Somewhere In Between

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Chapter Ten: Worth A Thousand Words.

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(a/n: I know we don't ever get to see if Sonny has an office or study in the penthouse, but as far as I figure, he's gotta have one in there somewhere… right? Oh, well… let's just pretend. Umkay?)

Sonny watched the now familiar images flicker across his TV screen. Over and over it looped: the street reporter gesturing up to the fortress-like Brighton Terrace that stood just across the way from where Sonny was now; the zoomed-in footage of the media frenzy that had exploded down below; the somber statements and sullen oaths from Mac Scorpio as he stood stoically behind a podium emblazoned with the PCPD crest; and, finally, alternating between all that mess, were dozens of images of Emily herself, smiling at him from behind the flat-screened picture tube. Pictures from her modeling days, paparazzi snap shots of her out on the town with her friends, and then one of her and Jason that Sonny knew had to have been taken without their knowledge. It was obviously a candid photo, and besides, Jason didn't exactly do photo shoots. The press even somehow managed to get their paws on a photo with Emily, Jason and Sonny in it, the one that had been taken of them at the last birthday party of Michael's she'd been in town for.

Seeing that had taken his wind. He hadn't been expecting to see the image of himself—standing between Jason and Emily, arms draped across both sibling's shoulders—smiling broadly back at him. It wasn't like he'd never seen it before. In fact, Carly, on one of her mysterious whims, had actually framed a copy of that very photo and put it up in Michael's room. But what had been surprising was seeing it plastered all over the news. There weren't exactly tons of photos of the three of them circulating around, and Sonny briefly wondered how the vultures had gotten hold of it. But then he remembered.

It hadn't been the first time.

It had been in the paper after she got hurt. Leaked somehow to the Herald and attached to some article that picked apart her accident. The intent of displaying her connection to him so vividly had been, as it always was, to twist it all around in order to drum up a buzz and attract readers—just another way to up their circulation or boost their ratings.

It was the same thing the press was doing now. They were milking this Mob angle for all it was worth; insinuations were flying wild, and, to be honest, it really pissed him off. Usually he just let it all slide off his back. Never rise to the bait. That was his mantra in cases like this. But now, as Sonny looked at that picture of the three of them up there on the TV screen, bigger than life, he knew that just ignoring it wasn't a possibility this time out.

Emily was really missing, and he was really to blame.

Sonny felt a bout of dark laughter pull at his gut. Ric was probably having a field-day. And why shouldn't he? Sonny though savagely. Wasn't this whole mess giving Ric exactly what he'd always wanted: living proof that everything his brother had been spewing and preaching was right? That Sonny did destroy everything he touched, and that no one, not even someone as sweet and caring as Emily was immune to the life he lead?

Sonny sighed and closed his eyes. It was days like this that just giving it all up really sounded like the best thing. For everybody.

"When is Emily gonna come home, Dad?"

The sound of his son's voice rocked Sonny from his reverie, and he quickly switched off the television. Michael didn't need to see any more of that. None of them did. Sonny motioned for Michael to join him on the couch. Looping an arm around him and smiling warmly at his boy, Sonny tried his best to seem confident. "Soon, buddy. Soon."

Sonny watched his son's brow furrow, an unsure sadness shinning in his eyes. "That's what Jason said, but…"

"But what, huh?" Sonny said, giving Michael's arm a squeeze. "Has Jason ever told you something that wasn't true before?"

Michael shook his head, still looking incredibly uncertain. He flicked his gaze to the blank TV screen and then back to his father's face. "I know, but—but what if those people on TV are—"

"But nothing, Michael." Sonny ducked his head and looked earnestly at his son. "I don't want you to pay any attention to what the people on TV say, okay? I want you to have faith in what your momma, Jason, and I tell you. And I want you to keep thinking good thoughts. Up here…"—Sonny touched his fingertip to Michael's forehead—"…and in here…"—and then against his son's heart. "Your Aunty Emily is coming home, Mike. Don't you worry about it."

"Michael!" His wife's voice suddenly filled his study. "Michael, we need to get—oh—there you are." Carly stood framed in the doorway, a tired smile on her face. It seemed the only kind anyone was capable of. "I've been looking all over for you, Mr. Man. What are you doing in here? I told you daddy had some work to do." Carly noted the sullen expression on her son's face, and knowing the exact reason for it, she shot Sonny a regretful look. He was so stressed right now; she hadn't wanted to take the chance that Michael's possible questioning would add to any of it. That was why she'd planned to take him to the brownstone for the day, to give Sonny and his men the space they needed to work, to think.

But, deftly catching her eye, Sonny gave his head a furtive shake, letting his wife know that no harm had been done. He got to his feet, bringing Michael with him. "It's okay," he said, ruffling his son's hair. "Mike and I were just talking."

Venturing forward, Carly crossed her arms. "About what?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

Michael's small hands worried at the hem of his tee-shirt as he looked up at his mother with guilty eyes. "I asked dad when Emily was gonna be back," he admitted shyly.

