Title:
Author: Lila
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing: Kristina Cassadine
Spoiler: none
Length: one-shot
Summary: Kristina Cassadine, all grown up.
Disclaimer: All characters are property of "General Hospital"
Author's Note: I've been wanting to write this story for forever and finally got around to it. It's a little twisted, but I think everyone should like it. I hope you enjoy!
"Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice."
- "Fire and Ice," Robert Frost
She was never supposed to be born.
She's lived with it her entire life. It's not because she was supposed to be a boy, the heir to an empire carved out of blood and fear. It wasn't because she wasn't a good Catholic girl who wore a pleated skirt and held a wafer to her tongue every Sunday. It wasn't because she didn't grow up in his household, shielded from the world by bulletproof glass and steely-eyed guards.
It was because she was never supposed to be.
She was an accident, a mistake, a fluke, a one-time shot that turned out wrong. She'd known this her entire life. She was never really wanted. That's not to say he didn't flirt with the idea of a little girl with burning eyes and ink-dark hair. He did, for a moment. and then the moment was over and she was nothing more than a passing thought. She'd always been tolerated–never wanted.
It was only because she had his blood in her veins. His mother's black eyes. His father's dark hair. His own fiery temper. Because no matter how he wished it was different, she was a part of him. Even if he didn't want her to be.
Michael was always wanted, even before he existed, he was wanted. That's all he'd ever wanted, a little boy to call his own, and when the first one disappeared in a burst of flames, he stole another man's. It didn't matter that they didn't share blood, didn't look or sound alike. It was all right because they shared each other. Michael came to him as bumbling toddler struggling to walk, and he made him. He shaped him, sculpted him, created him in his image. She saw them together, one so dark and the other so light, and it was like looking at mirror opposites, two halves of the same whole. The power, the arrogance, the confidence, the same yearning, the same possession…she'd seen it in their eyes. They didn't need to be related to want the same things: money, power, women, loyalty. Everything Sonny Corinthos ever was or wanted was reflected in his son. He made Michael that way. The child never stood a chance against a master. In Port Charles, the Corinthoses were kings…Michael was next in line for the throne.
She knew she'd never be his queen.
It wasn't because his eyes burned with brown fire and hers mirrored black ice. It wasn't because she was a Russian princess and he was the son of peasant. It wasn't because he killed people for a living while she jetted around the world in Manolo heels and Gucci dresses. It was because she was never supposed to be.
How can someone be wanted if she's not supposed to exist in the first place?
Her mother said she prayed for her, clutched her medallion between icy fingers and whispered into the night, begging for a little girl to bless her life. Her prayers came true, eventually. Her daughter was born on the longest day of the year, colder than the frozen steppes her family had fled. Everything about that night was cold, from the glacial freeze of Luis Alcazar's blue eyes to the snow coating the land in arctic white. Her mother nearly died from the cold when Luis left her in the park and it was only by a stroke of luck that she survived.
It was even luckier that her daughter pulled though, because not only wasn't she supposed to exist, she wasn't supposed to live. Her little lungs weren't supposed to breathe the icy air, her tiny heart wasn't supposed to survive the chill, her eyes were never supposed to change from frozen blue to burning black. She managed to survive and live to talk about it, but the cold remained with her forever.
She had everything she wanted from the day she was born, even her choice of mothers. Her first mother had hair like flames and soft skin that felt like silk against her baby cheeks. She remembered her laugh, her smile, her warm fingers rubbing icy toes. But Skye never got it. She'd never be warm, not where it counted. When she was older she'd see Skye and her twin babies walking in the park and she'd hear the laughter of her childhood. Her first mother would look at her son and daughter with such love, such warmth, such need in her eyes. She loved those babies, wanted them. They were never a trick to snare a man who didn't love her; the proof was evident in the twinkling ring on her left hand. Her babies were never an instant cure for loneliness or neglect. They existed because they had a mother and father who loved each other and wanted to create a child from that love. They weren't a final act of desperation like herself.
