Chapter Text
One hand on her back and another holding her’s guided Trina up a set of stairs she could not see. A black scarf had been wrapped snugly over her eyes at the request of her boyfriend, Spencer, whose paramount command was to trust him. Which also entailed trusting the two men sent to deliver her from her house to the Metro Court spa, where she had lunch and an assortment of facial and body treatments that left her skin glowing and her muscles jelly, to…wherever she found her blindfolded self now. A staticky fuzz of excited anticipation had built in her as she rode along, asking yes-or-no question after yes-or-no question (Spencer’s rule), and receiving so little detail that her imagination couldn’t help but to run wild with possibilities. Everything about their relationship had been Mach 6 simply because of the demonstrative, sanguinely extravagant person Spencer was. He loved hard and deep, which is not surprising considering the amount of loss with which he’d dealt in his life. When you’re granted so little time with people, when loss seems imminent because it’s the one constant in your life, maybe you tend to love hard and deep because you know you won’t be able to love long.
Being the recipient of Spencer’s brand of love felt empowering to Trina. She had always been measured. Cautious. She had cared deeply what people thought of her, how she impacted the world. Those concerns sometimes stifled her ambitions. The singular act of being with Spencer was enough of a departure from the path that her family had paved, but they’d survived. The world didn’t spin off its axis. And Trina had done more than survive. She had begun to finally start living. Fully. Ebulliently. Unapologetically. It felt so goddamn good. To be in the presence of a man who made her believe that anything was possible and that there were no excuses when it came to crafting the life she wanted. To know that there’d always be at least one patron at an art show she curated; one taste-tester for her seventh attempt at spanakopita. To wake up and have a to-do list three pages long, but check off nothing because as soon as she stepped out of her front door, two gentlemen in black suits awaited with instructions and car door open to take her to her next adventure.
Trina could tell she was inside now because the wind had died down and the noise of it quieted. Trina felt a tug and the scarf slipped from her eyes. She was standing at the bulkhead of a small jet. Spencer, who had been relaxing in the plush cabin seats, stood to greet her.
“Welcome aboard,” he said, extending his arms to embrace her.
“What is this?” Trina exclaimed, falling into Spencer’s arms.
“We’re getting out of Dodge.”
“What? How?”
“What do you mean?”
Trina looked around skeptically. “You just decide to hop on a plane on a random Tuesday in the middle of the day?”
“Of course.” Spencer looked at her deadpan, her question being the most obvious truth ever. “I’m a Cassadine; I can do whatever I want.”
“But I’m not–” Trina began before Spencer, in his adorably arrogant way, interrupted.
“Yet.”
The gravity of the sentiment was like flood waters pouring through the cracks in the foundation of her brain, but here she was with a bucket and rain boots, because she needed to stay dry. She let a quick smile seep across her face before continuing her line of thought.
“...I can’t just take off to parts unknown on a whim.”
“Sure you can. And, surely you must.” Spencer grabbed at her and pulled her down onto his lap as he collapsed into a nearby seat. “Trina, I’ve seen how stressed you’ve been over these past few weeks. You’ve been working long hours trying to pull two shows together, trying to be there for your mom and Joss and me–everyone you love. It’s admirable. But now, it’s time to take care of you.” He kissed her on the cheek.
Trina settled back against him, closing her eyes in a silent Amen. Still, she had people to see, things to do. The ride of life doesn’t stop simply because you want to get off.
Spencer pressed on.
“And it isn’t a whim. This has been planned for weeks–though not by me–because I know you hate my brand of planning–”
Trina burst into laughter.
“I had plenty of help with it…but it was my idea!”
Collecting herself, Trina reached her arm around Spencer’s neck and pulled him to her. “It is a great idea,” she said, reaching up to kiss him. “Thank you for noticing that I’ve been stressed. I know you have, too. You’ve been busy with the new acquisitions at Cassadine Industries and your father’s sudden reemergence—you’ve had a lot on your plate as well.”
“Yes, and that is exactly why this trip is so needed,” Spencer said, planting a kiss on the top of her nose.
Trina leaned back to look at Spencer, mussing his hair as she took him in. Trite but true; his chiseled face made him look like the ivory statues of the Greek gods Trina remembered from all of her art history classes. She had not yet gotten to see the works in person, but the actual Greek prince she got to see everyday was just as good, she guessed.