Carly's heart sank for her son. He may not have gotten to see her as much as either would have liked, but the simple fact remained that Michael downright adored his godmother, his 'Aunty Emily'. The kid was crazy about her, and it was a mutual kind of thing. "Oh, baby," Carly cooed, running a soothing hand over her son's back. "Didn't you already have a talk with Jason? Didn't he explain things to you, sweetheart?"

Michael nodded. "I just wanted to be sure, mommy. I really want her to be okay," he said quietly, and then dropped his eyes, kicking idly at the rug with his sneakers. "She was going to take me to the movies this weekend. Just me and her."

Over their son's head, Sonny's eyes met his wife's in a tortured stare. This just kept getting harder and harder. It seemed like there wasn't anything the shockwaves weren't reaching. Everyone Sonny cared about was being hurt in some way by this. Sighing, Sonny drew Michael to his side again. "Remember what I said, buddy. It's gonna be okay. She is coming back."

"That's right," Carly said, nestling against her son's other side, an arm looped around her husband's back. "Jason and Daddy are going to fix this, just like they fix everything." Michael looked up at his mother hopefully and Carly ran a hand over his hair. "Now, I can't tell you when, exactly, but when Emily does come home, I bet she'll be more than happy to take you to that movie, honey. And then you and she can have that day together just like you had planned."

A light flooded Michael's face as he smiled. "Promise?"

Suddenly unsure if this was a good idea or not, Carly locked eyes with her husband again. The tiniest of nods gave her the answer she was looking for. It was about having faith. That was one of the things she learned from loving Sonny. Fate and circumstance had thrown every imaginable obstacle across their path, but here they were, together, raising their son with another child on the way. That was what it came down to in the end, having faith; holding on, no matter what happened. And right now, at times like these, was when having faith counted the most. They had to believe Emily was coming home. Thinking anything less just wasn't acceptable. Ever. Too much stood to be lost in going down that path.

Strengthened by the new surge of confidence, Carly looked down at her son and smiled. "We Promise."

-----

Jason walked across the darkened bedroom, his injured arm tucked into a canvas sling. The stiff fabric rubbed against his skin, and for the millionth time since signing out of the hospital AMA, Jason bit back the urge to rip the sling off and fly it out the window. He hated it. And it had little to do with how uncomfortable it was. It was more about what it represented.

Failure. Staggering failure.

And the feeling seemed to throb in his gut and scrape mercilessly at his insides.

He'd been right there—Jason glared down at his useless shoulder—and it hadn't made one bit of difference in the end. The image of Emily's limp form (almost close enough to touch) being recklessly shoved into that van seemed burned into his retinas. Eyes closed or open, it was all he could see, playing out as vividly and as it had last night. And it always ended the same way. With the sound of that gunned engine ringing in his ears, and his world blinking out as those bastards took off with Emily, leaving him in a puddle of his own blood and swimming in a truth that made the ache in his gut burn white hot: That for the first time in Jason Morgan's life, he hadn't been able to save his sister. She had been within in his grasp, but yet she'd slipped right through it. He'd failed her. He had failed his sister when she needed him most, just like he promised himself he'd never do again. The desire to hit something was so strong, his palms itched.

As he reached the bed Jason blinked back the anger he felt welling—now isn't the time for that—and sat down on the edge, flicking on the lamp before tugging open the drawer to his nightstand.

According to Sonny, the cops had confiscated his piece at the crime scene as evidence, and he had no clue when he'd be getting his prized Desert Eagle back. But it wasn't like he didn't have other guns. His searching fingers made contact with a wooden box under a few random papers. He pulled it out and hoisted it onto his lap, working the latch. His spare gun, a simple but efficient Glock 9, lay neatly inside. Jason slid his fingers over the grips and palmed the automatic in one quick movement. He loaded it—something he found out wasn't the easiest thing to do with a dodgy hand—made sure the safety was on, and set it down on the mattress beside him. With a resigned sigh, Jason was about to replace the empty gun box when the Enforcer froze in place, eyes wide and staring. The only movement was of his chest, rising up and then down shallowly as his heart seemed to seize up mid-beat.

From the bottom of the drawer, where the gun box had been, his baby sister smiled up at him.

It was a photograph, of course. And in a flash almost too quick for human eyes to catch, Jason had discarded the gun box in favor of the photo. It was a candid shot, and in it they were sitting down on a couch in what most would deem an uncharacteristically silly pose for the Enforcer; Emily, beaming from ear to ear, sitting with her legs draped over his lap, trapping him in place, and him, watching her over-the-moon expression with a suppressed grin. It was taken during a trip he took out to Stanford to see her, and even though it was goofy as hell, it was his favorite. But then maybe that was the reason.

