call, to begin exploring the validity of his suspicions but now that he had started he found that he desperately wished to be proven wrong. He wanted to find that Michael was nothing more than a bully. Spinelli's black eye which had appeared such an outrageous act this morning seemed a trivial matter as of tonight, entirely superseded by the new brutal reality that Jason found himself submerged in.

"The hospital!" For a brief instant Jason was thankful, Michael sounded genuinely shocked and concerned. "Did you get hurt? Should I come down there?" The words were spilling out of the phone, Michael's agitation clearly evident.

"No, Michael, it's not me that's hurt it's Spinelli." He waited with bated breath for the boy's response, now was the time for him to show the same worry he had when he thought Jason had been injured.

The silence stretched on almost beyond Jason's patience, his endurance, both of which were eroded after the traumatic events of the night. "Spinelli?" The single word was uttered with an indifference that at first caused Jason's heart to constrict and was then followed by a sudden rush of uncontrollable anger that more and more was becoming his standardized response to Michael's attitude towards Spinelli. There was another pause and then almost as though he were dredging the sentence out of some long ago read book on etiquette he asked grudgingly, "How is he? Is he going to be okay?"

Jason's mouth suddenly went dry as he recognized the pertinent question that Michael hadn't asked, "What happened to him?" Its omission could simply be that, an oversight simply because the boy didn't care or it could have a more sinister meaning that Michael didn't need to ask the question because he already knew the answer. The only way he could know what had happened was if he been there when Spinelli was beaten, that he had been a participant or worst of all-the instigator.

Jason closed his eyes in silent agony as more of his fragile world crumbled around him and he answered Michaei's query with a quiet intensity. "He's not good and they don't know if he's gong to be okay, he…well, he was badly hurt." He would be damned if he provided any details for the kid to gloat over, to imagine Spinelli's trauma, his pain, and most of all his irreversible alteration.

"Well, are you coming home soon? It's lonely here without you and I thought we could play some pool or watch a movie or something." Michael's voice was coaxing, as though he were asking Jason to skip a meeting or some other trivial business commitment to spend some quality time with him.

Jason pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it in perplexity as though he couldn't, he simply couldn't have heard the words Michael just spoke. He slowly replaced the phone against his ear, furious at Michael's audacity, his cold blooded dismissal of Spinelli. "I can't come home, Michael." He spoke each word with crystal clarity, ice and steel evident in his tone. "Spinelli's in surgery and after he gets out, I will be staying with him…"

Still Michael didn't comprehend, didn't hear the warning, the disdain in his uncle's words. "Well, you could come home for a while. The hospital can contact you when he's out of surgery and he probably won't wake up for a while anyway. There will be plenty of time for you to see him later." Michael was pleading now, he needed to win this battle for the supremacy of Jason's affection, his love. He knew he was the one, they were bonded by blood, by years of being family but still he wanted an actual victory, he wanted-no required-proof that Jason would always choose him…Suddenly he realized that his phone had gone dead, Jason was no longer on the other end of the line. "Uncle Jason?" He tentatively inquired of the unresponsive phone. "He hung up on me!"

He was incredulous, never before had he known Jason to turn his back on him, to refuse his appeals. Michael threw the phone as hard as he could. It shattered with a satisfying crash against the wall, falling to the floor and laying there in mute testimony to how things in Michael's world had unacceptably shifted. He knew whose fault this was, whose fault it had been from the very start. "I hate him!" He was crying and the venom laced statement was ripped out of him as a ragged sob. All he wanted to do was destroy, was to tear and slash at everything around him. "I'll show him, I'll show everyone!" Now he was a toddler in a full blown tantrum but his body was that of a young man as he went on a rampage destroying and mutilating everything he could reach much as he had done earlier that very night…

Jason felt physically ill after his conversation with Michael. He was trembling as he flipped his cell phone shut unable to continue the surrealistic conversation in which he had found himself entrapped. He knew that if he had heard one more uncaring, selfish, spoiled word out of Michael he couldn't trust what he might do. Yelling at Michael might bring him momentary relief but in the long run it would just mean a loss of control with no commensurate reward in exchange. He had to be strong, he had to hold onto his emotions, to prevent his instincts from taking over. All he really wanted to do was hunt down whoever had done this inconceivable thing to Spinelli and rip them to shreds with his bare hands. "Even if it was Michael?" A tiny, dry voice deep in his mind questioned him. "Even if it was Michael," he affirmed it out loud to the empty room, the grimness of his tone enough proof that he spoke the simple truth.

