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

Shadows of the Mind

Chapter 1: Wake Up

"C'mon wake up, Spinelli," Jason knew he was pleading, but he didn't care, he just needed him to talk to him, say anything.

"Hey, Stone Cold, why such a melancholy countenance?" Or "Much as the Jackal is gratified to have indictable proof at last of his Master's feelings for his humble acolyte, he is having trouble with his inspirations and expirations. Perhaps if Stone Cold could loosen his stranglehold on his grasshopper it would be much appreciated."

If only he could block his breathing, if only that were possible. "Please, please, Spinelli stop this! Stop fooling around it isn't funny. You have to wake up."

He pulled him up, his arms wrapped around the unresponsive form. His eyes, those amazing eyes stared blankly up at the orange tinted night sky of the city. They had filmed over and they hadn't blinked, not once in the last-how long? He had no idea, he thought maybe years, maybe minutes, his lifetime-that he knew for sure.

"Jason?" God damn it! It was Lucky Spencer.

Jason hadn't even heard the sirens, hadn't heard anything after the sound of a gun and a muffled exclamation as Spinelli had shoved him, so hard. He had no idea the kid had that kind of strength in him. Jason had fallen, had hit his head on the corner of the warehouse wall and while he hadn't lost consciousness he had been dazed and disoriented.

That's when the silence had descended, a heavy cloak-like positive absence of sound. It was like the waves that were emitted at certain frequencies that then compressed the air and were recorded by auditory mechanisms such as the human ear, it was like they were frozen. There would never be any sound in the world again except the audible crack that was Jason's heart fracturing.

It hurt, it hurt like someone had taken a frozen red-hot poker and stabbed him directly in his coronary muscle splitting it in two. There was the part that used to beat five minutes ago and was now a dead blackened piece of meat. Then there was the part that somehow still put out a half hearted desultory sluggish push towards circulating the blood through this hated live-live that was the insulting, impossible part of it all-body of his. The traitorous part of his heart that dared somehow had the audacity to think that Jason Morgan still needed to breathe in and out and deliver oxygen to the cells of his despised body.

It was him, he was supposed to be lying on this filthy dock, his eyes staring sightlessly up, his soul on the way to hell where he deserved to reside. He had crawled over to him and lifted him up. There was a trail of blood curving down from his mouth to his chin. His sweatshirt was a mosaic of Christmas red and green. The green was the starting color and the red had been added as an afterthought, a Spinelli original if you will-all swirls of crimson-clotted and smelling of iron and the loss of hope.

He really shouldn't be sleeping here. It wasn't safe, there might be more shots fired. He guessed the shooter had seen them both go down and was satisfied at the completion of his night's work. Well, once Spinelli woke up, and it better be soon, Jason would make sure that would be his last and worst mistake.

"I have to go Spinelli. I have to go get them. I can't go until you get up. It's dirty and cold and you'll get sick. You need to wake up. I'll take you back to the Penthouse and you can sleep there…"

"Jason," Lucky touched his shoulder this time, trying to interrupt the flow of words being spoken to a corpse, the flow that was turning his blood cold as it more than hinted at insanity, at a shattered mind.

Lucky's wrist was captured in a vice grip and he instantaneously froze. He knew that if he moved a millimeter, reacted in the least that the bones would be twisted and snapped like a piece of long desiccated kindling.

"You have Jake, you have Cameron, you have Elizabeth. You took my life. You cannot have Spinelli, he's mine not yours." Each word was gritted out as Jason looked up at him with eyes that Lucky could see even in the murky light were murderous in intent.

Jason flung Lucky's hand away as though its touch had contaminated him. Lucky was ashamed to find his whole body was trembling as he massaged his wrist, trying to get the blood circulating once again. He knew it would be ringed with bruises tomorrow that would exactly match Jason's hand span.

"You hear that?" His voice had taken on a sing-song quality as he resumed speaking to the macabre figure enfolded in his arms. "You're mine. Damian Spinelli, the Jackal, private investigator, the ace of cyberspace, best friend, brother…son…light aga..against the darkness all of you…" His voice was cracking, his grip intensified but Spinelli didn't seem to mind this time, didn't have any complaints about not being able to breathe. "You saved me, not tonight…" This sure as hell wasn't being saved, this was unendurable agony. "The first time you walked into the penthouse and called me 'dude'. I mean you called Jason Morgan 'dude' and you lived to talk about it." He laughed, it was short and choked but it was genuine.