The picture had captured Jason Morgan, the loving big brother. Jason Morgan, the brain-damaged thug, the unfeeling criminal, and the social degenerate was nowhere to be found. It was just them, like they almost never had the chance to be anymore. It made him feel good having it close-by, and since he had never been the type to carry photos in his wallet, the nightstand seemed the best place for it, even though Courtney still tried every now and then to persuade him to get it framed, and put downstairs somewhere. She said it was 'so sweet', that it captured them perfectly. And even though his fiancé was completely right, whenever she brought the idea up, Jason always politely waved her off, choosing instead to keep it right where it was. This photo of him and Emily was different, special in a way, like it wasn't meant to be displayed, like it was meant just for them somehow. He honestly didn't know why he felt that way, but he always thought it had something to do with what the photo had captured, beyond the obvious. Hidden behind her shinning grin and his easy half-smile, buried somewhere underneath the glossy, freeze-framed silliness of it, was a simple, uncomplicated moment that embodied everything he loved so much about them. And right now, just looking at it caused the Enforcer's vision to blur.

But a blur was all he would allow now. Later, he thought, later, when the moment came where he could see her again, put his arms around her—that was when he'd let himself go, let his control slip. But until that happened, until his sister was safe and home, Jason would do what he always did: push it down and summon forth the machine. It was the only way he'd get through this, that much he was sure of.

With one final look, Jason stood and slipped the picture into his back pocket. He put the empty gun box away and tucked the Glock into the waistband of his jeans.

"Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

Caught off guard, but never one to show it, Jason kept his back to his fiancé. He knew why she was up here, knew what she wanted from him, and also knew that he couldn't give it to her. Looking at her, into the pale eyes he loved so much—it was something Jason honestly believed he couldn't risk right now. He wished it could be different. Hell, he wished a lot of things could be different. But thinking that way was pointless. His decision was made. It had been made the second Emily got loaded into that van. As difficult as it would be, leaving was the only way. Courtney would have to understand.

"I thought you were at Sonny's," he said quietly. He had hoped to avoid this, slip away without a confrontation. But then hoping for something very rarely made it a reality. No, in his case, things usually went the other way, the ridiculously messy and complicated way.

"He's meeting with Myer and Stan. Nikolas is there, too." There was a pause, and Jason heard the soft shuffle of her boots against the carpet. She was moving closer. He wished she wouldn't. "Sonny asked me to come and get you. He thinks you should be there for this."

Jason's back pinched briefly at Nikolas' name. He could not, for the life of him, understand why Sonny would let an outsider tag along for something that was so important. He knew Nikolas did, in his own Cassadine way, care about his sister, but this was different. This was about Emily and her life, about getting her back. There wasn't time to take pity on some love-sick kid who would only get in the way and eventually trip over his own feet, causing a ripple effect that could end up being disastrous… tragic even. Jason shook his head and cleared the mental uprising before it got out of hand.

Courtney mistook the gesture and stepped even closer, so close he could feel her. "Jason, you need to let Sonny help. He wants to help. Ever since Emily got—" Courtney broke off abruptly and Jason knew why. She was afraid to say it out loud, afraid to put the ugly truth out there… and afraid to let him hear it. He was strangely grateful for that. "He wants her back as much as you do, Jason. Please believe that."

As in the hospital with Carly, he felt those foreign pangs of almost-anger assault him from the inside out. "It's not the same," he said, his jaw tightening all on its own. "Emily isn't his sister."

"Do you think that means he doesn't care?"

Jason sighed. That wasn't what he'd meant. "I know he cares, Courtney. But Sonny has a family and responsibilities. He can't be what Emily needs right now. What she needs is somebody who'd be willing to give up everything to get her back, someone who'd do whatever was necessary." He let his unfocused eyes drift to the lighted cityscape beyond his window, to the broad face of Brighton Terrace, to the dismal black hole that was his sister's apartment. "She needs me."

There was a tremble in his voice, one so slight it was almost unnoticeable. But she noticed it, and he knew she would. She always did. Jason closed his eyes as he felt her warm fingertips brush over his back, and then her familiar form press against his as she snaked her arms around his waist, molding herself to him, feeding him love and strength and courage through the thrumming of her pulse. Her warmth seeped into his blood, and at that moment he wanted nothing more than to let it melt away the coldness inside of him, for it to dislodge the painful lump that had taken up residence in his throat. For once, Jason Morgan wanted someone else to make it all okay. The thought alone was enough to rock his mind back on course.

This was exactly why he couldn't let her get close now. He needed the coldness and the pain. He needed it to get him through this, to get Emily through this.

"I have to go," he said suddenly, drawing out of Courtney's embrace and toward the door.

Before he could get too far, she grabbed hold of his good arm. And for the fist time since the hospital, Jason looked at her. Her eyes were wet and glassy; tears had painted tracks down her worried face. There was a silent plea in her eyes that wrenched at him. "Jason, your shoulder…"

"Will be okay," he finished for her, forcing his voice to be even.

Courtney shook her head. "You don't know that."

"No. No, I don't," he whispered. "But I don't know what else to say." He wished so much he could be better at this sort of thing. He saw how the honesty hurt her, but it was all he knew, all he could give her.

