General Hospital: The Fourteenth (Tracy/Luke)
Title: The Fourteenth
Author: MinervaFan
Fandom: GH
Pairing: Tracy/Luke
Genre: Angst/UST
Rating: PG-13
Summary: July 14, 2006. It's been two years, three hours, and something minutes since Tracy Quartermaine learned of her mother's death.
A/N: I couldn't quite just do simple author's notes. It turned into a six-page essay posted as an addendum on my FF.net account.
It's been two years. Two years, three hours and ten…no, eleven minutes.
I don't want to wake up. I don't want to get dressed, face another day, another beautiful July morning. I want to lie here in my bed, smothered with pillows and covers and darkness until the day passes and another one, just like it, takes its place. Until another and another passes, until they all roll into one another like ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds and spinning tops that blur the pictures into an incomprehensible whiteness.
I should have gone to work. Daddy did. I heard him, at five-thirty, puttering around. He took the Bentley. It idles fast, and I could hear the whir of the engine in the early morning quiet. I know he drove himself, although he's not supposed to. He's not supposed to do lots of things, but he does them.
I should have gone to work. There's no point, really. I have no power there and no respect, and the only reason people do anything I say is because my last name is Quartermaine and they don't dare ignore me outright. But I couldn't face it today. I couldn't face them, or Daddy, or the god-damned sunlight.
I don't do whining. I don't do self-pity. I eat self-pitying whiners for breakfast.
Just…not on the fourteenth.
The sun's been up for hours. I hate my bedroom. I had it redecorated last fall, just to spend the money. Just to show them that I could. Now it just seems dreary and cliché.
Money is all that counts in this world, money and respect. If I can't have them both, I'll take the one that can at least buy me the illusion of respect. Platinum card respect, that's what I've got.
I should have gone to work.
My face is dry. I need to get more moisturizer the next time I'm out. Winter was murder on my skin this year, and summer's no friend to me, either. My hands look like paper. If I hold them up against the sunlight, it's almost like I can see through them.
Dillon came by about an hour ago to check on me. He thought I was sick. He didn't remember today. Did anyone? Daddy did. That's why he left so early, without a driver, without breakfast.
Pour yourself into work, Daddy. Pour me a shot, too, if you have extra. I could use some. Maybe if I just got drunk on it, like Daddy, I could get through the day. Get through the fourteenth.
Oh, God, if you love me, you'll let whoever it is knocking on my door go away. If you care anything at all for your little lost black sheep, please just--
Luke. Of course, it's Luke. Checking in on his Spanky Buns.
You okay?
He's staring at me. I want him to go away. I want him to be quiet, to be negligent, to leave me alone in my bedroom. Hell, we've been married over a year now, and he's shown no interest in my bed before. Why now? Why today?
You weren't at breakfast or lunch. You know Cook hates it when the wrong number of people show up for meals.
Why is he still here? Why is he still talking? Doesn't he have something better to do, some petty crime to commit? Why is he coming closer, easing onto the bed behind me, pulling me back against him and wrapping me in his arms?
You wouldn't be lying here thinking about your mother, would you, Spanky?
It's been two years. Two years, three hours, and something minutes.
His arms are warm, strong and sure around me. I can't help putting my hands against them. I can't help leaning back against his chest. His breath is hot against my temple as he kisses me there, softly, sweetly. I close my eyes, and pretend it matters.
She was a hell of a lady, Tracy.
She was a hell of a lady. She was stronger than all of us put together, and better, too. But I can't tell him that. I can't say a word, for the same reason I couldn't go down to breakfast, and lunch was no better either. I can't speak. I can't utter a sound. My voice is solid ice in my throat, and it's blocking the air and making me breathless.
I tried to stand earlier, but it was too much. How can it still hurt now, two years, three hours, something minutes later? How can I still feel it, cutting through me like a knife, all this time later?
He is rocking me, and I want to claw at his skin, to bite him and kick him and make him stop being kind. Kind does me no good. Kind is salt in the cut, and he's just hurting me more with the soft things he's whispering to me, memories of Lila, memories of her goodness.
I'm not Lila. I'm nothing like her, and even God can't make me into her likeness. I want to tell him this, to remind him that even when faced with my own son's death, I couldn't turn over a new leaf. I want to tell him that not only am I not like Lila, of course, but I'm not like him, either. I'm not the lovable anti-hero, with the style and wit to turn everything, even my most bone-headed schemes, into something cool, something to be admired.
