Written in 61 minutes.

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Robin’s Apartment: Bedroom

Robin reached inside her closet and drew out a hanger with a black sweater. She set the hanger into a bag where she kept them until she did her laundry and slid the sweater on, one arm at a time.

Then she slowly buttoned it halfway and went to the mirror to brush her hair and check the circles under her eyes. Maybe she should use some concealer — but why bother to pretend she’d managed more than a handful of hours of sleep since—

Her fingers brushed over her makeup brushes — she never wore much anyway. Just the concealer for occasional blemishes, eyeliner and mascara when she wanted to highlight her eyes for a nigh out —

Robin met those eyes now in the mirror, took a deep breath to brace for the day ahead of her.

Time to go.

Time to say goodbye.

Morgan Penthouse: Master Bedroom

Living in Port Charles meant you had more than one black dress, Elizabeth thought idly. She had one for every season now, though they didn’t all fit. She still had the dress she’d worn to Lucky’s memorial service, though that was tucked away in a closet at her grandmother’s house. That had been in the spring, so it had short sleeves and a sweetheart bodice, made a lightweight cotton.

There was the winter dress she’d worn at Alan’s service the year before with long sleeves and heavy material. It was a maternity dress, so it was packed away with all the others. She had another winter dress from the quarantine deaths—one that she’d repeated more than she liked to remember — for Tony, for Courtney, for a nurse on her floor— That dress hung in her closet now.

The sleeveless jersey black dress she’d worn to Kristina’s funeral in August. She’d stood on the pier in that dress with Jason, she thought, and it had remained in her wardrobe. She’d chosen the sleeveless for the hot temperatures and because it didn’t rub against the bandage she wore from the ricochet bullet wound she’d received the night Kristina had died in the warehouse explosion. She’d worn it again to Lila’s funeral two years later.

She didn’t reach for any of those dresses on this occasion — the temperatures weren’t low enough for the wool winter dress, but not hot enough for the sleeveless dress. She pulled out the dress she’d worn to Chloe Morgan’s funeral — it was made of lightweight cotton blend, but the skirt fell to her knees and the sleeves were three-quarter.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go?” Elizabeth asked Jason. She set the dress on the bed and went to the dresser to sort through undergarments, plucking out a set in black.

Jason stopped, his hand on the handle, and turned back. “Mac will have a lot of officers there,” he said. “I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. I’ll be fine with the boys. It’s good you’re going with Spinelli. And your grandmother wanted to go. So—”

She sighed, went into the bathroom to change. It was silly, she thought, but she was still conscious of the fading red scar across her middle. She touched it now. The baby had been in distress and they’d had to perform an emergency C-section. And while she’d lost the baby weight, there was still evidence of the pregnancy—the thin, twisty stretchmarks, the scar—they’d all fade in time, she knew that. But—

There was a knock at the door, and she jerked out of her thoughts, whipping her robe closed. She opened the bathroom door, found Jason there, with a curious look in his eyes. “I’m going to get the boys up,” he told her. “You don’t have to change in here.” Then he tipped his head. “You know, you can have the guest room if—”

“God. No.” Elizabeth sighed, because she was really stupid, wasn’t she? What an insane thing to worry about, as if Jason would be disgusted. “It’s just—” She tugged her robe aside. “The scar from Jake—”

Jason furrowed his brow, pulled the door all the way open so he could see her better. “What about it?”

Elizabeth bit her lip. “I haven’t—I mean, since he was—I haven’t—in front of anyone.” And her fingers were already itching to pull the robe back over herself, to cover it up. “It’s stupid.”

He said nothing for a long moment, then reached for her hand. Elizabeth let him take it and draw her out of the bathroom, into the softer light of the bedroom. “Is that why you’ve been changing in the bathroom? Or going to bed before me?”

“Yes.” Her cheeks were hot.

Jason was quiet again, just studying her—his eyes on her face. Then he put his hands at her shoulders, sliding one thumb under her robe on either side, gently pushing it back. It pooled at her feet and she fought not to fold her arms.