She released his arm and drew further into his shadow, their bodies only a breath apart, the distance seeming more like miles than inches. "Say that you'll be careful," she said brokenly in that voice she used when she was trying so hard to be brave, fighting so fiercely to keep it all from falling apart. "Say that you'll come home, Jason."

Again, honesty was all he could give her, no matter how much hurt. "I can't promise you that. I wish that I could." Jason watched as her beautiful face crumpled and that was all he could take. He reached out, an unfamiliar urgency filling him, and placed a hand on her face, making her look at his. He needed her to see how much she meant to him, that he was sorry he was hurting her. "I love you," he said with an intensity that made Courtney shiver. "And I know that you want me to stay back while Sonny and Nikolas look for her, but that isn't going to happen." Jason's pale blue eyes glimmered with contradictions. Hard and determined, but soft and loving, a tortured reflection of the storm raging on inside of him. "And I don't expect you to understand what I'm feeling. I don't even really get it. All I know is that my little sister is out there somewhere and that I can't stop going until I get her back. I can't let them hurt her, Courtney. I cannot do that."

Once again Courtney was faced with a plea too big too ignore, too heartbreaking to deny. Part of the reason she'd fallen in love with him was because of the way he cared. There was a fire to it, a fierce devotion that never wavered. If you were one of the few people who mattered to Jason Morgan, if he loved you, then there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for you. They all had benefited and continued to benefit from that love, from the strength and the ease of mind it gave them.

And now it was Emily's turn.

She was in trouble, and as Courtney looked into her fiancé's eyes, she knew there wouldn't be a thing she could ever say—or do—that would make him stay tonight. It would hurt her. It would hurt him. But he would do it because that was the kind of man he was. His little sister was gone, and he'd willingly march straight into Hell to get her back.

And there was good chance that was exactly what he'd end up doing.

-----

Twelve hours. That was how long it had been since Alcazar had left her to 'get situated'. What a joke, she thought. Why did he insist on trying to glitz up what was really going on here? Why did he have to sterilize what he'd done to her?

He was a kidnapper, and he was using her as a tool against Sonny. She really didn't think there was anything particularly challenging about vocalizing that fact. After all, the guy was a seasoned baddy, surely telling it like it was couldn't be such a difficult thing to manage.

Emily sighed from her spot on the balcony floor, her gaze sweeping the majestic landscape that curved and meandered here and there. This whole place seemed to fit the theme of dressing things up, and it made her head spin. This whole process had been different with Zander. He'd been afraid, he'd been acting out of desperation, which to some extent she assumed Alcazar was as well—one didn't tend to jump straight to the felony activities if desperation wasn't at least a tiny factor. But on the whole, Emily could concede quite easily that she was officially sailing in unfamiliar waters. Being this kind of kidnapped felt horribly beyond her, and not at all like something she could pull off. She knew she wanted to seem—to be—strong, but in their last conversation, she couldn't help but feel that she had failed, and miserably at that.

Sure, she'd hurled a priceless vase against a wall and yelled and demanded to be sent home, but had that really been anything more than a temper tantrum? What would come later, after, as things progressed, was what really worried her. Would she be able to handle interacting with someone as disarming as Alcazar on a regular basis? Would she be able to maintain her defiance without compromising herself? Emily closed her eyes and rested her head against the railing. She didn't know how to do this. There was so much more at stake this time, and it was all so precarious, so tenuous, that giving into her fear—though horribly weak in her eyes—didn't seem that unfathomable. And she was afraid. Massively so. A fact that would never reach another human's ears, not as long as she lived.

And there was another problem. Her living. She'd been so confident earlier that her life was secure, that when some resolution was reached, she'd be returned to the people that loved her, safe and sound. But that had been before she learnt about Jason and Johnny. Seeing that ugly bloodstain on the pavement, listening to that bleached disaster utter words like "violent", "suffering", and "wounds"… it had yanked the rug out from under her pretty efficiently. Suddenly she couldn't be sure of anything anymore. If Alcazar was willing to try and kill to get her, maybe he wouldn't be so opposed to using it again if he didn't get what he wanted from Sonny.

Slitting open her eyes, Emily traced the carved stone pattern of the banister with a finger. This place was a veritable palace, so pristine and opulent that it made the Quartermaine mansion look like a room above Kelly's. This was what she meant about things being dressed up. All this lavishness seemed to put an acceptable face on what was going on, made it seem like blackmail, kidnapping, shootings, and murder were the farthest things from possible. And it was the same thing with Alcazar himself. His fine tailored suit, his brooding eyes, the even timbre of his voice, and his confident smile—all those things made him seem harmless. Well, maybe not harmless, but certainly not someone who would murder an innocent girl just because a business deal went south. But then that had been an assessment she'd made prior to the shooting. After that, everything changed in her head, and Emily knew that—if she had any interest at all in surviving this—she couldn't buy into the illusions of civility that both Lorenzo and this place projected. Jason, her savior, was hurt, and Emily couldn't rely on him to swoop in and save the day this time. No, this… well, this one seemed to be up to her. And that was scary as hell.

