Written in 57 minutes.

Jason’s history is exactly the same up to 1997. Elizabeth has been aged. She did not grow up in PC, and is a recent transplant.

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December 31, 1997

Port Charles, New York

General Hospital was practically swimming in Christmas decorations, from the giant Christmas trees and poinsettias in the lobby, to the mini decorated trees at each nurse’s stations and garlands arranged over patient room doorways. Every floor and every ward save two –

The morgue and the NICU.

Elizabeth Webber studied the oxygen read out for her last patient of the shift, and made some notes in his chart. “Still hearing a little bit of the whoosh,” she murmured, more to herself than to the five-day old newborn laying on his back in the plastic warmer. She touched one of the stickied monitors on his tiny chest. “What’s wrong, honey? You don’t like the medicine?”

His little mouth pursed, opening, then closing, his eyelids fluttering, his little fists up around his cheeks.

“I know, it’s not the most festive place, but you weren’t even alive for Christmas,” she continued, switching her attention to his urine output. “That’s a good thing, by the way. Your first Christmas should be outside the hospital, with presents and a tree—”

And family. Not that it was any of her business.

“You’re due for another feeding in two hours,” Elizabeth continued, her voice soft, reassuring. “And I just know you’re going to be able to stay awake for the whole time. And when I check in on you tomorrow, there’ll be no more whooshing. That pesky little duct would have closed up, and then you’ll get to go home. See what the world looks when you’re not cooped up in these grim, gray walls.” She skimmed his chart, making sure she hadn’t missed any steps. “I believe in you, kiddo. We don’t need no stinking surgery, huh?”

Elizabeth hung up the chart, then tapped the warmer lightly. “I’ll see you in the morning, honey. Sleep well, eat a lot, and don’t stay up too late partying for the New Year.”

At the nurse’s station, she stripped off her yellow gown, and balled it up in her hands. “Baby Boy Roberts’s vitals are steady, but they haven’t improved. I’m handing him and Frieda over to you.”

“Poor kids,” Regina Johnson said with a heavy sigh. “One doesn’t have a name at all and the other one—” She made a face. “Who looks at a baby and thinks, yeah, Frieda. That’s the ticket.”

Elizabeth smirked. “Someone who wants family money. At least I only ended up with the middle name version.”

“Imogene is a pretty name—”

“And I’m sure I’ll think so when I’m eighty.” Elizabeth initialed her last chart, slid it over to Regina. “Sorry you pulled the New Year’s shift.”

“Yeah, yeah, well, it’ll be your turn next year,” Regina said. She smiled wistfully. “Where are you going tonight? Luke’s? I think Emily said she’d be there.”

“I should make an appearance, I guess. But Luke’s—” Elizabeth sighed. “I don’t know. I haven’t been back there since I broke up with Lucky, and if I go there—”

“He might think it’s for him. Yeah, I get you.” Regina came around the desk while jotting down something on the sticky note pad. “You said you didn’t know where a lot of night life was since you only visited summers as a kid —” She ripped it off, held it out. “Jake’s is good for a dive bar. Good prices, great pool table, and Jake makes sure no one bothers the female customers.”

“Maybe I’ll check it out. It’d be stupid to sit at home alone on New Year’s. It’s that kind of thing that makes you think about calling the ex-boyfriend—”

“And we definitely want to avoid that. Go, have a few drinks. Pick up a hot guy if one exists. Live for me — while I waste away here, at work, all by myself.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes and headed for the double door entrance with a half-hearted wave over her shoulder.

Despite her words to Regina, part of Elizabeth really did want to just head back to her apartment and maybe even go to bed early. She’d moved to Port Charles three months earlier, eager to help her grandmother after she’d had an injury — only to realize that her grandmother was perfectly happy with Elizabeth’s older sister and didn’t really need her. The job at GH only took up so much of her time, and a brief fling with the son of the local club owner had soured her on even stepping out into the dating pool again.

She grabbed a quick shower in the staff locker room, then stood in front of the mirror and wiped away the condensation, intending to slap on some moisturizer. “What I need,” she told her watery reflection, “is to stop being so lame.” She’d just turned twenty-three — what kind of loser skipped out on the biggest party night of the year?

She returned to her locker and perused the extra clothes she kept there. If she went back to the apartment to change, there was a better than decent chance she’d never make it back out — so the extra pair of jeans and emergency T-shirt would have to work as a night outfit.

“Well, at least no one is going to hit on me in this,” Elizabeth muttered, tugging the faded 90210 tee over her head — then again, it had shrunk after more than a hundred turns in the washing machine and it was a little tighter than she remembered which gave it a little life, but not much.

