luke henry ; robin (notjustsidekick) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-05-28 03:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, robin, roxanne |
Who: Luke, Wren and Thomas
What: Attempts at explanations, medical assessments, and teenagers panicking about going to jail.
Where: Luke's warehouse.
When: After this phone call.
Warnings: None.
Wren disconnected the call with Thomas, and she let the phone drop to the warehouse floor. She took a second to look around the room, which looked horrible, but she didn’t have it in her to stand up and fix it. Their clothes were strewn everywhere, blood dried on the clothing and puddled on the floor here and there. Bloody footprints led to the bathroom and back, and the couch was stained with splotches of crimson. The first aid kit sat open on the floor, old bandages littered the ground in front of the couch, which she’d barely managed to replace throughout the day of on-and-off sleep. Her limbs felt heavy, and she just managed to reach over and turn on the radio that was within arm’s reach.
The newscaster spoke, reporting on an unexpected weather phenomenon, one that explained why she and Luke were both frozen through, despite the thick blanket they were under, and she looked around the walls for the heater, finding it across the room and too far away for her to manage. She wasn’t burning up, not like Luke was, but her body was bruised all along her front, from the impact of missing the roof on the jump, and her feet were cut open and still bleeding in spots, bits of glass and gravel too deep in the skin for her to get out. Her hands were no better, and her legs and forearms were a menagerie of scratches. But it was Luke that worried her.
Wren touched a hand to his forehead, which was still frighteningly hot, and she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his, as if she could absorb some of that heat. She pushed the blanket aside for a second, baring his torso and the angry red that spread from the injury; little strands of red that seemed to get longer each time she looked at them. That wasn’t as scary as his neck, though, where two hand prints could be seen in sharp, dark bruises, from when Stephen had tried to strangle him. She covered him back up, just as the newscaster reported on the two teenagers who were still on the run from the police. The description matched her and Luke enough to scare her, but it was the report that they had killed one teenager and left another severely disabled that made her start shaking.
“Luke,” she said, hoping he would wake up for her, fear clear in her voice. “Luke?”
Luke’d slipped back into a restless sleep after Wren took the phone, alternating between shivering and kicking off the blankets in a frenzy of unbearable heat. Luke didn’t know if Thomas was actually coming or if he’d just imagined it and couldn’t find the strength to focus long enough to figure it out. Maybe he was just sick and he’d hallucinated everything, even what happened on the rooftop; he was certainly in enough pain for that to be a plausible explanation.
“Have to go,” Luke muttered, forcing his eyes open and blinking hazily up at her. It was the fear in her voice that pulled him out of wherever he thought he currently was, and his gaze regained a hint of focus. “Wren... what’s wrong? Is he here?” Thomas was bound to be angry, he thought vaguely, so maybe that was why she sounded so afraid.
Wren could see the haziness in his eyes, and she touched her fingers to the side of his neck gently, trying to avoid the bruising as she searched for his sluggish pulse. Her own eyes were a washed out gray, dull and flat. “Almost,” she said when he asked about Thomas. “He said he would be here in a few minutes.” It was a promise on her lips, because she would do anything she had to in order for him to be better, even face Thomas, who she knew wasn’t going to like him any more than he already did after this.
Wren bit her cracked lip, and she tugged the blanket back over both of them, knowing it was his body heat that made him push it off. “You have a fever,” she said, stalling, then looking at the radio. “He’s dead,” she finally said once the quiet had stretched too long. “That boy.” She sounded scared, even though she tried not to. Terrified, her mind already trying to figure out what do, even through the haze of pain and ache.
Luke flinched back at the feel of fingers on his neck, despite how gentle the touch was, but there wasn’t much space on the couch so the movement proved useless. At least he had confirmation that Thomas really was coming, that he hadn’t imagined the entire phone call; it was a relief and yet it wasn’t at the same time.
Luke didn’t kick the blanket off this time, instead pulling it up to his chin and watching her with an apparent effort to stay focused. Of course he had a fever; that wasn’t what caused the fear. “Dead?” It struck a chord of recognition, and after a minute the image of an unmoving teenager lying in a pool of blood sprang to mind. “No... no, he can’t be,” he said, trying to sit up and falling back with a hiss of pain. From the look on Wren’s face he knew it was true, and even in his haze Luke knew this was bad. The knife wasn’t here which meant they’d left it behind, and surely it would have fingerprints. The police could trace them to Wren and she’d go to jail because she didn’t have money or support, and people would judge her unfairly because of her background. It would be bad for him, yes, but worse for her.
“It was me.” Luke managed to grip her wrist in a weak hold, as though to emphasize his words. “Listen, you tell him... them... it was me. I killed that boy. Not you.” The fact that there were witnesses who saw otherwise didn’t matter just then; besides, witnesses were unreliable. Thomas would be beyond furious, and the very thought of how he would react made Luke feel sick, but he didn’t see any other option unless they either denied everything or went on the run.