"I see you've gotten settled."

The voice, accented and deeply unfamiliar, startled Emily; she surged to her feet and shot the newcomer—a dark complexioned man with raven-colored hair—an accusatory glare. He was standing in the doorway to the veranda and it bothered her to think he'd been that close and she hadn't noticed. That wasn't a good way to go about keeping her guard up. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded, eyes narrowed and fierce. She may not have known where the line was in this place, but the one thing she couldn't ever do was appear weak. She'd rather die.

Miguel laughed, and then clucked his tongue chidingly. "Manners, my dear," he purred in a sickeningly confident voice; its silky resonance sent involuntary shivers up Emily's bare arms. "You may be our… guest, but I see no reason why we shouldn't still observe certain social graces. It will make things go so much easier."

He was smiling, broad and wholly unsettling. Emily fought hard against the fear she felt stirring in her blood. Fear was acceptable, she told herself, but showing it wasn't. It was an invitation to be screwed with, and that was the last thing she wanted. Straitening, Emily drew her chin up and forced herself to keep gaze with the man in front of her. "I'll tell you what you can do with your social graces, pal," she snapped, arms already crossing over her chest in that 'I-dare-you' pose she'd witnessed Jason use a million times before. "I'm in no mood to play nice with any of your freaks, got it?"

As soon as the words were out, Emily wished very deeply that she could snatch them back; she watched something truly horrible flicker in the man's unearthly, amber eyes as a feral grin slid onto his face.

His voice was devoid of mocking now; it was quiet and deadly. "I hope you realize, Ms. Quartermaine, that for everything in this world, there is an easy way…" He stepped toward her, invading her personal space, his striking handsomeness only managing to make him all the more frightening. "…and a not so easy way. I suggest you choose now which path you will follow during your stay with us. And if I were you, I would choose very, very carefully."

His face was a mere few inches from her now and only getting closer. And for one ridiculous, revolting moment, Emily thought he was going to kiss her, but then his too-near face shifted to the left. With a shudder of fear and disgust, she felt his warm breath beat against the side of her face. "Because it could quite possibly be the last choice you ever make."

"Miguel, that's enough."

Emily jumped back at the commanding baritone, turning toward it. She sighed in relief—wait, relief?—when she saw Lorenzo's form in the doorway. He didn't look very happy.

Miguel stepped back from her, his grin never faltering and—much to Emily's dislike—he kept his eyes on her as he spoke. "Come now, Lorenzo, I was just welcoming the girl."

"You were threatening her, and you should see that it never happens again." Lorenzo's remark drew Miguel's full attention and caused Miguel's smirk to falter, his eyes to harden, and his posture to stiffen roughly.

Emily watched as a silent battle ragged between the two men, and she wondered what the hell it was all about. Lorenzo's face was set and very clearly pissed-off, but Miguel… well, he was a different story. He wore a more ambiguous expression, an odd mixture of brazen defiance that was somehow tempered, but not willingly. Whatever it was, Emily decided she didn't like it at all. And she didn't seem to be the only one.

"I think you should go now, Miguel."

"I'm here for a reason and you know it."

"That matter can be handled later."

Emily saw the muscles in Miguel's jaw tense dangerously. "We have a phone call to make, Lorenzo. And it cannot be handled later."

"Yes, it can."

By this time there was nothing ambiguous about Miguel's expression. The man was furious. "That is not something that I would advi—"

"Leave."

It was one word, but it was spoken in a way in which Emily was familiar. With absolution. She'd heard Sonny use it before, and, as she had expected, Miguel, seething but controlled, obeyed the command much as she'd seen her brother do. Immediately and with minimal opposition. The similarity grated something in her, and she wasn't sure why.

Her chamber door shut with a resounding slam and it took quite a lot of effort not to flinch, but she succeeded. She didn't even spare the room's other occupant a glance before she turned her back on him and resumed her study of the sprawling grounds off the balcony. With tensing shoulders Emily heard him move closer and come to stand behind her. He didn't speak, and the silence that fell over them began to feel a bit expectant to Emily, like he was waiting for something from her. Mentally, Emily groaned, realization dawning on her.

If he wants a thank you, he'll be waiting a pretty long time, Emily though furiously. Because I'd rather eat a palm leaf than utter those words to anyone in this godforsaken place, especially him.

When it became painfully obvious that Emily wasn't going to say anything to him at all, Lorenzo broke the quiet. "I'm sorry about that. Miguel has a tendency to get rather carried away sometimes."

Emily only laughed. Well, to be honest it was more a snort. A derisive snort.

Narrowing his eyes at the back of her head, Lorenzo cursed her attitude, and then immediately felt foolish. What the hell had he expected from her? Of course she would laugh at his apology. She was being held against her will. She detested him, not that he blamed her… Abruptly, he shook his head to clear the cobwebs. It was entirely too easy to get off track with this girl. "He's…" Lorenzo voiced tapered off as he tried to find a suitable way of further explaining his friend.