“About this ‘so needed’ trip?” Trina started. “Where to?”
Spencer nodded to the screen on the bulkhead showing a backlit map of the entire globe. “You pick.”
Trina shot him a look of amazement, then stood up to study the map. He watched her proudly, silently, before approaching from behind and clasping his hands over her eyes.
“Whoa,” Trina giggled. “I have to fly blind?”
“Yep.”
“What if I point to somewhere in the middle of the ocean? The Earth is mostly water, you know?”
With his hands still covering her eyes, Spencer nuzzled Trina’s neck.
She continued, trying to shirk his distraction. “Or what if we end up in Greenland again?”
“Bite. Your. Tongue” Spencer whispered, taking the lobe of her ear between his lips.
Trina aimed her finger and pressed it against the map. Spencer withdrew his hands and they both stared at where her fingertip had landed.
“Morocco?” She didn’t necessarily object; it’s just that, of all of the places Trina had imagined traveling to in her life, Morocco had never crossed her mind.
“Of all the gin joints—“ Spencer began. Trina turned around and shot him a quizzical look.
“Casablanca! You have seen Casablanca before?” Spencer mocked.
Trina’s face twisted. “I’ve always intended to–”
Spencer’s mouth fell open. “Well, lucky for you, we’ve got about a seven hour flight ahead of us. I’ll ask Amalia to get the popcorn ready. It’ll be you, me, Boagie, and Ingrid.”
“Who?” Trina joked.
Spencer placed his hands over his heart in mock dejection. “You’re killing me, Miss Robinson.”
“I know who they are,” Trina protested with a laugh.
“Alright, I’m gonna go tell Janson our destination so she can file our flight plan and we can get this show on the road.” Spencer started to the cockpit.
“Spencer!?” Trina shouted.
Spencer whipped around with a look of concern on his face.
“My clothes! I don’t have my suitcase. My passport. Nothing!”
Spencer, cocksure grin, cocked his head to the side and shrugged his shoulders. “Really? Baby, I got you!” Then he turned and disappeared to the cockpit.
Trina smiled, slinking into the airplane seat which felt as if it lifted to encapsulate her body. Before she knew it, her eyes had closed and all the tense air inside her crept slowly out with each deepening breath. Spencer was right: they needed this. Trina heard the engines start and the low murmur of their vibration lulled her even deeper into relaxation.
***
When Trina opened her eyes again, the skies outside the window were pitch black. She eyed Spencer in the seat next to her, fumbling intently through some papers.
“How long have I been sleeping?” Trina asked.
Spencer absently glanced at his watch. “About an hour.”
“Whoa. I’m sorry,” she replied.
“No need to apologize: you were tired.” Spencer was distracted.
Trina studied him. His brows furrowed, lips pursed, eyes glued to the set of papers in his hand.
“What’s wrong?”
The hum of the engines and ambient noise of the cabin filled in the space between her question and his eventual recognition that she had asked it. He shook his head, rather absently. “Nothing. Nothing. It’s just–these numbers don’t make sense.” He pushed the papers aside and picked up a tablet, scrolling through with the same sense of frustration.
“You want me to take a look?” Trina asked, with a look of concern.
Spencer’s brain was a raffle cage of recent conversations with the various department heads of his company’s latest acquisition. At Valentin’s recommendation. In the months since they’d both been held captive in Greenland by Valentin’s sociopathic—if not entirely wrong in his reasoning—father, Spencer’s great uncle Victor Cassadine, Valentin and Spencer had jockeyed into a working relationship the ultimate goal of which was to shore up their family legacy, Cassadine Industries being paramount. Spencer didn’t completely trust Valentin and knew the feeling was mutual, but he figured his cousin-uncle’s desire to restore and strengthen the Cassadine name would assuage any instincts Valentine had to undermine him. The love of a good woman…changes things, Valentin had assured him, knowing Spencer would appreciate the sentiment. But now, he was starting to wonder if it had been a tactic to get Spencer to allay any lingering suspicions.
“What? No. Later,” Spencer muttered, closing the tablet cover. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re obviously concerned. Maybe I can help.” Trina sat up, throwing aside a blanket that had been placed on her.