Yet, Jason knew that at the moment he didn't have the luxury of pursuing revenge which was an action that was much more about him and what he needed or wanted than what Spinelli needed. Well, that stopped now, tonight. Jason wasn't going anywhere, wasn't leaving Spinelli wasn't hunting down his attackers. He would be here for him by his side to help him through everything. They would face it together and Jason would prove once and for all that Spinelli was valued, was loved and not just by Jason but by so many people, by most everyone that ever met him, ever spent any significant time with him. Anyone who did that was invariably lucky enough to get a glimpse at Spinelli's interior-his huge heart and his accepting soul. If you were fortunate enough to be Jason or Sam or Lulu or Maxie then you received so much more from Spinelli-loyalty, trust, friendship and most valuable of all-unconditional love. Well, now was the time for payback, for everyone who had ever taken emotional sustenance from the young man fighting for his life in surgery to reimburse him in kind for all the gentle, loving care he had given each one of them.

No, Jason wouldn't pursue Spinelli's attackers for at least now, not tonight and maybe not ever. If they weren't caught, if all of Detective Brennan's well intentioned efforts failed then Jason might be forced to take a hand. Now he understood why surgeons didn't operate on their own family members or why police officers weren't allowed to investigate crimes involving loved ones. Your judgment was clouded and that could mean mistakes.

Jason wanted whoever had done this cowardly and destructive act to Spinelli to pay but he knew that solving the case and bringing the offenders to justice-his brand or the legal kind-would make no difference to Spinelli's future. If his worst suspicions were realized if Michael were indeed connected, somehow involved in the crime then he didn't want to be the one to discover that unpalatable truth. He didn't want to have to see Carly's or even Sonny's devastation as they finally recognized what their son had done. He didn't want to muddy the waters by getting involved and inadvertently contaminating the legal process so that Michael, if he were indeed culpable, ended up getting off because of his Jason's interference.

Yet, if Spinelli died…He wouldn't go there, just thinking it seemed somehow to make the unacceptable creep ever closer. If he did though, well then all bets were off. It simply wouldn't matter if Jason went vigilante under those conditions. If he sought vengeance it would be the last thing he ever did on this planet which would no longer be a place he wished to dwell.

"Jason?" It was Patrick, his exhausted voice cutting across Jason's murky ruminations. "You all right?" There was real compassion in his tone as he scrutinized the exhausted man who had slowly been unraveling over the course of the endless night.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he responded brusquely to Patrick's kindness. He didn't want pity or consideration directed at him, he didn't deserve it. "How's Spinelli?" His heart was thumping wildly and his palms sweated as he awaited the answer. His anxious mind was running along the spectrum of potential outcomes from the vain hope of a full recovery to the desolation of death.

Patrick reached his hand up to his neck and twisted it from side to side as he tried to relieve the stiffness that was always a result of hours bent over a patient as he delicately probed and mended the exposed brain tissue. He puffed his cheeks out and released a gust of air as he thought how to explain the complexities of Spinelli's condition to Jason.

"Patrick," Jason prodded him impatiently. Whatever it was, he needed to know now.

"Sorry, Jason," Patrick recalled himself. "There's a lot to talk about. First, about the internal bleeding, they had to remove a lobe of Spinelli's liver. It was beyond salvaging but he still has the rest of his liver and it's a very regenerative organ and so in the long run there shouldn't be any problems. They also took out part of his right kidney but he still has the left fully intact and what was left of the right will still function though there won't be any regeneration involved." He paused to check Jason's face for comprehension.

Jason's face was livid as he tried to absorb what Patrick was telling him. "His kidney, his liver…anything else?"

Patrick shrugged, "There's a lot of bruising but they either removed what was damaged beyond salvation or repaired or cauterized blood vessels that had ruptured. If that were all, then Spinelli's prognosis would be a full recovery after some bed rest.