I don't do admired. Even when I have the rare lapse of judgment and slip into a fit of altruism, my motives are always questioned. As they should be. Like the song says, I'm wicked through and through.
So I shouldn't be enjoying this closeness, this easy rocking back and forth in his arms. I shouldn't be wanting more, wanting his lips on my skin again, even if it's only a platonic and sympathetic kiss.
I should be kicking myself for foolishly believing that Skye's rejection of him might just have sent him into my bed. But I can't kick myself, because he's close and I need it more today than on the thirteenth or the fifteenth.
Because today is the fourteenth, and I will never again in my life be okay on the fourteenth.
So why shouldn't I roll over into his waiting arms, cradle my head against his chest, let him comfort me? He's good at it, surprisingly good, and I have to admit I like it. I like the way my chin rests against his collar bone, the way his shirt smells of detergent and cologne and Luke. And even if there's not a glimmer of actual desire for me in him, he's kind and he's here and he understands the significance of today.
I think she would have liked us together.
I want to laugh. Of course Mother would have liked us together. Mother would have instinctively known we were birds of a feather, and she would have spun this glorious fantasy about us growing closer, growing fonder, growing more connected until eventually nature won out over our defenses and we fell madly in love.
Mother would have relished the idea of us, if only to prove that everyone deserves love, even me.
"She would have loved us," I say. It's the first thing I've managed to choke out all day, and my voice is hoarse and distant.
She would have loved the irony of us, the humor and the one-liners, the complete and utter unconventionality of it all. Like one of her crazy hats.
He grins, and in a heartbeat, his lips are against mine. And it's hard to remember that his lips don't love me. That his lips don't need me. It's hard to remember, when our mouths join and our bodies meld, that this is kindness and nothing more. It's too much to remember, so my body forgets. My body only remembers how to wrap itself around the touch, what it feels like to stroke his hair, hold the firmness of his chest against mine. My body only remembers the hunger, and the fourteenth, and the need for comfort on this most desolate of days.
I'm dizzy when we part. He looks stunned and a little breathless, and his hands are flat against the small of my back. It's like he's seen me for the first time, and for the first time today, I feel a little more like myself.
Like a woman who knows how to pleasure a man. Like a woman who has had her share of lovers, and husbands, and adventures of her own. And he's looking at me like he's just remembered something, and it feels wonderful to be remembered.
Wow.
Ever the articulate one, that Spencer.
Spanky, I…
He's nervous now, and I understand. This isn't part of the deal. Our marriage has very strict parameters, and wanting each other like this is not part of the game plan. I can see him struggling, and maybe it's not delusional to think that he's struggling at least in part to control his desires.
I can almost hear Mother now, laughing at us from Heaven or wherever they send human angels in the 21st century. I can almost hear her chiding us.
Give in, you two. Let go.
Love each other; be to each other what nobody else can be.
He's still staring at me with those big eyes, and I can only imagine I look equally ridiculous. I'm not an angel, Mama, and I can't fly. I can't jump off this cliff just because I know you'd want me to. I can't risk crashing again just because you think I might soar for the briefest of moments.
I'm not that brave.
"I'd better get dressed."
He nods, and I move to leave. Before I can, though, before I'm free, before I can shut down whatever gate has opened between us, he's pulled me back and he's kissing me again.
And for the briefest of moments, I'm soaring. For the briefest of moments, I'm not afraid of falling. For the briefest of moments, I remember what trust is, what goodness is, what love is.
I know it won't last; it never does. I'm falling back to earth even as we part, my lips still warm, my cheeks still hot with blood. And I don't want to remember flying, because it hurts too much when my feet are stuck to the earth, because it hurts too much when reality sets back in.
"I'd better get dressed."
He's smiling now, an evil, unbearably sexy look in his eyes. I can't look at him, not because I'm embarrassed for the kiss…kisses. I've never once let myself feel ashamed for being sexual.
I just don't want to see that interest in his eyes, that newfound curiosity.
I am nobody's curiosity, Luke Spencer.
The walls are coming down again, and I pull myself out of his grasp, more Quartermaine than Tracy once more.