Spencer held his hand out to her, and she obliged, crossing over to take a seat on his lap. “It can wait. I can’t whisk you away from the drudgery of your work only to get caught up in the drudgery of my own. It can wait. Did you have a good nap?”
Trina nuzzled against his chin. “I did. Much needed. Thank you.”
Spencer exhaled sharply. He had told Trina his work could wait, but needed to make a concerted effort to keep his mind clear of it. He closed his eyes and buried his head in her hair, taking in its sweet scent. Lemongrass, he thought. Whatever it was scent a wave of calm through him. He could feel the muscles in his face and body start to loosen. His breath became softer and more even.
Where are we?” Trina asked.
Spencer looked to the map, which now showed the position of an illuminated plane moving across a mostly pitch black screen. “Middle of the Atlantic,” he answered.
It was good. The place they were in now. The level of comfort and safety felt by each of them in regard to the other, as they sat in their shared airplane seat, their hands intertwined, their separate thoughts, their separate beings, their collective, easy silence as they moved from moment to moment nearly forty-thousand feet above the rest of the world.
“Mr. Cassadine?” It was Amalia, the flight attendant, peeking in from behind the current that separated the main part of the cabin from the rear. “Is there anything I can get you?”
Spencer looked at Trina. “You hungry?”
Trina nodded feverishly.
“I guess you can bring dinner,” he answered. “Thanks, Amalia.”
Amalia retreated behind the curtain and, after a short while, emerged with two plates which she set down on their tray tables.
“Oh, this looks delicious, Amalia. Thank you!” Trina offered, as she dug into her food.
“You’re very welcome, Miss Robinson. Mr. Cassadine. Enjoy.” Amalia again disappeared into the back of the plane.
Trina nudged Spencer. “She made this?”
Spencer chuckled. “Why are you whispering? Yes, Amalia is not only a flight attendant, she’s a gourmet chef, certified SCUBA instructor, a trained MMA fighter and she speaks eight different languages.”
“That’s impressive!...Why does she work for you again?” Trina teased.
“Oh, that hurts,” Spencer responded. “But ,Amalia doesn’t actually work for me. I like working with her because she’s been very loyal and she has great connections just about everywhere in the world. It proves useful when you’re someone in my position.”
“Oh.” Trina was a bit unsettled by the shift in his tone on that last statement. She knew that Spencer was the first born son of the first born son, and–however antiquated she found the centuries-old rule to be–everything about his family’s power, wealth and prestige ultimately rested on his shoulders, since no one had been able to locate his father, Nikolas, in months. Still, when he talked like that, she couldn’t help but begin to conjure up memories of all the stories she’d been told–and the events she had witnessed–regarding the darkness surrounding his family. But, not today. Not right now. So, Trina decided to dog-ear her concerns for the moment so as not to sully the luxury of it. She dug into the exquisite plate Amelia set in front of her. “So, this is dinner. Where’s the movie?”
***
By the time the end credits rolled, Amalia had already cleared their dinner and dessert dishes and returned to the back of the plane. The flight thus far had been perfectly smooth, which definitely contributed to the feeling of serenity both Trina and Spencer felt. In the dim cabin lights, she couldn’t help but look at him. Proud. Grateful. After so much trauma, so much interference, miscommunication and misunderstanding.
Spencer turned to see that she was staring at him, smiling.
“What?” he asked, returning her smile.
“I love you.”
“And, I love you.”
Trina shook her head, suddenly more serious. “No, you don’t understand. I love you.” She stood up and turned to face him, straddling his legs with her own.
He stared up at her, unsure of what to expect. She had seemed so happy a moment ago and now, tears were welling in her eyes.
She lowered herself onto his lap. “Look at what you did for me today. I mean, you would give me the literal world if you could.”
“And it still wouldn’t be enough of a gesture–”
Trina placed her finger to his lips and nodded her head. “Yes it would. This is enough. This is more than enough. You are more than enough. Sometimes, I think you feel this pressure to prove that you’re worthy of my love. I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel like you weren’t good enough–”
“Trina, no. You would never–”
She kissed him, interrupting his response. “I’ve never met anyone as thoughtful as you are. Who is as passionate as you are about the things and people you love. You encourage me in all of my dreams. You’re the first one to celebrate my wins; the first one to pick me up and dust me off when I fail. You don’t let me make excuses. You don’t ever let me win at chess–”
Spencer laughed. “Never.”