Her second mother wasn't much better, but she knew she loved her from the moment she took her home to Wyndermere and placed a Cassadine medallion around her throat. She followed suit on every birthday with diamonds and pearls, rubies and emeralds, heavy jewels that felt like rings of ice against her skin. Those were her memories of childhood: cool palms against her forehead, drafty hallways wrought with shadows, formal dinners with her Uncle and Nikolas. In her world the legendary Cassadine feuds were something of myth. She never saw the heated arguments or watched fiery tempers clash. It was all cool precision, like when she was seven and grandmother slipped cyanide in Lydia's chilled vodka.
"She was a complication," Grandmother had said when Uncle confronted her, eyes blazing.
"You killed a woman."
Grandmother simply shrugged her shoulders. "I did you a favor. Stop being such a petulant child, Stefan."
"She was innocent."
"She was a silly, weak girl controlled by passion. She let it fuel her and it destroyed her. You should know better than to let passion rule your life."
"And end up like you?"
Grandmother's eyes froze with contempt. "There are worse things than wasting one's life away lusting for a woman whose heart belongs to another man. Don't threaten me, Stefan. You know it's pointless. Lydia was foolish and careless and paid for her crimes. I only wish it would have been arsenic. She would have suffered more."
"You are a cold-hearted monster."
"You never learn, Stefan. Never show weakness unless you're craving defeat. I don't expect you'll ever win."
Stefan sighed. "I'm tired of this game, Mother."
Grandmother sipped vodka and cast him a sidelong glance. "Shall we talk about your bastard sister and her bastard daughter instead?"
"Mother, do not speak about Alexis or Kristina that way!"
"Why? It's the truth. Why are they here? Do they serve any purpose other than to tarnish the Cassadine name and reputation? Alexis and her spawn are a stain on this family."
"They are my guests. Nikolas and I want them here."
Grandmother laughed harshly. "No you don't. You have them here because you feel obligated. Don't pretend you want them."
Her mother pulled had away a moment later, but the damage was done. She'd learned her own lesson from a master. The chill she'd felt in her bones since birth set in for good and she could never quite escape it. Never show weakness or she'd end up like Lydia, interned for eternity in the icy bowels of the Cassadine crypt. She'd always known she wasn't wanted; now she knew how to defend against it. She took her grandmother's advice and locked away her heart behind a wall of ice. Glazed her words with frost, chilled her emotions in a deep freeze of indifference, froze the passion from her life.
At school they called her an ice princess. At four one of her frosty glares sent the other little girls scurrying behind Miss Courtney's skirts. At twelve they called her an icy bitch for kneeing the first boy brave enough to kiss her. At sixteen her first lover abandoned her because she couldn't melt her heart long enough to say "I love you."
At twenty she fled to the island off the coast of Greece, basked under the scorching sun and ran her fingers through hot sand. For the first time in her life she was tired of the cold, tired of hiding behind an empty shell. All she got for her efforts was an angry sunburn and blistered skin. She felt warm all over, but not deep inside, not where it counted.
When an island boy pressed kisses to the back of her hand and fed her grapes and laid her down in the warm night sand, she felt nothing. "You're like a statute," he told her. "Beautiful to look at, but like ice to touch."
She left the next morning and returned to Port Charles as the first snow crusted the ground. She felt at home as the icy flakes brushed her cheeks, smiled as she caught one on the tip of her tongue. The river was frozen, almost black in the dim moonlight. She could see the Wyndermere across the way, the lights falling in distorted patters against the icy river.
She heard footsteps behind her, but she didn't bother turn around. "What are you doing here?"
He laughed softly, "I missed you, babe. Where've you been?"
"Away."
"Always the cold one. Can't you lighten up for just a moment, Kris?"
"I hate it when you call me that."