His fingers brushed over the scar. “I remember that day,” he murmured. “They put this curtain in front of you, so you were blocked from the observation window. I couldn’t see anything but your face. You were so pale. Your eyes closed. And the doctors were behind that curtain. They lifted the baby away and I knew they’d needed to cut you.” He exhaled slowly. “And then there were alarms, and I didn’t know if you were going to wake up again. You nearly died again later.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Jason.”

“It doesn’t feel real sometimes,” he said, his fingers sliding over her skin, over the stretchmarks she hated so much. “That you carried him all those months. You’re so small. Delicate. Not fragile,” he clarified when she scrunched her nose. “It’s amazing really,” he continued, dipping his head down to kiss her lightly. She sighed, closing her eyes, relaxing against him, his t-shirt rough against her bare skin. “What women can do. What you did. You made both of them out of nothing. And you kept them safe until they were ready to survive without you.”

“Jason—”

“Did you think it would you less beautiful?”

Her eyes fluttered open and her breath caught at the expression in his. “No. But—”

“I love you.” He brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “All of you. Every scar, every stretchmark. Jake and Cameron. They came from you. Why would you want to hide that?”

“I really love you.” Elizabeth wound her arms around his neck, sinking into another long, lingering kiss that slid through her like a warm, bubble bath.

“You need to get dressed,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against hers. “And the boys need breakfast.”

“You let go first then.” But his arms didn’t move from her waist, his long fingers tickling the skin of her lower back. And she didn’t move either.

“Together,” Jason said. “On three.” She grinned, and finally released each other. She stooped down, picked up her robe. He took another long look, shook his head, and left.

PCPD: Squad Room

Lucky scribbled the date October 25 in his notepad. The custody hearing had been merged with Jason’s paternity suit and would be held in just three short weeks. He set aside his pencil, and took another long breath.

Everyone in his life wanted him to drop the fight. To let Elizabeth take the boys and walk away with a clean break. He’d read every word of her revised custody petition in which she rejected visitation for both boys. Not just Jake, but Cameron.

His insane moment of rage had cost him the last modicum of respect she’d held, Lucky knew, and Cameron’s cries still echoed in his head like the relentless beat of a drum. He’d been selfish. He’d wanted more than she was willing to give, but he’d also been arrogant. How many times had she sacrificed what she wanted for herself to give Lucky what he needed? What he wanted?

She hadn’t backed down this time. Nothing had worked, and now Lucky was poised to lose everything.

He dragged his hands down his face. He should just end it. Sign the paperwork that made it go away. Like last year — the quick and easy divorce where they walked away with what they’d brought to the marriage. Maybe they could have salvaged something, a piece of the friendship that had saved both their lives when they’d been teenagers.

That wasn’t possible now. When Lucky Spencer made a mistake, it was never just a simple one with an easy solution. No, he had to make destructive choices that set his whole life on fire.

But he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t walk away. Couldn’t walk away from the boys he’d loved. He wanted a chance to prove to Elizabeth that he could fix this. That he could be the fatherCam and Jake deserved.

Even if he knew he’d lose —

Lucky set aside the custody papers and reached for the report from a cell phone provider, hoping against all hope that there would be some hint of the mysterious stalker who had left her with dead flowers and mysterious hangups.

But the company had nothing. He could pinpoint the hangups — but the phone numbers were never the same — a series of burners that could only be traced back to a batch of phones sold to a convenience store. He’d follow that lead, but it had probably been cash and they would have recorded over any security tape.

He had nothing. Two girls were dead, brutally murdered, and Lucky had nothing but the faint hope that there would be DNA and a match in the system.

Queen of Angels: Chapel

Patrick slid into a pew next to Elizabeth and Spinelli, both of them sitting in the back. Elizabeth’s grandmother was closer to the front, with Bobbie and other nurses from the hospital.

