Summary: When Luke vanished in Summer 2005, Tracy ran off to Europe. This is where she went, and what she was doing.
Author's Notes: My attempt to create a coherent, non-canon reality for Tracy. The character of Marta first appears in the story Beggar in the House of Plenty.

The afternoon was stifling when she arrived in Athens. Tracy allowed Marta's housekeeper, seemingly all of ninety, to take her bags and lead her into the sun room. Tracy's Greek was only slightly better than the housekeeper's English, but they managed to get to the point.

"And she's not seen the doctor since?"

The old woman shook her head, confirming what Tracy feared. "She cursed him in three languages, and Poof! Banished him from the house."

"Where is she?"

"She does not want to speak to anyone, Lady Ashton," the old housekeeper said, using the title Tracy had used when she first met Marta Jennings so many years ago, back when they were both unhappily married to titled Englishmen.

"She'll speak to me," Tracy said. She looked through the door into the foyer, towards the spiraled staircase. "Her room up there?"

"Second on the left. I'm not responsible," she added, hefting Tracy's bags and heading for a different door. "Your room is that way," she said, nodding gruffly forwards before disappearing through the door.

Tracy hesitated, taking a deep clearing breath. The room was gorgeous--bright and airy, with a spectacular view of the sea through a series of French doors along the western wall. She could almost imagine the sunsets in this room, with its gleaming white walls, pale wicker furniture, soft pastels. She wanted to stay here, rest from her journey. But she hadn't come here for a vacation. She checked her hair in the mirror, making sure she was presentable, then went out into the foyer to climb the steps to the second floor.

The door to Marta's room was closed. She thought about knocking first, but decided against it. Marta was just as likely to refuse her entrance as anyone else, and Tracy was not going to let that happen. So she slowly opened the door, whispering Marta's name as she entered.

The room was dark, the blinds shut tight against the mid-day sun, and there was no sound except heavy breathing from the general direction where a bed should be. It took a moment, but when Tracy's eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw Marta in bed, asleep. She closed the door gently, crossed the distance to her old friend's bed, and stood there for a long moment.

Even in the dark, she could see how badly the cancer had ravaged Marta. Never a beauty to begin with, the disease had wreaked havoc on her face, hollowing out already thin cheeks, darkening the circles beneath her eyes. She looked ghastly, her hair thin and clumped into uneven patches. Beneath her nightgown, Marta's collarbone stuck out under paper-thin skin, almost transparent, as if it could be ripped away by a single fingernail.

Tracy caught her breath at the sight of this woman, this tough old broad so diminished by disease. She forced the tears back through sheer force of will, forced down the sickness in her stomach. She was ready when those purple-shadowed eyelids flickered open, when Marta squinted and then scowled in recognition.

"Look what the cat drug in," the old woman coughed. "You look good," she added, covering her mouth with a single gnarled hand.

"You look like hell," Tracy said affectionately, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on Marta's cheek. "I suppose I don't have to ask why you didn't call?"

"Oh, don't you start too…."

"Don't worry. I'm not here to nag," she said, her tone lighter than she felt. Marta did look like hell. She sat next to old friend on the bed, one hand stroking the older woman's forehead while she lifted her own damp hair from her neck with the other. Athens was sticky and hot this time of the year, although apparently Marta had not felt the need to open the windows and shutters to get a breeze in.

"What are you here for?" The old woman snorted and answered her own question. "My dunce of a son told I'd stopped my chemo, and you think you can talk me back into it. Well, you've wasted a trip, lamb. You can just get back on that plane and go back to America."

"Bull," Tracy grunt, and stood to open the window.

"Don't…"

"You can't hide from the world." It was a quiet six words, but they echoed through the room like thunder. They both knew them well. Marta had been saying them to Tracy since she was in her twenties. Tracy felt vindicated saying them now as she opened the window and pushed hard on the heavy, dusty shutters. A burst of light invaded the room, the advance front for a series of cool Aegean breezes that completely changed the context of the moment. Tracy breathed it in as she turned to survey the room, now bathed in late afternoon sun.

Marta had placed her pillow dramatically over her head in protest. Tracy ignored her, her eyes far more concerned with the thick layer of dust that covered practically every flat surface in the room. "Your staff is getting lazy," she scolded.

"I pay them not to bother me," Marta said through the pillow. "They perform adequately."

"Oh, yes, train them to be obnoxious and steal from you," Tracy said. Marta had rolled over onto her side, her back to the sunlight. In the light, Tracy could see the outline of her spine in the afternoon glow—hollows and peaks, jagged and rough under the skin. She held her breath, held in the panic she felt at her friend's frailty, at the obvious mortality in that withering human shell. "I hope I'm not too late."

"You need to go home," Marta said again. This time her accent was more prominent, a trace of the old girl back in those five short syllables.

Good , Tracy thought. Get angry. Get good and pissed off at me. As long as she kept fighting, she would keep living. At least, that's what Tracy told herself. "I need to be right where I am."

The End

Written for the LJ 100 Situations ficathon.

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