"You stayed when Sam left, you chose me over her. I never said it, and I know, I really know you cared about her too and it tore you up to see us split but you chose me and I was so grateful. I didn't know how to be alone anymore and you stayed. Then with Jake…" He stopped and closed his eyes and rested his chin on the shaggy top of his brother's head.

Lucky stepped back. This was more than he could bear and he didn't even like either man, truth be told he pretty much hated Jason and thought of Spinelli as an irritant. Still, this was private, this unvarnished grief and these words weren't meant for anyone's ears except the dead. Not only that but if anyone overhead what Jason was saying in this unguarded moment it could be dangerous for Jake. So, Lucky stepped back and created a perimeter around the grieving mobster. He would be sure that no one would interrupt him.

"You kept me sane and anchored Spinelli. God! Why couldn't I ever say that, why?" It was practically a whimper as he rocked in unassailable grief. "You connected me to him-from the pregnancy on-the ultrasound picture, trying to video the birth, his first birthday party. You let me talk about him, you kept my secret. You helped me every time I needed it. You backed me up at the Metro Court, the hospital, with the Russians. What am I supposed to do if you're not here? It was meant to be me, always me. I choose this life, not you…you just choose me…"

Jason couldn't continue the natural progression of that thought. He had bent over backwards to keep every person that meant the slightest sliver of anything to him safely removed from his life. He had put a moratorium on meeting with Robin, Monica, Elizabeth, Jake and, most recently, he had even restricted Maxie's access to his world.

What had he done with regard to the boy lying so still in his arms? Not a fucking thing! One little off hand remark about having him move out, not even quitting working for him, just moving out-like that would have solved thing one. Then when he had protested, he had told himself it was his choice and Jason Morgan always let people make their own choices-except when he didn't. He was such a hypocrite. It wasn't that he couldn't have made Spinelli move out, leave-it was that he hadn't wanted to. He couldn't bear to not have him in his life, to not be able to tell him what he had done that day and see his eyes light up with admiration, respect, and that most valued of emotions-love.

He sure could have done it. He knew exactly how. It probably wouldn't have taken more than a few strategically placed sentences along the lines of "I want my privacy back," or "You're more trouble than you're worth," or perhaps this capper, "I don't trust you." After two years of residing with the kid, Jason could have destroyed him a million ways from Sunday with a few well chosen words and had him out of his life for good.

Sure, he could pretend to himself that he cared enough for him that destroying him internally wasn't what he wanted to do to save him externally. It sounded good, except that it was all a lie. He didn't say any of those things because he couldn't stand to see the expression on Spinelli's face, the naked loss of his fragile self-esteem, his caving in on himself that he might very well not recover from. He couldn't destroy Spinelli or kick him out because it would be destroying himself as well. If Spinelli went, metaphorically speaking, so would Jason Morgan or at least his only faint hope of some type of redemption that had started glowing the day the kid walked into the penthouse and called him 'dude'.

So, instead this is what he got. The kid-stop that! He deserved far better-the light in Jason Morgan's life snuffed out in a filthy alley in the back of a warehouse. Nothing metaphorical about it, there was literal blood on Jason's hands tonight.

It was just supposed to be a quick stop. Jason had neutralized the Russian threat in Port Charles-dostavanya. So, tonight they were heading out to grab something to eat. It seemed like a good idea, a step down from the red alert status that had gripped them and the entire city the past couple of months. On their way back he wanted to swing by the warehouse and do a cursory check-make sure that everything was okay. He wasn't really thinking about there being a problem-it was just an itch, an instinct if you will. He sure wasn't considering that he had the most precious civilian in his life along for the trip.

All those years, all those times he had looked at a situation from every possible vantage point. He had pondered pros and cons, decided to swallow his natural arrogance and pride when needed. Time after time, he had done that-with Sonny, with himself, hell, even with Jake's kidnapping.

Tonight though, every instinct he had ever honed, every piece of common sense he was supposed to possess had gone on vacation. It wasn't Jason who had started to sense something was wrong, who had begun to move before the reverberation of the gun had reached their-no, make that his ears. If you heard the shot that meant the bullet had long since flown the barrel and in this case found its mark. Spinelli never heard the sound-just Jason and that sound would echo down the spiral of his dreams for the rest of his life.

He wasn't going to wake up, not in a few minutes, not tonight, not ever…