Disclaimer: See initial chapter.
A/N: AU. Thank you for those who've submitted unsigned reviews.
The Chosen Fifth and an Unknown Sixth
Ethan glowered at his cellphone, flipping it open as it began its incessant ringing once again. He looked at the display screen, the numbers, blurry in his half-awake state, read 4:30 AM. Swearing, he hit the talk button and growled incomprehensibly into the phone, pulling it back from his ear at the acerbic response his less than thrilled greeting had rendered from the speaker.
"Who the hell is this?" He asked groggily when the speaker had ceased her angry litany.
"Watch your tone with me Mr. Lovett," the angry hen on the other end of the line scolded and Ethan glared at his cellphone.
The voice seemed vaguely familiar, but he was too tired to think straight. He'd had a late night at the casino and had rolled into bed not two full hours ago. He was, in short, exhausted.
Grinding his teeth, he mustered as pleasant a voice as he could, wanting nothing more than to get to the bottom of who was calling him at this ungodly hour and then go back to sleep. His sense of proper etiquette would not allow him to simply hang up on the caller, though, if the woman's tone of voice was anything to go by, he'd bet that, were he to hang up, she would call right back and keep calling until he answered and heard her out.
"Sorry," he ground out, "may I ask who is calling?"
"Nurse Johnson, from General Hospital," the caller supplied.
Ethan recalled the nurse. She was outspoken, prickly and had made his stay at the hospital rather eventful and somewhat unpleasant when he'd insisted on leaving strictly before he should. Sighing he wondered why on earth she would be calling him at this hour. He'd been with his father until he'd gone to bed and Tracie was home safe and sound, that left Lulu, Lucky and Maya who was currently working at the hospital if he recalled correctly.
"Who's hurt?" His suddenly racing heart woke him up abruptly. "Is it Lulu or Lucky? Did something happen to Maya at work?"
"Your family's fine," Epiphany forced herself to remain patient. She tried to be understanding, knowing that she'd probably woken the man from a sound sleep, but was tired herself and wanted to secure someone to watch over Johnny during the day so that she could focus on her other duties before shift change.
"Then why are you calling me before the crack of dawn?" He managed to keep his tone civil as he spoke to the aggravating nurse.
"I need you to come down to the hospital as soon as you are able," she replied. She didn't want to reveal anything over the phone lest one of her staff members be listening in; doctors and nurses were gossips of the worst sort and she didn't want to add a log to the ever burning fire.
"How soon do you need me there?" Ethan asked around a yawn.
"How soon can you get here?" Epiphany wanted this wrapped up as soon as possible so that it would no longer be weighing on her conscience.
"Am I allowed a few hours' sleep first?" He groused, knowing he sounded like a petulant child and not caring.
"You can sleep once you get here," Epiphany countered.
"Fine, I'll be there in forty-five minutes to an hour," Ethan yawned audibly.
He was damned well going to take a shower first and maybe grab a cup of coffee on the way. Promised sleep or not, depending upon what the clandestine nurse had to say, he wanted to be prepared for what might await him upon his arrival at the hospital. He didn't quite trust that Epiphany had his best interests at heart, but was curious as to what she had in store for him. It could prove interesting.
"I'll meet you in room 315," Epiphany stated before hanging up.
Ethan stared at the dead phone for a few minutes before shaking himself awake and crawling out of bed to shower. This had better be worthwhile, he thought as he waited for the water to warm up.
Michael snuck into Jason's penthouse shortly after six, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when he realized that neither Jason nor Spinelli was home yet. Their absence would hopefully give him plenty of time to clean up and make himself presentable before they returned from wherever it was they had gone.
He'd been staying in the weight room there for a few weeks now, no longer feeling comfortable at Dante's. He felt somewhat responsible for the breakup between Lulu and his older brother, though Dante insisted that it wasn't his fault, he hadn't truly believed him and had sought refuge at his uncle's. Jason had, somewhat reluctantly, taken him in and Spinelli had offered to let him use the 'regrettably pink room', but Michael had refused. He wasn't trying to replace Spinelli. He rather liked the 'ace of cyberspace' and got along with him fairly well.
Thankfully the judge had lifted the sanction that he not be allowed to see his father if he wanted to stay prison free a few months ago, making his new living arrangement possible. Jason's work with Dante had also helped matters some.
Though he could now see Sonny occasionally, and with supervision, he had only visited his father once. While he loved his father, he just didn't feel like seeing him much right now. He hadn't approved of some of the decisions he'd made with regard to his treatment of Kristina and Johnny. The truth was that his own father made him feel slightly uncomfortable. He shook his head as he recalled wanting to go into the business, follow in his father's footsteps, not too long ago. Now, he wanted nothing to do with any of it.