Wren started shaking her head almost immediately, and she tried to interrupt him every time he said something. It wasn’t until he gripped her wrist that she actually cut him off, though. His grip was weak, emphasizing how hurt he was, and it was so different from the strong hold of the boy who had taught her how to fight just a month before, so different than the boy she’d danced with in the planetarium. He was sick, and he needed help. And beyond that, he was good. He was in college, and he had a future, a family, a name. All of that would be ruined if he took the blame for this, and she just wasn’t going to let him do it. And, really, it was her fault. If she wasn’t what she was, if he hadn’t been with her, it wouldn’t have happened.
Shaking her head one last time, Wren closed a battered hand over the one on his wrist. “I already told Thomas,” she said, and she had, even though she hadn’t told him how or what, but Luke didn’t know that, and he didn’t need to know that. “I did it, and we both know I did it, and we both know it was my fault it happened,” she said, adding. “And even if it wasn’t me, I wouldn’t let you go to jail. Not ever. Not for anything.” And she was scared, she was, because she’d seen enough girls go in and out of jail, and she’d heard the stories, but she wasn’t sorry to do it, not if it meant keeping him safe. “But you have to stay away from Stephen and his father. If I go in, I can’t make a deal with them. You have to tell Thomas. They’ll be after you.”
Luke didn’t have it in him to argue with her, at least not as successfully as he could have had he been completely healthy. He wanted her to agree without knowing how to make her do so and that frustrated him. “You didn’t,” he countered, even though he had no idea if she had or not. He couldn’t really remember the details of their conversation aside from the fact that Wren had been on the phone and at one point he’d said something too. “You can’t go to jail, at least with me I might not even go and if I did it wouldn’t be for long. It’d be worse for you and you know it, Wren.” He tried not to think about how bad it would be for Thomas if his adopted son went up on murder charges. Murder. It still felt more like a nightmare than something that was actually happening.
It was then that Luke realized Stephen was probably hurt badly, even if he wasn’t dead. Couldn’t he still get charged with assault or something for that? “No. No deals. If I can’t handle them then Thomas will... won’t kill them, but maybe they’ll end up in jail too.” He let out a long exhale and closed his eyes, momentarily winded by his efforts.
Wren didn’t argue, not this time. She watched his eyes as he spoke, and if he’d been lucid enough, he would have seen the determination in her own eyes. Instead, she waited for him to still once his eyes closed, and she carefully (and quietly) slipped off the couch to find her clothing from two nights before. The stockings were ruined, but the shirt and skirt did a lot to cover her bruising and injuries, even if standing and walking around left fresh tracks of blood on the floor of the warehouse. She came back to the couch just in time to hear a noise at the door, and she leaned in quickly and pressed an almost-nothing kiss to Luke’s lips, lingering, and then sitting back to wait, fingers brushing lightly at the sweat-damp hair on Luke’s forehead. She had made her decision, and she was counting on the next few minutes to carry it out. There was no way she was letting Luke go to jail for her.
The noise had been Thomas’ footstep on the cement in response to their voices, though there had been no herald of that sound, no squeak of hinge, no slam of the door against the frame. He made his steps very audible, however, in total contrast to his approach in the armor, and when he made his appearance, he couldn’t have possibly looked more human. The temperature was dropping and the rain was just starting to turn to slush. His thick black raincoat looked as if it has been dropped into a lake, his hair slicked down against his skull, and his gray eyes haunted.
Thomas had too much training to entirely ignore what was around him, and he took in the homey appearance of the warehouse and also where the hides and approach points were before he approached the couch at an angle and crouched down next to it. He looked at Wren, not at her eyes or her expression, but clinically, taking in her attire and her appearance, from head to toe. Then he turned to look at Luke, and began carefully peeling off the blankets. “I heard there was a fight. When did you meet up?”
Thomas didn’t know there was a fight, but both were covered in blood, there was a knife injury, and the police were after them. Both Wren and Luke had clearly been in a fight. Thomas understood basic human psychology very well, even if he wasn’t social himself. He knew not to ask who they fought with, or why the police were after them. Instead, he asked to hear the beginning, knowing the narrative would unwind on its own, especially considering the stress both were under.
The footsteps were enough to get Luke’s eyes open, and as they grew closer he attempted to regain his focus. All he saw was a blurred figure until his vision sharpened and recognition sank in, not that Luke could have done much even if it hadn’t been Thomas. He tried to sit up as much as he could and watched in silence, suddenly finding himself at a loss for words. Of course someone needed to tell him what happened and Luke wanted to ensure that Thomas believed he was the one responsible for the boy’s death, but he couldn’t figure out how to start. A teenager was dead and it was their fault; he didn’t even want to imagine what Thomas might be thinking, considering his views on lethal force.