"Insane?" Emily offered.

He ignored that. "He's Miguel," he finished resolutely. "There really isn't proper way to explain, I suppose. But please trust me when I say he isn't always so… abrasive."

"Abrasive?" Emily snapped, finally turning around to face Lorenzo. "He came in here with the expressed purpose of frightening me. He made a threat on my life; I don't think 'abrasive' even begins to cover it."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," he said, his voice lowered to a calming rumble as he took special care to look directly at her. "I'll see to it he never bothers you again."

She stared at him for a long time and Lorenzo got the distinct impression that he was being evaluated, tested. Then she suddenly switched gears, her eyes becoming iced over pools of brown. Whatever had transpired between them in that instant, however brief, however ambiguous, was extinguished with a single flicker of her lashes.

"Yeah, you do that." And then she turned her back on him again.

When Gina Lynn O'Brien was nine years old, her father was killed on the job. The papers had deemed it a 'drug bust gone wrong', and for what seemed like a small eternity, her neighborhood, tucked safely away within the Bronx Borough of New York City, grieved for the man she called Daddy, the hero cop that died trying to make the world a better place. Immediately following his passing, she was fed stories about him, recounting how wonderful and incredible, how brave and strong and good he was. They, her father's family and friends, had deified him to her, took the simple, honest, good-natured man that had actually been, and made him into a tall-walking, badge-wearing superhero.

But as Gina got older, she realized—with some immense disappointment—that the stories and the legends surrounding the great James O'Brien were just that: stories. Yes, some of them were accurate, but the vast majority of them were embroidered truths passed around to help ease the pain of losing him. The real man was one Gina could barely remember. And the little details of who he actually had been were old and faded now, just like the pictures sitting on the mantel at her and Johnny's apartment. In her heart, she knew her father was all those things people told her he was, but in her soul she longed to remember more than the legend. She wanted to remember the way he smiled, the way he held his fork at dinner, the way his cheeks dimpled when he laughed, the way it felt to be wrapped up in her father's arms. But as the years passed, with them went a bit more of him, the light of his face dimming in shades as it slowly disappeared into the murkiness of her memories from that time. It was a hard thing to deal with, forgetting someone you were sure you once loved with everything you had, having them fade away bit by bit, and not being able to stop it.

But, again, she'd lost him so very long ago, and during a time that most people forget anyhow. Time and nature had dulled the ache, and she supposed she was grateful for that. It didn't sting as much as it once did, didn't burn a path of haggard grief down her chest when those memories she did still have drifted back.

But she knew it wasn't just because a solid six years had passed or because she was so little when everything became so broken. No, she definitely knew the real reason behind the healing she'd been allowed to do.

And she knew this because he was lying in front of her now, in a crisp-sheeted hospital bed, more tubes than she cared to count hooking him up to machines that were as cold and unforgiving as the room encasing them.

Gina shivered as she crept toward the bed, her sneakers squeaking crudely against the scrubbed tile floor. She stopped abruptly, scared stiff that the noise had been too harsh, too jarring against the starkness of his room. Gina blinked and looked up, hazarding a glance at her surroundings. The room. That was something else—beside the obvious—that unnerved her so much right now. She had seen the inside of a hospital more times than she cared to admit within the timeframe of her fifteen years, but that experience did nothing to mute her aversion to being here. In fact, it seemed to intensify it. She hated hospitals, detested the smell, the suffocating cleanliness of it, the way blinding white plastered over everything, serving as some really pointless way of trying to make what went on inside of them neat and presentable. Yeah, people got saved here. But people also died here. And the latter had favored the O'Brien family the last two out of three times.

Gina didn't much like those odds.

With a sigh, she forced herself mobile again. She couldn't act like a jerk now, couldn't clam up and run away. Because though he'd only ever said it a handful of times, Johnny needed her as much as she needed him. And that happened to be pretty damn much.

Coming to stand at his bedside, Gina's eyes roved over her brother with a sort of desperate anguish that would always be silent. She wasn't vocal like that, never broadcasted what she felt for the whole world to see. Because they simply didn't need to see it. What she felt was hers and hers alone. And what she felt right now was a swirl of hate, dampened by shame.

She wasn't a stupid girl. She was observant, perceptive—whatever you wanted to call it. Gina knew what her brother did for a living. She had no illusions as to what kept a better than decent roof over their heads, brand-new Pumas on her feet, a state-of-the-art laptop on her desk, and all the CDs she could listen to spinning faithfully in her stereo at home. He was in the Mob. And it had benefited them very well—up until now. Now it had almost taken him away from her, and now, as she swept a lock of hair off his forehead with a gentleness Johnny often likened to their long departed mother, Gina felt herself longing for that old, fourth floor walk-up they'd all shared before the world went to Hell. Before she'd ever heard the names Sonny Corinthos or Jason Morgan.