Trina unhooked his belt, slid it backwards through the loops and tossed it to the side.
He grew excited, his eyes tracing the route of the belt, then turning back to her.
She undid the button of his slacks and slid her hand between the elastic band of his underwear and his bare skin, finding him—easily—pulsating, growing harder and longer with each stroke. “Yeah, well,” Trina started, pushing herself off of Spencer’s lap and onto the floor in front of him. “One of these days,” she said in between takes of kissing and rolling her tongue along his tip, “I. will. beat. you.”
Spencer, pushed out a breath, adjusting in his seat, alternately rising and sinking as they worked to a rhythm. Her grip around him was firm and he nearly melted as Trina slowly guided him into her mouth, gliding him against her tongue. It was a kind of nectarous torture, her varied cadence, the work for her hand stroking him, the residue of heat and moistness left behind as her mouth moved up and down the length of him. When he pulsed, Trina loosened her grips, kissed the rim of him and watched as his face and the rest of his body stirred.
Pleased with the effect she was having on Spencer, Trina dove in again. This time she did not stop, spurred on by his quickening breaths, the movement of his hips, his hand entangled in her hair and his exasperated command for her to stop before she made him come. Which he did. And when he did, she kept going. His body was galvanic and, with concerted effort, she incited every little spark she could to surge out of him and into her.
Spencer smoothed his sweat-laced hair from his face and looked at her with the biggest smile. “Wow,” is all he could muster before taking in and expelling a deep sigh. He adjusted himself in his clothes as Trina stood up and grabbed a bottle of water, talking a long gulp.
He approached her from behind, slipping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. “You’re incredible, you know that?” he whispered.
Trina softly laughed into her hand, then turned around to kiss him. “I’m going to need you to remember that,” she whispered.
Suddenly, the floor beneath their feet dropped and Trina clung to Spencer’s neck to steady herself. Their eyes widened with confusion, then the embers of terror as the plane began behaving increasingly erratically, banking hard right, then left.
“What’s going on?” Spencer yelled, to no one in particular. Just then Amalia appeared, bracing herself against the walls of the fuselage as she approached. “Mr. Cassadine, Ms. Robinson, please strap on your seatbelts.”
“Amalia, what’s happening?” Spencer demanded.
“I don’t know.” Her voice was steely, but not panicked.
“Well can you find out!”
“I tried. The pilots aren’t answering. They’ve got their hands full up there. They’ll brief us when they can.”
Spencer stared at her, unsatisfied with Amalia’s response.
“Mr. Cassadine, please!” Amalia said.
Trina’s gaze volleyed between Amalia and Spencer. “Spencer, please,” she pleaded.
The two carefully made their way to their seats and strapped in as the upset of the plane began to worsen. Only then did Amalia retreat to the back of the plane, buckle herself in her jumpseat and await a call from the cockpit.
Spencer looked out the window but could see nothing but darkness. No lights from a distant city. No moon, no stars. Just the black sky they were careening through and the blackness of the ocean below. He squeezed Trina’s hand in his in an effort to keep them both calm. He looked to her, her eyes filled with a measure of terror he felt throughout his body but was hoping not to show. He had never given much thought to God, but he trusted Amalia and he trusted Janson. That they knew what they were doing and would get them all to safety. But even if they don’t, he thought, staring at Trina.
Just then, they felt the nose dip and the plane began picking up speed. Everything that had not been secured had fallen violently towards the front of the plane, and Trina and Spencer were being held in by only their seat belts. All they could do was try to hold fast to each other, as the gravitational forces pressed their bodies down and made it difficult to even breathe.
Trina’s brain whirred with not a single discernible thought, just moments from her life in pictures blurred by the speed at which she was traveling, the panic flooding from each cell in her body. She squeezed her eyes closed, wishing to slow the flow, but neither her mind nor the plane would respond. She resigned herself to the outcome most probable; sent a silent request to God: Tell Mom, Dad, and Curtis I love them.