He moved closer, ran warm fingers over the icy skin of her neck. "You should dress warmer. It's cold out here."
"I don't feel the cold." It was the truth. How could she be bothered by something that was as much a part of her as breathing?
His hands slid down her sides, locked around her waist. "Come with me, baby." She could feel his heat through the layers of wool and silk, feel his hot breath against her cheeks. He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, his warm lips tracing patterns across her bare skin. "God, baby, you're like ice. I think I need to warm you up."
Her eyes slid closed. "Too late," she whispered, but he only laughed and slid his tongue down the length of her throat.
"Come with me. Please? I need you."
His eyes seemed to dance in the moonlight, darken as they slid down the length of her. She could see the passion smoldering there, burning through her in the darkness. She wanted him the way she always had, since she was a little girl, wanted his fire to melt her ice. She wasn't supposed to be with him, wasn't even supposed to know him. But she'd been tricking fate her entire life and this wasn't any different. She didn't care that they could never be together, not in the ways that counted. He made her feel wanted, not to ease the pain of loneliness or carry on a family line, but because he wanted her, just her.
When he held out his hand, she knew she'd follow him anywhere.
She'd been five when she saw him for the first time, standing outside Kelly's with snow falling on his hair. It had been red, as vivid and brilliant as the sun setting over the Mediterranean, the red lights he claimed his Uncle had run to get to the hospital on time, the bright blood that ran thick and red the night his Mama almost died and he was born.
He'd looked up at her with eyes like liquid caramel, warm and rich in the sunlight. He'd taken one look at her, bundled up by her neurotic mother so only her eyes showed, and laughed. His smile had been so bright she'd had to look away. She couldn't remember the last time anyone in her world has smiled like that. His daddy had come out a moment later, holding a miniature version of himself under his right arm. His smile was just as bright as his sons, just as warm. He kissed his younger son on the head and patted his older one on the shoulder.
"Good work, Michael," he'd said and they'd quickly exchanged an envelope. She'd watched the entire thing with open interest, not understanding the politics of a family so different from her own. Her mother had explained it once when she asked why no one ever kissed each other. "Everyone's been burned too many times to feel again," she'd said. "It's easier this way. You know we love you, Kristina. We just can't show it all the time." Then she'd kissed her on the forehead, just a brush of cool lips over even cooler skin, and left her to play alone with her dolls.
This family was different. She watched them walk hand-in-hand, three Corinthos men with matching struts and similar fire in their dark eyes. Her mother told her to stay away with them. "Play with fire and you're going to get burned," she'd said. " That's all the Corinthos men are, fire. They'll never bring you anything but pain."
She couldn't stay away. She'd felt the chill too long. She wanted to burn for once.
When she was ten she'd gone ice-skating for the first time, by herself because her mother was too busy with her latest case. The ice had been weak, warmed by the bright winter sunshine, and she'd fallen through. The cold had been familiar, almost welcome, even when she felt it's tight grip around her throat. It was going to claim her once and for all, and for a moment she almost let it. Then strong hands reached through and grasped her wrists, pulled her to safety above. When she opened her eyes she found herself staring at a nervous, frightened boy with hair like fire. "Are you okay?" he asked. "You almost died down there."
For a moment all she wanted to do was breakdown and cry, wail for her mommy to wrap her arms around her and make it better. Instead she chilled her emotions and forced a weak smile. "I'm fine now," she'd said. "Thank you."
He nodded and draped a blanket around her shoulders, put a cup of hot chocolate in her hand. To her surprise he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. "You need body heat," he said. "Or you'll freeze to death."
"Morgan, Addie–Come here," he called and two dark-haired, dark-eyed children skated over. "We need to help this girl warm up." The two, obviously in awe of their big brother, diligently took off their skates and snuggled under the blanket next to her.
"Thank you," she managed to whisper, her cheeks flushing hotly.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Kristina," she whispered. "Kristina Cassadine."