And that was where the shame came in. Sonny had given them everything, took a chance on her brother when he was nothing but a messed up punk who suddenly had one extra mouth to feed. Sonny had allowed Johnny the chance to be a better man, to be a better brother. To just be better. And she felt ugly inside for condemning someone who had essentially been their only reason for survival. Because, in all honesty, where the hell would they have been if Sonny Corinthos hadn't come into their lives?

Not in the hospital, for starters…

The annoying little voice sniped somewhere in the back of her mind, and Gina rattled her head around just a bit, maybe hoping to shake it loose somehow. Focusing her pain on Sonny, tracing her anguish back that far, she decided, was a pointless endeavor. Exactly what would it accomplish? Right. Nothing at all. Her brother would still be shot and she'd still be here, sitting vigil at his bedside, trying desperately to stave off the fear she felt curling in her belly, fear that would never completely go away. No matter what those damn doctors told her.

With another heavy sigh, Gina settled her thin frame into a passably comfortable chair. She scooted it as close as it would go and rested her head on a spot of mattress next to her brother's hand. She was so tired but she didn't want to go sleep, didn't want to give into its pull, even as her blinks became longer, as the reassuring image of her brother's fingers blurred from behind her long, dark lashes.

But the youngest O'Brien didn't have to fight sleep for long. Soon the decision was made for her; the creek of the door jolted her upright, eyes bolting to the source.

It was Jason Morgan.

"Oh—I'm sorry," he said in that quiet voice he always used with her. "I didn't mean to bother you. I'll come back later."

Gina watched him move backward through the door, but—for some reason that wasn't entirely clear to her—she called out and stopped him. "No—wait," she said. "It's okay. You're not bothering me." Her Bronx accent, though watered-down after all these years away, still shimmered among her words.

Jason pulled forward again, hesitance still more than obvious. "You were sleeping."

She shook her head and gave a ghost of a smile. He had always been so straightforward. She liked that. It was refreshing somehow. "I was fighting it," she admitted with a shrug. "You actually helped me out." A beat passed and Gina suddenly found her wits slamming back to her. Jason was here. That meant Business. She wasn't quite sure how to feel about that one, but she spoke up nonetheless. "Uh—the nurse said he'll be waking up again soon." She gestured to her brother. "If you need to talk to him, I mean."

"Well…" His ice-blue eyes lingered on her a moment and then over to Johnny. He seemed to be between something, trying to make up his mind, and Gina noticed something a little different about the way he looked at her, like he was forcing himself to almost. But then her brother's boss gave his head a tiny shake as he retrained his focus on her, all former weirdness gone. "No, that's okay. We already talked when he woke up earlier. I was just coming by to see if he was doing all right."

Gina nodded and drifted her gaze to his left arm, to the sling that supported it. "I think that question could apply to you, too," she remarked, pocketing her hands. "How's the shoulder?"

For the tiniest second, Gina thought he looked surprised, but in a flash it was gone, impassiveness firmly in place again. "I'll manage."

"I'm sure you will," she said with a nod. It wasn't short or clipped, harsh or condescending. It was just the truth. "So, um…" Gina drifted her gaze lazily back to her brother, reaching out to smooth a wrinkle in his sheet. "Are you gonna wait or do you want me to tell him you were here?" Even as she asked it, a weight settled on her chest as she waited for an answer. She didn't want Jason and Sonny or anybody else hanging around here now. They may have owed them a lot, but in her opinion, her brother had given the Organization more than enough for one day. The only thing he needed to concern himself with now was resting and getting better.

She watched with trepidation as Jason cast his watch a glance. "I can't stay," he said. "I have somewhere I need to be."

And Gina felt the weight subside. Thank God. "So, I should let him know you dropped by, then?" she asked, deftly training the satisfaction she felt out of her voice.

He shook his head. "No, that's okay. I'll call later." After those words were said, she expected him to leave. But he didn't. Instead, Gina noticed a shift in Jason's eyes, a melting almost. He ventured forward a few steps and Gina felt mildly taken aback by the earnestness his gaze held. No wonder half the chicks in town are gaga over this guy. There was something honest and so damn powerful humming just under his statue-like exterior, something that contradicted—almost hysterically—the image of a cold, calculated killer all the goody-two-shoes, holier-than-thou types of this town wanted everyone to think he was. But those idiots had never seen this side of Jason Morgan before, and she knew they never would. That was something sacred that he shared with only a chosen few. And maybe that was why it felt a little unnerving to have it focused on her now, since she'd rarely even talked to the guy before today. But then her brother had never been hanging onto life by a tattered thread before today, so she guessed it sort of balanced out.

"I'm sorry that he got hurt," he said, and she had absolutely no doubt that he meant it, and meant it with everything in him.

See, she could have been bitter here, acted her age and lashed out, told him exactly what he could do with that heartfelt apology of his.