In the front pew, Georgie’s parents were sitting with Mac. Robin’s parents had made it in te day before, and sat in the opposite pew, grim-faced. Next to them, Dillon Quartermaine was shattered, with Lucas Jones. The chapel was filled with a mixture of cops, doctors and nurses, college students, and others Patrick couldn’t place.

For a girl who’d lived barely long enough to drink, Georgie’s death had left devastation and havoc in its wake. What kind of justice would there be for such a crime? Nothing would even the balance, Patrick thought. Nothing, not even finding the murderer and choking the life out of him would do anything to bring a sense of order back into the world.

Robin was standing in the front — she looked so tired, he thought. So exhausted — he knew she wasn’t sleeping, and he’d checked with others. Emily and Elizabeth hadn’t heard from her, and her other best friend, Brenda, had missed her flight out of Rome because of a storm.

Was there anyone thinking of Robin? Anyone who was making sure she ate and slept and took a minute to breathe? She wouldn’t let it be him, and he understood that. But it didn’t change anything. He wanted to take care of her, to put an arm around her, to make this okay.

It wouldn’t because nothing would.

Robin stepped up behind the podium. “Thank you, Father Coates, for your lovely words of comfort and wisdom at a time like this,” she said to the priest who touched her shoulder, then drew away to fade into the balance. Robin took a deep breath, then looked out over the crowd, her gaze slightly unfocused. She met his eyes, then took a deep breath.

“Georgie was sweetness personified,” Robin began, and he heard the slight rustle of a paper—her hands were trembling, and he tensed, leaning forward as if to be ready if she needed him. “Light and good and wonderful. Kind to everyone she met. Compassionate. Fierce.” Her voice trembled just for a moment. “Loyal. She was—”

“I can’t do this.”

Maxie shot up from her place between Mac and Felicia. Her blonde hair shimmered in the light of candles on the altar as she strode towards Robin. She whirled around, her hands at fists. “We can’t do this.”

“Maxie—” Robin went to her, Mac started to rise, but Maxie put up both her hands.

“No! No! You can’t stand here and talk about how amazing my sister is—because you’ll just ask for someone else to speak and they can’t do it!” Maxie turned those determined, furious eyes on her parents. “They have no right. You have no right to be sitting up front with family. With people who loved  Georgie, who actually knew—”

“Maxie,” Mac hissed, getting to his feet. “No—”

“Dillon—” Maxie jabbed a finger at the Quartermaine, who was already half on his feet. “Dillon gets to stand here. He gets to talk about her, and cry for her, and weep. He loved her—” Her voice broke, and she looked at him. “Thank God you did. Thank God she got to have that before—”

“Don’t do this,” Dillon said, his voice rusty. “She wouldn’t want this—”

Robin came up behind Maxie, tried to put her hands on her cousin’s shoulder. “Honey—”

“No!” Maxie shoved her back and Robin stumbled back into the podium. Now Patrick did stand, ready to do something.

“We’ll go.” Felicia Jones got to her feet, her ex-husband along side her. “We’ll go—”

“No—” Mac shook his head. “This isn’t the way—”

“No, because that’s what they do, isn’t it?” Maxie spat. “They leave. They can’t handle the truth—”

Felicia turned away, and even from his space in the back, Patrick could see her ravaged face, the emptiness in Frisco Jones’s expression, the grief in their postures. Frisco swept his eyes over the gathering, put a hand at Felicia’s back and they made their way out of the chapel.

Maxie stood there, tears streaking her face, her breathing heavy, and the strangest look in her eyes — as if she hadn’t actually expected her parents to leave. Despite the horror of the last few minutes, she looked so alone, so devastated that a stirring of sympathy swirled in Patrick.

Robin had recovered and this time, when she put her hand on Maxie’s shoulders, the younger woman let her guide her from the room, taking a back entrance.

Patrick itched to follow, to take care of Robin but he sat down instead as Mac took over the service, attempting to get things back on track.

Elizabeth squeezed his hand, and he cleared his throat. “You’ll call her, won’t you?”

“Yes. Patrick—”

“Good. Someone should.” And she didn’t want it to be him.

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