"His head injury." Jason said it bluntly, he knew this was the crux of the matter. This was the damage that would determine what Spinelli's future would be.

Patrick nodded unhappily. "Yes, the fractured skull and the swelling were addressed. I relieved the pressure by suctioning off any blood and sealing bleeding and leaking veins and arteries. Then I spent the majority of my time probing for bone fragments. Based on the position of the pieces from the CT scan I got them all." He stopped for a moment as a wave of fatigue washed over him. Looking at Jason he gestured at the waiting room chairs. "I'm pretty beat, mind if we sit down?"

Jason nodded absently, he didn't care if he was sitting or standing, he just required information. "So what's his prognosis?"

Patrick hesitated and then looking directly into Jason's tired and bloodshot eyes, he spoke candidly. "I don't know yet, Jason. It isn't just a matter of where the bone fragments were as far as estimating the damage done. The swelling could have injured the functioning of other parts of the brain as well. We simply can't tell what effects all of this trauma will have on Spinelli's cognitive and motor skills until he wakes up."

"When will that be?" Again a straightforward question and as he stared at Patrick he saw he wouldn't be receiving a direct answer.

Patrick sighed, "That's the other thing we need to talk about. With all the harm done to the brain we want to make sure that it has some time to recover, to heal without outside distractions. Therefore, we have decided to place Spinelli into a medically induced coma."

"What does that mean exactly?" Jason was having a hard time, particularly after his experience with Michael, accepting the idea of intentionally placing Spinelli in a coma.

"We will give Spinelli drugs to reduce the swelling of his brain while simultaneously keeping him sedated so that his brain activity decreases and the tissues have a chance to rebound." Patrick wasn't going to tell Jason that the results of such artificial comas were mixed. He instinctually knew that Jason would refuse the treatment if he heard that data. Patrick wasn't crazy about the idea himself but given the severity of Spinelli's injuries he had reluctantly determined that it was the only method available to them that might reduce the loss of brain function.

Jason rubbed his forehead and wished that he knew more about everything Patrick was telling him. The truth was he didn't and so that meant he would have to trust that the doctor was doing everything he could for Spinelli. He did believe in Patrick, over and over again he had demonstrated both his surgical skill and his dedication to his patients.

"How long will you keep him in the coma?" Spinelli lying silently in a drug induced state of suspended animation, it just wasn't natural…

"A couple of days probably. We'll monitor his EKG and intracranial pressure readings and determine if it's working or not. Then when the swelling is down and his brain is ready to start …functioning again," he had almost used the word 'normal' but that was a taboo term in this discussion. A quick glance at Jason's face showed that he understood that restriction without being told. "Then we'll take him off the sedatives and he…should wake up." "God, or whoever, willing," he amended silently to himself.

Jason nodded, he had heard everything Patrick had said to him, fully comprehending it was another issue altogether, it would take time. Meanwhile, he had to know, "Patrick, his hands, what did you do to fix his hands?"

Patrick stared down at his own long fingered, dexterously elegant hands. He had shied away from the whole topic and not just in terms of talking to Jason about it but in his own mind as well. He understood, as Jason did, that Spinelli's two most defining characteristics had been viciously attacked tonight.

"His hands…" He looked vaguely around the waiting room as though hoping someone would magically materialize. Another doctor, anyone who could take over the onerous burden of this unwelcome dialogue throughout which he had delivered nothing but bad news and now there was even more forthcoming. "Well, Jason," Patrick took a deep breath, there was no help for it, he would have to tell him. "We were primarily focused on his abdominal injuries and the head wound. We had to triage his needs, prioritize what should be done first. Naturally, internal bleeding and the brain were the most prominent areas that required immediate attention. His hands, they didn't fall under the category of life threatening and we had already kept him under the anesthetic longer than we wanted to considering his reduced respiratory ability."

Jason looked at him wide eyed, understanding but not believing what he wasn't saying. "You did nothing about them? Nothing at all?" Those mangled hands, they had haunted him ever since he had first seen them and now to find out they weren't in any improved or mended condition. It was barbaric, he couldn't even imagine it.

