Title: Beggar in the House of Plenty
Fandom: General Hospital
Characters: Tracy Quartermaine
Prompt: #22 Beggar
Word Count: 1,551 words
Rating: R
Summary: Tracy takes one last chance with Paul before things blow up forever.
Author's Notes: I totally didn't want to write this. There are some upsetting things in this story—mostly, Tracy in desperate!wife mode. It ain't pretty, but that's what the prompt created. Consent is there; joy is not. Time frame—early 90s. Tracy has just found out she's pregnant with Dillon.

She had it on reasonable authority that the powder would work.

She had friends, women with vested interests in making their rich, old husbands feel virile and potent, who swore by the stuff.

Mix a teaspoon in his drink at dinner. Not too much alcohol, for godsake, Tracy.

Tracy never thought it would come to this. She'd never considered herself a great beauty, but she'd done well enough. Three husbands and far more lovers had taught her a thing or two about sex. And while she wasn't 21 anymore, she was still young enough to…

"Dear god," she whispered, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

How did she come to this place?

Her breasts were already beginning to swell, she noticed as she adjusted the straps on her negligee. One of the perks of pregnancy, she thought without humor.

Paul was going to be furious with her. He would accuse her of trying to trap him with an unplanned pregnancy.

She thought back to their courtship, to this beautiful, unexpected love that had hit her out of the blue. How much she wanted to be with him… How much she wanted to give him…

She should be thrilled.

She'd never thought she could become pregnant. "Over 30" was not pregnancy time in her mind.

She'd been reasonably careful, she thought.

How beautiful this baby could be, she thought.

Just a teaspoon in his drink, Marta had said. The phone connection was bad, and her accent thick enough to be almost unintelligible over the transatlantic line. Marta, who had scratched and clawed her way from nothing—no beauty, no money, no pedigree—to become the wife of one of England's most powerful Lords. Marta, who'd taken pity on poor young Tracy, the new Lady Ashton, the rich American outcast who didn't fit into that world anymore than Marta did.

Oh, the things they had taught each other!

Darlink, she'd said. Darlink, you must go to the herb shop and tell them exactly what I have told you. Do not be ashamed. They will not even know why you are there. Do not take any of the powder yourself. You do not want to harm the baby.

Tracy spread her hands down along her hips. Were they getting wider? She'd lost all the weight from Ned almost immediately. The curves of pregnancy had given way to her normal sleek silhouette, just as if there had never been a child.

It was storming outside. She'd taken the liberty of "knocking out" the phone lines—just a quick trip around the place to unplug all the extensions.

You must not use too much of the powder, child. You don't wish to kill him, do you?

Of course, she didn't.

She thought she didn't.

Tracy rubbed cream into her elbows. The negligee was getting tighter, or was it her imagination?

Who was it who said all pregnant women glowed? Tracy wondered if she would ever have a pregnancy that caused her to glow—a happy pregnancy with a wanted child while in a marriage that worked.

She'd put one teaspoon in his drink at dinner. There was spicy Indian take-out, flavors so bold they would knock out any chance of his noticing anything odd.

She had smiled, and listened to him talk. Like a good wife. They had pretended tonight, and she was glad for it. The pretense would make it easier in some ways.

Easier to forget her shame. Easier to forget her humiliation.

"Tracy!"

Her master's voice.

Tracy said nothing. She continued to rub the cream into her skin.

"Tracy, where are my keys?"

His keys were in her dresser, under her blue silk camisole, carefully hidden until she got what she needed. Tracy wiped her hands on her arms, rubbing the excess cream into her skin. Her grandmother's old silver brush glinted in the lamplight, and she picked it up, pulling it slowly through her shoulder-length coffee-colored hair.

The door to the bedroom opened and Paul walked in. He seemed agitated. "Didn't you hear me?"

Be careful with your amounts, Tracy. Don't be greedy—a little will suffice. There's a fine line between passion and rage. You don't want him too excited, do you, lamb?