And I can almost hear my mother.
Sighing.
The End
Author: MinervaFan
Fandom: GH
Pairing: Tracy/Luke
Genre: Angst/UST
Rating: PG-13
Summary: July 14, 2006. It's been two years, three hours, and something minutes since Tracy Quartermaine learned of her mother's death.
A/N: I couldn't quite just do simple author's notes. It turned into a six-page essay posted as an addendum on my FF.net account.
It's been two years. Two years, three hours and ten…no, eleven minutes.
I don't want to wake up. I don't want to get dressed, face another day, another beautiful July morning. I want to lie here in my bed, smothered with pillows and covers and darkness until the day passes and another one, just like it, takes its place. Until another and another passes, until they all roll into one another like ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds and spinning tops that blur the pictures into an incomprehensible whiteness.
I should have gone to work. Daddy did. I heard him, at five-thirty, puttering around. He took the Bentley. It idles fast, and I could hear the whir of the engine in the early morning quiet. I know he drove himself, although he's not supposed to. He's not supposed to do lots of things, but he does them.
I should have gone to work. There's no point, really. I have no power there and no respect, and the only reason people do anything I say is because my last name is Quartermaine and they don't dare ignore me outright. But I couldn't face it today. I couldn't face them, or Daddy, or the god-damned sunlight.
I don't do whining. I don't do self-pity. I eat self-pitying whiners for breakfast.
Just…not on the fourteenth.
The sun's been up for hours. I hate my bedroom. I had it redecorated last fall, just to spend the money. Just to show them that I could. Now it just seems dreary and cliché.
Money is all that counts in this world, money and respect. If I can't have them both, I'll take the one that can at least buy me the illusion of respect. Platinum card respect, that's what I've got.
I should have gone to work.
My face is dry. I need to get more moisturizer the next time I'm out. Winter was murder on my skin this year, and summer's no friend to me, either. My hands look like paper. If I hold them up against the sunlight, it's almost like I can see through them.
Dillon came by about an hour ago to check on me. He thought I was sick. He didn't remember today. Did anyone? Daddy did. That's why he left so early, without a driver, without breakfast.
Pour yourself into work, Daddy. Pour me a shot, too, if you have extra. I could use some. Maybe if I just got drunk on it, like Daddy, I could get through the day. Get through the fourteenth.
Oh, God, if you love me, you'll let whoever it is knocking on my door go away. If you care anything at all for your little lost black sheep, please just--
Luke. Of course, it's Luke. Checking in on his Spanky Buns.
You okay?
He's staring at me. I want him to go away. I want him to be quiet, to be negligent, to leave me alone in my bedroom. Hell, we've been married over a year now, and he's shown no interest in my bed before. Why now? Why today?
You weren't at breakfast or lunch. You know Cook hates it when the wrong number of people show up for meals.
Why is he still here? Why is he still talking? Doesn't he have something better to do, some petty crime to commit? Why is he coming closer, easing onto the bed behind me, pulling me back against him and wrapping me in his arms?
You wouldn't be lying here thinking about your mother, would you, Spanky?
It's been two years. Two years, three hours, and something minutes.
His arms are warm, strong and sure around me. I can't help putting my hands against them. I can't help leaning back against his chest. His breath is hot against my temple as he kisses me there, softly, sweetly. I close my eyes, and pretend it matters.
She was a hell of a lady, Tracy.
She was a hell of a lady. She was stronger than all of us put together, and better, too. But I can't tell him that. I can't say a word, for the same reason I couldn't go down to breakfast, and lunch was no better either. I can't speak. I can't utter a sound. My voice is solid ice in my throat, and it's blocking the air and making me breathless.
I tried to stand earlier, but it was too much. How can it still hurt now, two years, three hours, something minutes later? How can I still feel it, cutting through me like a knife, all this time later?
He is rocking me, and I want to claw at his skin, to bite him and kick him and make him stop being kind. Kind does me no good. Kind is salt in the cut, and he's just hurting me more with the soft things he's whispering to me, memories of Lila, memories of her goodness.
I'm not Lila. I'm nothing like her, and even God can't make me into her likeness. I want to tell him this, to remind him that even when faced with my own son's death, I couldn't turn over a new leaf. I want to tell him that not only am I not like Lila, of course, but I'm not like him, either. I'm not the lovable anti-hero, with the style and wit to turn everything, even my most bone-headed schemes, into something cool, something to be admired.