She made half an attempt to deal with her messy hair, which humidity from the shower had done a number on, making pieces of it curl around her face. “If this isn’t a sign to just go home,” she muttered, finally settling on just shoving it up into a half-ponytail. She slapped on some eyeliner and mascara, swiped on her favorite deep red lipstick.

“Two beers,” Elizabeth told herself. “And then I’m going home.”

—

Jake’s on Portside Street was the definition of a dive bar, she thought, pulling her battered Cavalier into the parking lot. It was a two story building that might have been respectable once, but the paint had chipped, and the sign advertising the place was barely visible. The street itself was barely an alley off the larger Elm Street, and she might not have found it if she hadn’t noticed a motorcycle in front of her turning into the parking lot.

Elizabeth pulled out her wallet, dug out her driver’s license and the fifty bucks she carried in cash, then locked the rest of it the glove compartment along with her keys. She took the spare, tucked it in her bra for later, and headed inside. No point in bringing in more than she could keep her eye on — and the fifty ensured she wouldn’t waste her entire night here.

The inside was packed — no surprise there, and Elizabeth had to bob and weave around until she could get to the bar. She would need to squeeze in between two customers to put in her order, so she made an attempt to choose wise, selecting a pair at the end, near the pool table.

She carefully slid in between a middle-aged man whose fingers were wrapped around a brown bottle of Budweiser and whose eyes were intent on whatever sports game was on the television up behind the bar — and a younger guy with short blond hair and a green bottle of Rolling Rock. She’d thought there was enough space to avoid touching either one — but then middle-aged guy took offense to something on the screen and jerked to his feet, bellowing profanities and making noises about the bookie he’d placed a bet with.

His sudden movement knocked Elizabeth backwards. She balanced for half a second on her boot heel, then went right into the younger guy’s lap — her forward motion stopped by his arm — which, thankfully, stopped her from ending up with her face directly in his crotch.

“Damn it—” he swore, wrapping a hand around her upper arm. But instead of shoving her back to her feet, the guy slid out off his stool and helped her regain her balance with a little more dignity.

“Sorry,” Elizabeth said, slightly breathless, then winced when a movement from someone else shoved her forward again, nearly pushing her into the other guy all over again. “Okay, that’s enough signs from the universe,” she muttered. “This was a bad idea—”

“What?”

Or at least that’s what she thought he said — the crowd was getting louder, and starting to hurt her ears. “Never mind,” she shouted. “This was a  bad idea—” She turned around and started to wind her way back the way she’d come.

—

What he’d actually said — or started to say — was, “I know you” but Jason Morgan wasn’t given a chance to finish or repeat the statement because the brunette was already moving towards the exit. But he was almost positive he’d seen her somewhere before. Somewhere important. And wasn’t it a little suspicious that she came into a busy bar, came directly at him, and then just left?

Had she slipped something in his pocket or — He looked at the beer bottle that was abandoned on the bar, then checked his pockets. Was that where he’d seen her? With Moreno? Or maybe at one of the clubs?

Because he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should know her, Jason followed her, making his way through the crush of people much more efficiently than she had and managed to catch up with her as she reached her car, a two-door coupe that looked like it had seen much better days. The brunette shoved her hand down her bra and extracted a key—

“I know you,” he repeated, and she jolted, spinning to face him, the chill of the night whipping her hair across her face. He realized now she wasn’t wearing a jacket when she wrapped her arms around her torso. What was wrong with her? “Why do I know you?”

“I don’t know,” she bit out, her teeth clattering slightly. “I don’t know you—”

She reached for her car door, and he stopped her — more convinced than ever that he recognized her from somewhere — and more suspicious because she wasn’t admitting it. “No, I’ve seen you somewhere—”

“Does that line work for you?” the brunette demanded, trying to shove his hand from where it covered the door handle. “I mean, you’re hot, but that’s a really tired pick-up and I’m not that desperate—hey, are you actually stopping me from leaving? Because what the hell?”

“No.” Jason winced, then stopped back, realizing if he was wrong and she really was just a stranger, this looked really stupid. “I just—I recognized you inside—” He exhaled slowly. “The hospital. You’re a nurse.”

She looked at him somewhat suspiciously, then shoved another chunk of her hair away when it blew in her face. “Yeah. But I work with babies, so—”

“Right.” He dragged a hand down his face. “The NICU. I saw you yesterday coming in when I left. To the baby’s room.”

“The baby’s—” Elizabeth exhaled on a rush of air. “Oh. You’re…you’re Baby Boy Roberts’ father. No wonder I didn’t recognize you. I spend more time with your kid than you do.”