Prompt: Figured You Out


Jason nodded at Johnny as he stepped off the elevator. His old friend nodded back and barely managed to stifle a yawn. The enforcer frowned and took a step in his direction.

“How long have you been on duty, John?”

The bodyguard shifted uncomfortably, looking as if he were doing his best to remain on his feet. “About thirty-six hours, more or less.” He saw the displeased look on his boss’ face and quickly moved to reassure him. “It’s no big deal; I’m fine.”

“You shouldn’t be back on duty after the warehouse fire,” Jason half-growled, shaking his head. Sonny should have seen to it that Johnny went back to his apartment; the man had spent the entire night sifting through the warehouse on Pier 52 that had been burned to the ground and it certainly wasn’t fair for him to go report for his daily shift after that. But Sonny, just like he himself, was probably preoccupied with more important matters and simply hadn’t noticed. “Go home, John – I’ll have Adam cover for you.”

The bodyguard looked as if he might protest but then acquiesced, already digging his keys out of his pocket as he shuffled toward the open elevator. Jason tipped his head as the guard punched the buttons. “Be careful.”

Johnny nodded sagely back and the doors closed, leaving Jason to make his way toward his own penthouse. It had been a grueling two days, but he couldn’t stay for long. There was still much work to be done. The warehouse had been scoured for any salvageable remains that needed to be hidden from the police and investigatory teams, and they had already begun planning their retaliation on the culprits. Times were dangerous in Port Charles and he and Sonny had their hands full trying to face one crisis after another.

He heard shuffling in Sonny’s penthouse and looked over his shoulder as he scrounged for his keys. Thankfully, Carly and Michael had been sent to the island and were out of harm’s way. He found his keys and inserted the jagged metal into the lock, frowning when it stuck. He’d have to tell Marco to make sure that was fixed.

The lock gave way and Jason pushed open the door, entering his penthouse. He had told Francis to have the file on the Sandoval organization on his desk by the time he returned, and his friend knew better than to disappoint. Sure enough, a thick manila folder, along with the rest of his mail, lay on top of his heavy oak desk.

But it was one thing in particular that caught his eye. A splash of color, contained on a four-by-six glossy postcard, stood out among the plain white letters and dark mustard document mailers. His heart skipped a beat and Jason quickly tossed his keys onto the leather chair, instantly reaching for the inconspicuous card.

Dark, inky blues, and warm, golden colors swirled before his eyes and the shapes took a minute to come together. The Tower of London, illuminated in the dark British night. A shroud of fog enveloped it, giving it a mystical quality, and the vibrant rendering seemed to come alive off the paper.

Jason’s eyes devoured the image, taking in every little detail. Slowly, he turned it over in his hands, almost hesitant to do so. Disappointment made his shoulders sag when he realized that this time was no different than the others. His name was hurriedly but neatly scrawled on the smudged white paper in a small, masculine print of all capitals. Just his name and address, the only clues he had to work with.

It was always like this. For weeks now he had been getting these anonymous postcards, always with a bright image on one side and his address on the other, nothing else. It had started about a month after he had returned to Port Charles. After almost a year of wandering the world, it had just felt like time to come home. The demons that had chased him out of town had receded to the back of his consciousness, allowing him safe delivery back home.

He had spent a good deal of the flight back to Port Charles wondering what he would do when he saw her – the bright eyed brunette who had fought so hard to be free only to reject it –and him- when she finally attained all she had been seeking. He couldn’t come up with anything.

But in the end, he needn’t have worried. Elizabeth was gone by the time he set foot in Port Charles. Careful inquiry from a knowing but sympathetic Sonny revealed that the young woman had been quite busy in his absence. After faking her death and saving the Spencers and Cassidines alike from the clutches of Helena Cassidine and her Popsicle-Son Stavros, the spirited brunette had severed her permanent lock with Lucky and skipped town, presumably at Nikolas’ insistence. She had been gone for almost two months before he returned, and the most Sonny could tell him was that she was staying at one of the Cassidine territories in the Grecian isles. The mob boss hadn’t wanted to intrude or interfere in her life, and hadn’t kept tabs on her so long as Nikolas was able to guarantee her safety, something the young Prince had done immediately and with earnest.

And so Jason had been forced to let it go. Elizabeth was free, finally, and he wouldn’t track her down if she didn’t want to be found. Part of him still hoped more than anything that she would find her way back to Port Charles one day, while the other part tried furiously to forget what she had been to him.

The postcards, he had to admit, had been a worthwhile distraction. They had started arriving about three weeks after he returned to the penthouse – no indication of who the sender might be, just his name and address in block print.

At first, he had mildly entertained the hope that it was Elizabeth, but reason soon convinced him otherwise. The young woman was holed away on some Mediterranean island, spending her days painting and sketching in the sun; she certainly wasn’t traveling the world. It was a long-shot; too long. It was highly improbable and completely unrealistic; after all, what made him believe that she’d even want to send him a postcard?

Perhaps he had just ascribed too much meaning to the international cards. It was hard not to. They came steadily, about a week’s length apart, and never from the same city. He had received twenty-four to this date, counting the Tower of London that he now held in his hand. The postcards, which amused the guards and Sonny terribly, had their own place in a little stack on his bare mantle. He never kept aesthetic articles around on purpose – he found no use for them – but flipping through the postcards was an even more pleasant activity than reading even his treasured Italy book.

His steps were heavy as Jason walked toward the fireplace, his fingers skittering over the edge of the card. It soon found its place atop the little stack, right above the one of the Pyramids of Giza. With a sigh, Jason flopped down on his maroon leather couch and lifted his feet, motorcycle boots and all, to rest on the coffee table. He knew he had work to do – the Sandoval file alone required his immediate attention – but for now, he just wanted to snatch a moment’s rest.

The cards sat in oppressive silence on the mantle as the enforcer pinched his nose, refusing to glance in their direction. The clock ticked slowly; the leather creaked as he burrowed more comfortably into the couch. The rubber sole of his boots left a small skidmark on the glass panes of his table.

With a scowl that was half-growled low from his throat, Jason leapt up from the couch and stalked over to his desk to retrieve the cumbersome file. He’d wasted enough time already and he had to get down to work if they wanted to find whoever sent them a message by burning the warehouse. They’d find them, all right – and then there would be hell to pay.

Jason pulled open the door of his penthouse, ready to march over to Sonny’s so they could pore over the details. Hand on the knob, poised to let it slam shut behind him, Jason cast a rueful glance at his almost-bare mantle.

The cards were probably from Doctor Morrissey, an old friend of his who had saved his life on many an occasion. Word was that he had been doing some traveling himself.

 

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