"I'm Michael Corinthos," he said. "It's nice to meet you."
"You too."
She met him again five years later when her Mercedes broke down on the side of the road and her cell phone couldn't find reception. He was twenty then, a college boy, and she was still muddling her way through high school. It had been barely ten degrees outside and she'd been sitting in her car, drawing pictures on the frosted windshield when his motorcycle ground to a stop beside her. Recognizing him, she'd opened the door and stepped outside, her thin coat blowing in the wind
"Hi," she'd said. "I'm glad you're here."
It had taken a moment for him to recognize her. "Are you Kristina Cassadine?" he'd asked incredulously. "The little girl I pulled out of the pond?"
"Guilty as charged. You don't recognize me?"
His eyes had slid down the length of her, taking in the bare legs and four-inch Jimmy Choos and the $5,000 Dior dress. "You look a little different. Isn't it a kinda cold to be dressed like that?"
"I was going to a friend's sixteenth birthday party when my car decided to break down. Do you think you can fix it?"
He shrugged. "I can take a look."
"I'd appreciate that."
It started to snow as soon as he lifted the hood, the delicate flakes catching in his hair. Even in the dim moonlight she could see its rich, red tones, and the flakes only enhanced its fiery glow. She peered over his shoulder, shivering in the cold, as he fiddled with the engine. "You're freezing," he said and started to slip off his leather jacket.
She laid a hand on his shoulder in restraint, surprised by the thick muscle she detected there. "I'm fine."
He shook his head. "I was raised to be a gentleman," he said and draped the jacket over her shoulders, just like the blanket five years earlier. "Better?"
"Thank you."
The jacket was warmed by his body and smelled like a blend of cologne and smoke. She wrapped it tighter around herself and felt the cold melt away. A real smile curved her lips and she took a step closer to him, the smiling widening at the way his biceps bunched under his thin t-shirt. She moved behind him and pressed against his back, watching him work over his shoulder. "Am I getting in your way?" she asked when he stiffened against her.
"No," he said, his tone slightly strained. "But there's not much I can do. Your battery's dead." He looked pointedly at his motorcycle. "I can give you a ride to your party."
"On your motorcycle?"
He grinned, a challenge creeping into the warm caramel of his eyes. "Come on, it will be fun. I promise you'll like it." He held out his hand expectantly.
She slipped her gloved one with its fur lining into his. "Okay."
She slid behind him, wrapped her legs around his hips and her arms around his waist. Even as the wind blew icily around them, she could feel the heat through his jacket, warming her body and heating her soul. When he deposited her at Ainsley Barrington's birthday party, with wind-whipped hair and reddened cheeks, she slid her hand into his as a show of thanks. But the glove slipped off and she felt his bare skin against hers, a spark torching its way across her palm. She jumped, but he only smiled, brushed a lock of tangled black hair off her face, and kissed her. It was just a brush of his lips over hers, but she felt it in her bones, like a glacier melting and spreading through her like a spring creek.
He pulled away. "I'll be seeing you, Kris," he said and left her quaking in her $300.00 heels, while the snow poured down around her.
At eighteen she'd stood on the roof of General Hospital and watched the traffic below.
It would have been so easy to jump, to fall through the winter air and splatter on the frozen pavement below. They'd claim she slipped on the ice, lost her footing. They'd call it an accident, a tragic accident, and mourn her the way they mourned previous generations of Cassadines who'd died too young. She thought of Lydia and her pale face, her cold hands crossed over her heart as she'd been laid in the crypt.
She shook away the memory. Now wasn't a time to be weak. She had to be strong if she wanted to end her pain. She hadn't felt anything in so long, not pain or love, happiness or fear. She just glided through life like ice cream on a hot summer's day: cool, calm, serene. It wasn't like she was living at all, just slipping through the motions so everyone would leave her alone. It wasn't that they didn't know she was there, because they did–they just didn't see her. It wasn't that they didn't hear what she had to say, because they did–they just didn't listen. It's not that they didn't love her, because they did–they just never wanted her.