As a matter of fact his father was the reason he was returning home to the penthouse minus a few of his prized tee-shirts and other odds and ends and with a suspiciously copious amount of blood on his hands and clothing. He'd had the fortune, or maybe it was misfortune, he couldn't tell anymore, of overhearing one of his father's conversations with Jason. He hadn't meant to be eavesdropping, and yet, he hadn't been able to tear himself away when he'd heard Johnny's name mentioned.
The mobster had disappeared just under a year ago in the midst of a great deal of controversy that Michael hadn't understood the half of at the time. He hadn't really been paying attention. He'd been dealing with his own personal demons and hadn't had the energy to focus on much of anything else. Though his demons were by no means exorcised, even now, he had made some progress in dealing with them, and, when he'd overhead his father's plan, he'd felt sick and had been propelled into action.
He didn't particularly like Johnny, but he didn't hate the man either. He couldn't really hate him after having killed his sister in an act of blind rage. He could understand Johnny's anger; he'd been struggling with his own and was working on mastering it.
He couldn't, however, wrap his head around Anthony Zacchara's part in the hit that had been called in on his own son. Though he was ashamed that his father was going after Johnny yet again, he understood it, it was what Sonny did, like it or not, but for the man's own father to supply the hit men – that was just low.
So, Michael had done the only thing he could think of to do, he'd gone out to the suburbs to warn Johnny. Except he'd been too late and had discovered the man lying in a pool of cooling blood in the alley where he'd known the hit was going to take place.
He'd witnessed the cover up, had hidden in the shadows at the mouth of the alley and watched as the other cop was led to his death, like a lamb to the slaughter. After the men had left, he'd dashed into the alley, surprised that his frozen legs could carry his shaking body over to Johnny's. He ignored the other police officer lying dead on the other side of the cop car as he felt for a pulse on Johnny's neck, and breathed a sigh of relief when he felt one, though it was faint.
He'd done his best to patch him up. He used some tee-shirts he'd packed for his move to Jason's which he had not yet moved into his new quarters, to sop up the blood and wrap around Johnny's head and shoulder wounds. He'd placed a balled up pair of boxers, the only thing he'd had left, on the stomach wound and tore up a towel to tie around it and hold it in place.
Not knowing what he should do, other than get him to a hospital, he'd driven, on autopilot, back to Port Charles. He hadn't even thought to drop him off at a hospital where he'd found him, had acted on instinct alone and that told him to get Johnny as far away from the scene of the crime as he possibly could. He knew, without knowing why, that Johnny would not be safe in a hospital there. The whole time he'd driven, he'd kept up a silent, repetitive prayer that Johnny wouldn't die in his car on the way to the hospital.
Once he'd made it to the front of the emergency doors at General Hospital, white-knuckled and trembling, he'd been too afraid to bring Johnny into the hospital himself. He didn't want to have to answer any questions, so, as gently as he could, he shoved Johnny out of the car. He sped out of the wraparound as quickly as he could, watching in the rearview mirror as an EMT rushed to take care of Johnny.
He didn't want to be forced to lie for his father's sake or take the blame for something he'd had nothing to do with and would be unable to explain away with anything other than the truth. He consoled himself, justifying his actions, by reasoning that he'd gotten Johnny to the hospital. He'd done his part, had done his best to fix his father's mistake. Hopefully Johnny would survive. If not, the man's blood would not be on his hands.
Michael stripped the bloodied clothing off, wincing as some of the fabric adhered to his skin and pinched as he prized it away. His skin itched and he felt dirtier than he'd ever felt before. His hands were covered in dried blood, and, as he worked out of his clothing it flaked off, like paint chips, falling to the tile floor. After he showered, he'd have to clean the bathroom with bleach and put his clothes in the washer right away. He eyed his jeans and black tee-shirt with a critical eye, would the blood stains even come out of the jeans?
He stepped into the shower, catching his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he did so, and he shivered at the sight he made. Somehow he'd managed to get blood in his hair and on his face. If he'd have been pulled over on his flight to the hospital, he'd have been hard-pressed to make a case for his innocence. He looked like he'd bathed in Johnny's blood.
Turning the knob all the way to the left, he stood beneath the scalding water, scrubbing until the water ran cold and his flesh was pink from his concerted effort to make himself clean. He watched the water swirl down the drain, shuddering under the icy spray. There was still blood beneath his fingernails. He grabbed up the soap and dug his fingernails into it, raking them across it in an effort to remove the remnants of Johnny's blood from his person. Tears fell shamelessly down his face and were washed away by the steady stream of the water which continued to pelt him as he silently cried.