"I'm sorry. What did you say?" She didn't turn. She could see him in the mirror.

"Have you seen my keys?" His voice was softer now, and Tracy could see that he was staring.

The only light in the room was the lamp on the dresser. When the light shone through, as she knew it was doing right now, the fabric of her negligee became almost transparent.

Paul was staring at her.

She lifted her hair off her shoulders slightly, running the brush underneath to get at the tangles near her neck. "I haven't seen them, baby." She turned slightly, flashing him a little pout. "Maybe you left them in your jacket?"

He was blushing.

Tracy turned back to the mirror. She wanted to smile, but her lips had forgotten how.

"I checked my jacket." His voice was tentative. He was watching her. She could almost feel his eyes on her back, on her rear end, on her long, slender legs. She could almost feel him weighing his options.

What he wanted? Or what was close at hand?

It will work, darlink. It always worked for me.

"Where are you going?" she asked casually, as if she needed an answer. If the powder was working, there was only one thing on Paul's mind, and only one person he wanted to satisfy him.

But he had no keys to go to her. And he had no phone to call her.

And Tracy was here, and willing.

"I have to make a call," he said.

"Oh, the phones are out," she said casually. "I tried to call Mother earlier, and the line was dead. I think the storm knocked them out."

"Can I use your car?"

She was crossing the floor now, her starting-to-get-wider hips swaying gently with each step. In a moment, she was face to face with him, breathing in his scent, wanting him as much as if she'd put the teaspoon of powder in her own drink. "It's storming, baby. And my car is in the shop. I told you that." She reached up to stroke his cheek, closing the distance between them. "There's nothing you need to do tonight that can't be done tomorrow."

His breathing was labored, and she felt dirty with his desire.

The damage was done.

She was already damned by a pregnancy she'd never expected.

She was already the other woman in her own marriage.

She was already the bitch, the harpy, the one whose side nobody saw.

Why couldn't she have a little pleasure of her own, before everything went from bad to worse? Because when Paul learned she was pregnant, he'd never willingly or happily go to her bed again, no matter what herbal aphrodisiac she used to spike his drink at dinner.

"You're so tense, Paul," she said, tracing her finger down his strong, angular jaw. She'd kissed him there, planted a line of soft whispers against his beautiful face, once upon a time. Back when she still believed the lie, when she stifled her own instincts that told her to be careful, to be smart.

Never fall in love with a man more beautiful than you are.

"I need to find my keys," he whispered, taking her wrist in his fist, pulling it down to his side. The gesture caught her off balance, and she felt slightly toward him.

It was enough.

It was enough, and Paul was not strong enough in character to resist.

Never fall in love with a man more beautiful than you are, because beautiful men tend to be weak.

She wrapped her free arm around his shoulder, accepting his hard kiss eagerly, letting him push her other wrist behind her back, reveling in the feeling of force that simple gesture inspired.

He wanted.

He needed.

And little Jenny Eckert was nowhere to be found, nowhere to ease his pain.

But his wife was there.

It wasn't what she wanted. It wasn't what she'd dreamed of for herself, having to seduce her own husband with tricks and herbs and stormy nights.

There was no knight in shining armor waiting for Tracy at the end of this story.

But his body was warm and urgent against her, and she was hungrier than she'd ever been in her life. She was a beggar, and he was the feast. There were no violins playing when he pulled her to the bed, ripping at her negligee, his mouth hard and demanding on her flesh. There were no whispers of poetry and true love in her ear.

This was sex. This was need, his and hers, a matching set.

Soon enough, she wouldn't be able to hide her condition from him. And no matter what the truth was, she'd be found guilty of getting pregnant to trap him in the marriage.

He'd never want her again—not in any way good or healthy. It was quite possible that tonight, this moment, would be the last time Tracy ever took her husband to bed.

But tonight was enough.

Tomorrow, Paul Hornsby could be gone forever.

But tonight…he belonged to Tracy.

The End

Written for the lj user"100situations" Challenge.