Gina blinked and narrowed her eyes upon him thoughtfully.

Oh, what the hell, she thought. She'd never acted her age before. Why start now? She sighed and raked a hand through her auburn hair. "Don't be. It wasn't your fault."

She could tell that didn't quite do it for him; in his eyes there was still a need to press it further. She suppressed the urge to sigh again. She was honestly trying here. Why couldn't the guy just work with her? Nod and walk away. That was all she wanted.

"Yes it is," he said heavily. "It happened while he was guarding my sister." He paused and took a deep breath, and Gina felt reality settle over her for the, like, the millionth time that day. Her brother may have been in pretty bad shape, but at least she still had him with her. Jason wasn't nearly as lucky.

Looking at him, at the just barely visible sadness she saw gripping him, Gina felt something in her relent, soften. She had to remember that she wasn't the only one dealing right now. Wasn't the only one hurting. She lowered her eyes, suddenly more tired than she'd been in a long while. Goddamn, being mature really blew. "Look, it's his job," she said with a sigh. "He knows the risks. We both do. So, please don't start saying you're sorry again. It's nice and all, but it really don't mean anything. You didn't do this, Jason. And as bad as it all turned out, I know for a fact that Johnny would tell you the same exact thing. If anything he'd be the one apologizing to you."

She wouldn't have called it a smile, more a tiny, tiny quirk of his lip. "He already did," he affirmed. "It was the fist thing he said when he woke up."

Gina's mouth curled slightly at how well she knew her brother. "See? It's settled then. You got nothing to feel bad about. I mean, just a few hours ago, he was going on and on about how he was gonna to do everything he could to find your sister and get the assholes who took her, that he was gonna make this right for you and for her. You see, in my opinion, Johnny's guilty enough for the both of you. So, don't waste your energy on it." She made sure to look at him as she said her next words, knowing full well that her tone was anything but respectful, but not really caring. As she figured, she was kind of allowed right now. "You definitely got more productive things to use it on."

For a long moment, Jason just looked at her, no doubt wondering how in the hell a fifteen-year-old got to be such a brutal realist. Life, she laughed to herself. Life seemed pretty damn intent on teaching her just how real it could be. Repeatedly.

"I have to go," he announced softly, breaking the oddly charged silence that had fallen over them.

He was one foot out the door when—

"For what it's worth, I really do hope you get her back." The sentence shot out of her mouth so quickly, Gina half wondered where it had come from, and silently prayed she hadn't overstepped some boundary. She knew it was a reckless thing to throw out there, but she hadn't been able to help it. She knew his pain, at least to some extent, and she wanted to let him know that.

Jason turned around and blinked at her. And then he did something that caught her utterly off guard. He smiled. It was damn near invisible, but it was there, and she figured that had to count for something.

Returning it in kind, Gina watched as he nodded his goodbye and slipped out of the room.

-----

Quite simply stated, Miguel was angry. Why, why was Lorenzo doing this? Not only was he being nice to the girl, he was putting off the ransom call.

That was right; it had been a whole twelve hours and still nothing had been done to move along the process. Not a single hint had been thrown Corinthos' way and that fact aggravated Miguel to no end.

Wasn't their goal to gain usage of the PC ports? Was that not the whole point of this mess? So, why then, did he insist on dragging out this game? Lorenzo was, in Miguel's opinion, only prolonging their wait for a payoff, putting more time between them and the collection of their spoils.

Where was the sense in that?

But it was the answer to that question that bothered Miguel the most. There was no sense in it. Only foolishness. Foolishness and a misguided attachment he prayed to God was only a figment of his imagination. Miguel heaved a sigh. He wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to stand behind Lorenzo here. If he didn't move on this… well, then Miguel supposed her would just have to move for him.

Turning a corner, Miguel caught sight of who he'd been searching for. Pedro.

"Over here," Miguel motioned to the guard, who promptly crossed the hallway and over to where Miguel stood, in a shadowy alcove beside a massive, curved staircase. "I have a job for you." The guard nodded obediently as Miguel went on. "I'm due back in Port Charles by morning. If by the time I leave, Lorenzo still hasn't made the demand call to Corinthos, I want you to watch him."

The guard's eyes popped, obviously taken by surprise. "You want me to spy on Mr. Alcazar?"

Miguel nodded. "I think Lorenzo could be dangerously close to compromising the operation. I could be wrong. I hope I'm wrong, but if I'm not, I need you to do this. You'll have to be discreet, Pedro. I want you to watch him like a hawk. Him and the girl, and then report back to me everything you see. And I do mean everything. Can you handle that?"

There was a moment of hesitation, but, thankfully, only a moment. "Of course, Miguel, anything you need."

Deep down, Miguel detested what he was doing. It was the ultimate show of betrayal, losing faith in one's friend, in his ability to make sound decisions. But he refused to let the guilt stir for long. This wasn't about friendship this time; it was about their business and the betterment of it. And for that… for that Miguel would cross any line he came to.

-----

TBC…