She'd even heard her mother and Uncle discuss it much later when they thought she was asleep. "Alexis, what are you doing?" Uncle had asked. "Raising a child? She's eight going on eighty. She acts like someone twice her age."
Her mother was near tears. "I'm doing my best. You know I was never cut out to be a mother. I'm trying as hard as I can. Isn't that enough?"
"Alexis," Uncle had sighed. "Why did you ever have this child if you can't care for her properly?"
"It was an accident! You know that. She was never supposed to be here, but for some reason unknown to me God chose to grant me the child I always wanted. I will never regret having her."
"But you never wanted her! You just said she was an accident. Now she's here and we don't know what to do with her. I think we should send her to boarding school, a place where she'll have proper structure and be around other girls like herself."
"I want her with me."
"You can't take care of her, Alexis. You know that. She'll be happy away at school. I promise."
Two weeks later she watched the ice crystals twinkle from dripping branches as Nikolas' Jaguar purred its way towards her new boarding school. She spent a decade there learning to be a wealthy, educated young lady. She also learned to snort snow up her nose and live in euphoric splendor.
She kicked that habit the day he found her on the roof, one Prada boot on the edge. Without a word he'd wrapped leather-clad arms around her waist and hauled her off the roof. "What are you doing?" he'd yelled against the wind. "Are you nuts?"
She struggled against him. "Mind your own business. I was just getting some fresh air!"
"You were going to jump. My god, Kristina, what's wrong with you?"
She twisted out of his arms and the medallion fell out of her coat. He picked it up and examined it, opened the tiny catch. He took one look at the white powder and glared at her. "You're high. Do you even know what you almost did?"
She reached for the vial, but he was too quick. She watched in horror as the powder blended in with the snow below. "You had no right to do that!" she sneered. "I knew what I was doing. It had nothing to do with that."
"Then why? Why were you about to end your life?"
"Because I hate my life, okay? I hate feeling like I'm frozen all the time, like I can't feel anything. My boyfriend broke up with me yesterday and I don't even care. We were together over a year and I don't feel a thing! I'm a freak! I….I just wanted it to end."
He smiled through the darkness and held out his hand. "Come with me."
She looked at him like he was nuts. "Why should I?"
"I want to show you something."
She remembered all the moments she'd shared with Michael Corinthos, and every time, no matter the span of years, he'd saved her: from ice, from snow, from herself. She'd follow him anywhere and know she'd be okay.
They ended up at a blues club where he made her drink warm brandy and let the rhythm of bass and guitar sink into her bones. When he took her to his room upstairs she could still feel the rhythm as he laid her against the sheets and kissed her. For the first time in her life, as she felt him move deep inside her, she felt alive. She rested her head against his chest and listened to his heart beat soundly beneath her ear and felt something break inside her. It was like a dam collapsing, the way the tears suddenly poured from here eyes and her breathing hitched on each breath. All awhile he held her in his arms and brushed his lips across her hair and whispered comfort in her ear.
"Why do you do this?" she whispered.
"Do what?"
"Rescue me, take care of me like this. You barely know me."
He tilted her chin so their eyes met, black ice and brown fire. "Because I want you in my life."
She was his forever.
When he kissed her she felt like she'd been burned. She could feel him deep inside her, like liquid flame running through her veins, melting the walls around her heart. His scorching hands blazed a trail down her body and she cried out with each new place his fingers caressed. "Michael," she whispered into the night. "Michael. . .I love you."
He smiled against her mouth, caught her hair in his hands. "I love you. I love you so much."
Her mother once warned her to stay away from Corinthos men, told her she'd only be burned. She'd been burned a thousand times over. But she lived for it, craved it, like a moth to a flame. All she'd ever felt was ice; she'd never get enough of the burn.
Maybe she'd be queen after all.
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