Patrick pulled at his earlobe, trying not to show his discomfiture with the conversation. "No, we did cast the right hand, the less severely injured one. It won't be as functional as it was before but with therapy he'll regain some use of it." He was a doctor and he still hadn't come to grips with the extent of the damage done to Spinelli's body, how on earth was Jason expected to cope with it all? "The left…"

Suddenly he was just so angry, so furious with the anonymous thugs that had done this horrendous thing to someone as undeserving of violence as Damian Spinelli. He looked at Jason and for a brief moment their minds merged as they looked in perfect understanding at one another. If those cowards were here at this very instant, Patrick would hold their hands down and let Jason stomp on them.

"Except of course," he thought to himself tiredly, "I wouldn't because it goes against everything I believe in, everything Spinelli himself stands for."

"The left," his brief fantasy had flared out and he was back to uncompromising reality. "There was nothing to cast, to align or set. Not a bone in his hand escaped being broken." They had also removed bone fragments that were extruding through the skin of Spinelli's hand but again he didn't see what purpose would be served in telling Jason so. It had been sickening enough for Patrick himself to view. "So, we've wrapped it in bandages to prevent further injury and in a couple of days we'll have a hand surgeon look at it and see what can be done…Jason, you ought to prepare yourself."

Prepare himself, that was a laugh, how in god's name did you prepare yourself for any of this? Jason glowered at Patrick, "For what?" He asked him curtly, not liking where the conversation might be heading.

"I'm no expert but I doubt that his hand can be saved. Amputation might be required and really in this case might be the best thing. They have some amazing prosthetics out there now." He stopped speaking, he knew he had overstepped his boundaries. He wasn't a hand surgeon and though he was sure what he had said was the likely outcome it wasn't his place to say so. Beyond that, Jason had simply had enough. It was obvious in the stretched, incredulous look of his eyes as he listened to what Patrick was saying.

"No," it was a flat refusal. "That's not going to happen. Spinelli needs his hands-both of them." He had finally hit the wall. All his internal dialogue about accepting a changed Spinelli and the first time he was faced with an outcome that was less than satisfactory and he withdraw into the security of the nice dark cave that was denial.

"Well, it doesn't need to be decided tonight." Patrick had never said a truer thing. Whether Spinelli had two, one or no hands was going to be of no consequence if he didn't have the mental wherewithal to control those selfsame appendages.

Jason asked, "Can I see him?"

Patrick looked at him, considering his request. "Unlike an unintentional coma where it is a desired outcome for the patient to revive, we want Spinelli to stay in stasis for several days. That means we want to keep any noise or other distractions to a minimum." He held up a hand to forestall the protest he could see already forming on Jason's lips. "Just hear me out, Jason. So, what this means is that while he's in the ICU we'll try to monitor as many of his vitals and other readings at the nurse's station to avoid disturbing him. The actual room checks will be somewhat less frequent than they would ordinarily be for a patient in critical condition. So, that being said, naturally that means we don't want him to have visitors who we can't trust won't be speaking to him or touching him or causing other potential disruptions to disturb the environment." Patrick paused and stared intently at Jason's pained expression before beginning to speak again. "However, you aren't just anyone are you, Jason? You are someone who is famous for your self control, your ability to set aside feelings and needs in order to get the job done. So, do you think you could do this, be in the room with Spinelli and not talk to him, not touch him?"

Jason sat there unmoving and unspeaking as though he had already internalized the requirements for being in the same room with Spinelli. Finally, he spoke slowly and with deliberate seriousness. "Yes, I think I can. It will be difficult but if it's best for Spinelli and if it's the only way I can get to see him then that's what I'll do."

Patrick nodded his head gravely, tacitly acknowledging Jason's commitment, his pledge to do what was asked of him. "Okay. Then let's go. He should be out of recovery and in his room by now." Together they left the waiting room.

Jason was full of a mixture of trepidation and eagerness as he approached Spinelli's ICU room. He hadn't seen him in hours and his mind had been full of so many different scenarios and outcomes he didn't really know what to expect when he finally got to see him again. He stopped at the entrance to his room as Patrick stepped inside. There he was, "Still alive," he breathed softly to himself, almost as though uttering a prayer of thanksgiving.