I don't do admired. Even when I have the rare lapse of judgment and slip into a fit of altruism, my motives are always questioned. As they should be. Like the song says, I'm wicked through and through.
So I shouldn't be enjoying this closeness, this easy rocking back and forth in his arms. I shouldn't be wanting more, wanting his lips on my skin again, even if it's only a platonic and sympathetic kiss.
I should be kicking myself for foolishly believing that Skye's rejection of him might just have sent him into my bed. But I can't kick myself, because he's close and I need it more today than on the thirteenth or the fifteenth.
Because today is the fourteenth, and I will never again in my life be okay on the fourteenth.
So why shouldn't I roll over into his waiting arms, cradle my head against his chest, let him comfort me? He's good at it, surprisingly good, and I have to admit I like it. I like the way my chin rests against his collar bone, the way his shirt smells of detergent and cologne and Luke. And even if there's not a glimmer of actual desire for me in him, he's kind and he's here and he understands the significance of today.
I think she would have liked us together.
I want to laugh. Of course Mother would have liked us together. Mother would have instinctively known we were birds of a feather, and she would have spun this glorious fantasy about us growing closer, growing fonder, growing more connected until eventually nature won out over our defenses and we fell madly in love.
Mother would have relished the idea of us, if only to prove that everyone deserves love, even me.
"She would have loved us," I say. It's the first thing I've managed to choke out all day, and my voice is hoarse and distant.
She would have loved the irony of us, the humor and the one-liners, the complete and utter unconventionality of it all. Like one of her crazy hats.
He grins, and in a heartbeat, his lips are against mine. And it's hard to remember that his lips don't love me. That his lips don't need me. It's hard to remember, when our mouths join and our bodies meld, that this is kindness and nothing more. It's too much to remember, so my body forgets. My body only remembers how to wrap itself around the touch, what it feels like to stroke his hair, hold the firmness of his chest against mine. My body only remembers the hunger, and the fourteenth, and the need for comfort on this most desolate of days.
I'm dizzy when we part. He looks stunned and a little breathless, and his hands are flat against the small of my back. It's like he's seen me for the first time, and for the first time today, I feel a little more like myself.
Like a woman who knows how to pleasure a man. Like a woman who has had her share of lovers, and husbands, and adventures of her own. And he's looking at me like he's just remembered something, and it feels wonderful to be remembered.
Wow.
Ever the articulate one, that Spencer.
Spanky, I…
He's nervous now, and I understand. This isn't part of the deal. Our marriage has very strict parameters, and wanting each other like this is not part of the game plan. I can see him struggling, and maybe it's not delusional to think that he's struggling at least in part to control his desires.
I can almost hear Mother now, laughing at us from Heaven or wherever they send human angels in the 21st century. I can almost hear her chiding us.
Give in, you two. Let go.
Love each other; be to each other what nobody else can be.
He's still staring at me with those big eyes, and I can only imagine I look equally ridiculous. I'm not an angel, Mama, and I can't fly. I can't jump off this cliff just because I know you'd want me to. I can't risk crashing again just because you think I might soar for the briefest of moments.
I'm not that brave.
"I'd better get dressed."
He nods, and I move to leave. Before I can, though, before I'm free, before I can shut down whatever gate has opened between us, he's pulled me back and he's kissing me again.
And for the briefest of moments, I'm soaring. For the briefest of moments, I'm not afraid of falling. For the briefest of moments, I remember what trust is, what goodness is, what love is.
I know it won't last; it never does. I'm falling back to earth even as we part, my lips still warm, my cheeks still hot with blood. And I don't want to remember flying, because it hurts too much when my feet are stuck to the earth, because it hurts too much when reality sets back in.
"I'd better get dressed."
He's smiling now, an evil, unbearably sexy look in his eyes. I can't look at him, not because I'm embarrassed for the kiss…kisses. I've never once let myself feel ashamed for being sexual.
I just don't want to see that interest in his eyes, that newfound curiosity.
I am nobody's curiosity, Luke Spencer.
The walls are coming down again, and I pull myself out of his grasp, more Quartermaine than Tracy once more.
And I can almost hear my mother.
Sighing.
The End