It was a paradoxical combination of both better and worse than what Jason had expected. Spinelli was lying at an angle, the hospital bed that was holding him had been raised about thirty degrees from horizontal. The room might have been large, it might have been small. It was difficult to judge with all the equipment clustered around the bed looming menacingly over Spinelli is how it appeared to Jason's eyes even though his brain tried to tell him the machines were there to help, to sustain, even to save his friend's life.

Yet, he could only look at the mechanical paraphernalia for so long before he had to stop averting his eyes and actually see Spinelli. With a quick flutter of eyelids and an indrawn breath, Jason reluctantly turned his head and gazed at the small, still recumbent form occupying the bed. His face, God, his face! Jason had thought it was bad enough when he couldn't see his features, when his countenance had been obscured by a stiffening mask of red ochre but that was nothing compared to this. His eyes were sunken into the mass of bruised and swollen tissue that surrounded them while the nasty cut in his cheek had been superseded by the more recent, more vicious damage done to the areas surrounding it. His nose was taped, the classic sign of its having been broken. Jason's eyes moved inexorably lower until he saw the plastic insertion that held the ventilator tubes in place, those lifelines that ran down Spinelli's trachea and into his lungs, inflating and deflating them automatically, with indifferently perfect precision.

His torso was shrouded by blankets and a hospital gown effectively blocking Jason's view of the raw red surgical wounds that criss-crossed Spinelli's abdomen. Both his arms were connected to a variety of IV tubes that ran to drip bags of colorless and ruby red fluid suspended from gleaming metallic hooks on stands situated at either side of the head of the bed. His line of sight ran automatically down Spinelli's arms to stop abruptly at his hands, both of which were altered from the last time Jason had seen them. He had to shift his position slightly and crane his neck to get a look at the right. It was, as Patrick had said, encased in a cast the fingers protruding out awkwardly swollen and black looking. Ironically, the right hand looked worse than the left because there was nothing visible of the latter. It lay inertly on Spinelli's chest. It had been further elevated by being placed on a pillow which Jason surmised as having something to with improving circulation to the damaged appendage. It appeared innocuous enough as it lay there swathed in so many layers of protective white gauze that it seemed twice the size of the original hand. Yet all Jason could visualize, could see was the ruined hand he had held earlier that night and somehow this attempt to sanitize that mutilation without repairing it was obscene.

He felt dizzy as waves of anger and exhaustion and futility flowed through his system, their unlooked for impact causing him to sway, to reach around him blindly for some type of support before he collapsed in an ignomious heap on the floor. Hands met his frantically seeking ones and a supporting arm snaked around his waist. "I've got you," it was Patrick, his tone calm and reassuring. Jason couldn't see, his vision was occluded by the events of the night, by what he had witnessed, by the aftermath represented by the silent boy who was lying in the bed in this room. Those images ran ceaselessly across his retina blinding him to what was actually before him in the here and now. Patrick's concerned face bent over him as he eased him down into a chair. "Jason!" The tone was sharp as he tried to bring the overly stressed man back to an awareness of his surroundings.

Jason incoherently mumbled something in response to Patrick's restrained shout. "What did you say?" Patrick was determined that he answer that he pull out of this faint, this fugue state, whatever it might be. He had enough on his plate without having to admit Jason Morgan to the hospital as a patient.

"I said," his voice was slow, the halting words coming out with exquisite enunciation as Jason tried to regain control of his recalcitrant lips and tongue, "Don't shout, you'll disturb Spinelli."

Patrick gave a relieved sigh as he smiled grimly at Jason's words, his concern for his friend. "Don't worry, we're not in the room anymore."

"We're not?" Jason looked around him, still in a daze as he tried to absorb the change in venue that had occurred while he had been non compos mentis. He was sitting in a chair in a small room similar, almost identical really, to the one in which he had spent so many agonizing hours while Spinelli had been in surgery. He guessed this was the ICU waiting room but that wasn't supposed to be where he was. "You said I could stay with him," he raised his eyes to stare accusingly at Patrick, unhappily aware that the wattage of his intimidating glare was greatly reduced.

"Well," Patrick was entirely unoffended by Jason's unreasonable attitude. "I said you could sit with Spinelli not lie in an unconscious mound on the floor. It would make it more difficult for the nurses to get around not to mention that I believe it might violate OSHA standards." He had intentionally spoken lightly so as to enable Jason to reassume the armor of stoicism that was his primary protection against the intrusiveness of the external world.

Jason had the grace to look abashed as he ducked his head and spoke softly and sincerely, "I'm sorry about that and thanks for helping me out. It won't happen again." Now he had raised his eyes and was looking directly at Patrick. "You can trust me on that."

"I know I can," Patrick nodded his head in soothing agreement, "But you're not going to do yourself or Spinelli any good if you collapse from lack of sleep or low blood sugar." Already he could see that Jason was getting ready to argue with him to try and force him to honor his agreement and so he spoke more rapidly. "So, as soon as you go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat you can come up here and sit with him." He really wished there was some way he could suggest Jason grab some sleep in a quiet corner of the hospital but he knew that suggestion would be met by outright refusal.

Jason reluctantly, almost sullenly nodded his head. "Okay, but if I do that then you'll let me stay with him?" He stared hard at Patrick, daring him to renege in any way on the deal they had forged between them.

Patrick nodded his head in weary agreement. "You can stay unless one of the nurses asks you to leave because of something they have to do or if there's an emergency." This time it was his turn to look intently at Jason in order to ascertain that he would abide by his authority in all things medical.

Jason stood up and reaching out his hand for Patrick's clasped it in a binding handshake. "Fair enough," he said pausing as he looked down at their entwined fingers and then closing his eyes in sudden pain as he remembered the destruction of Spinelli's own hands.

Patrick gazed at him in empathy and tried to find something consoling to say but only managed to get as far as an abortive "Jason," before the handshake was abruptly ended and Jason was already turned and leaving the room. He made his solitary way down the hall towards the waiting elevators not bothering with bidding farewell to Patrick. The doctor stared after him watching him stride along, covering his pain, his fear with a fast walk and a return to his stone cold demeanor that had intimidated so many but never the young man lying in a coma with his broken body and bruised brain.

It was only a half hour before Jason found himself once more at the entrance to Spinelli's room but it had seemed like an eternity. He had kept his promise to Patrick, had gone downstairs to the cafeteria and had ordered some food. He fully intended to eat, to follow the doctor's commonsensical advice. Yet, once he sat down at a table and contemplated actually trying to swallow the turkey sandwich and accompanying salad that he had selected he realized it was an impossible task. He knew that the food would feel like cardboard going down his esophagus and that most likely his stomach would rebel and expel it all anyway. Still, he had said he would eat and so he returned to the counter and ordered some Jell-O and a bowl of chicken noodle soup. It worked, the innocuous and slippery food slid down his throat easily enough and his disgruntled stomach agreed to keep it and digest it.

The only thing his system truly craved, was delighted to absorb was three cups of black, thick, tar-like coffee that Jason realized would be necessary for him to keep awake as he sat with Spinelli. He knew he could sleep, that it would be expected for him to do so, that there wasn't any practical reason for him to stay awake but he had a superstitious fear that he must make it through the night awake and alert so that Spinelli too would be there in the morning. Even in the much compromised state he was currently in, he was still alive…and for now, for Jason that was enough, would have to do.

Yet, now as he reentered the room dimly lit and full of alien machines that blinked and gave off periodic beeps he was once again terrified. He looked at the still figure in the bed, he hadn't moved a millimeter. Nothing about him had altered in the short time Jason had been absent and that was the very reason he felt a cold finger of fear trace its delicate way up and down his spine raising goose bumps and causing him to shiver with remorse. "This is all my fault," he thought to himself in anguish, once again treading the well worn guilt ridden territory that he had revisited again and again throughout the endless night. "If I had…" But he hadn't, that was the point. He shut his eyes, bitterness and despair welling up within him as he squeezed his fists and clenched his jaw muscles in an effort to try and regain a semblance of control over his emotions. "He'll get better, he has to…" It was a mantra, an awful hope sent spiraling up to the dark indifferent forces that controlled the universe. His face once again all angular, unreadable planes carved from granite and only his eyes sparkling with devastated love, Jason quietly pulled up a chair and sat down ready to act as a sentinel, guarding Spinelli from his very own mortality.