Luke tipped his gaze up towards the ceiling when the blankets were removed, already aware that the wound didn’t look like it should have had it been healing properly. His thoughts were hardly organized but he figured he could manage to answer Thomas’ question, at least. “Before it started. Outside,” Luke said, voice low. “Everyone was outside. She was with him, and he looked at me funny but I didn’t think...” He trailed off into a sigh. “He left. Didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“How bad is it?” Wren asked, carefully moving to her feet to give Thomas more room and taking step back on a swallowed wince. “There was a fight. Someone tried to strangle him, the same person who stabbed him. I took the knife, and I killed someone, and we ran so I wouldn’t get caught.” She said quietly, trying not to capture Luke’s attention as she spoke. “If you’ll take care of him, I’ll go call the police,” she said, hoping that would appease Thomas. It was all a quietly feverish monotone, but it sounded sturdy enough, the words. She considered mentioning something about the other boy, the one who had been blinded, but she didn’t know how to fit it in. “The other boy, the one who was only hurt, that’s the one who tried to strangle him. Luke wouldn’t kill him, even though he could have.” She knew that was true, too. Luke wouldn’t have, even if she hadn’t pulled him off. “Is he going to be okay?” she asked, sounding terrified over the possibility that Luke might not be okay.
Thomas listened as he inspected the wound, took a cursory temperature, and tore open a small packet of individually wrapped pills, which he gave to Luke to swallow. His mouth was a tight line but otherwise he managed to keep his thoughts to himself. After they both wound to a silence Thomas turned his head and gave Wren a calm look with a hint of steel that wasn’t anger but command. “He’ll be fine. Sit down and stay down. We’re not calling the police yet. How long ago was this, and where did it happen?”
Wren didn’t sit back down on the couch, but she did lean against the arm in response to the command. “Sunday at the Seattle Museum of Mysteries,” she said, looking worriedly at Luke. “He didn’t do anything,” she repeated, just in case that wasn’t clear the other times.
It was easier to let Wren explain, since she seemed to have a better grasp on what happened and whereas Luke wasn’t even sure exactly how much time had passed. He swallowed the pills Thomas gave him as though he was on autopilot, seemingly less worried about the wound than he should have been. Luke was more preoccupied with the police and possible jail time for one or both of them. Interrupting took too much energy, so it wasn’t until Wren fell silent that he decided speak up. “She’s trying to protect me. I killed that boy, not her, and I hurt the other one too. It was my fault,” he said, making an unsuccessful attempt to sound calm.
Thomas did not argue, though he knew that there was no way they both had killed the boy. He also knew his son well enough to understand that there’s no way he pursued this fight, and judging from the mutual attendance to an event, it was unlikely that Wren started it either, despite her preference for knives. “He needs water,” he told Wren, in a tone less assembled and somewhat more blunt around the edges, though it was not soft. “Quickly, for the pills. Hot water for the wound.” This was a lie; he needed Wren to go, but he also needed her to come back. She would do that for Luke. “Why did these others try to hurt you?” he asked Luke, quietly, gently pushing his shoulder back and watching the wound to see if the severity of the infection.
He was right in assuming she would go. Wren leaned forward and touched Luke’s hair lightly, and then she moved. She was careful with her steps, trying not to stiffen or wince with each added bit of weight her feet took as she moved, feet leaving more red along the floor the further she went. When she reached the small kitchen, she sat down for a second, out of sight, unknowingly giving them even more time to talk than Thomas had thought he would have.
Luke turned his head, waiting until Wren was out of sight before returning his attention back to Thomas. He wasn’t sure if the water was actually necessary but it would be easier to talk when it was just the two of them, so he wasn’t going to ask. “Wren knew the boy’s father, the one who’s just hurt. Said he was a pimp... he got mad because I wouldn’t let him near her.” He tried to keep his voice low, wincing slightly when his shoulder was pushed back. “He pulled out a knife. I had to fight him or he would’ve hurt her. I just wanted him to leave, but then his friends came and there were too many of them. That’s when things got bad,” he said, faltering once he reached that point.
That explained it. Anything else Thomas needed to know would be explained by the forensics. He nodded firmly at the tail end of this information. “Alright. I understand. I’ll find more information, but we need to get you proper treatment. This is infected, and you have a fever. You need treatment to take that down, and better than I can give. Wren needs treatment too.” Thomas wasn’t blind. “The police are going to find you from there. You need to tell the truth. The evidence will tell it for you, and if you lie, it’s only going to make this worse.” Thomas’ tone was steady, certain, reassuring.
Wren returned in time to hear the end of Thomas’ speech, and she handed him the bowl of hot water and took a step back. “You have to make him promise he won’t lie for me,” she said, looking at Luke, who she knew would do precisely that. She thought he looked worse now, than when she’d stepped away, Luke. It probably wasn’t true, and she knew that logically, but she was still scared for him, scared for what he would do. She turned to look at Thomas. “And you have to make sure Stephen stays away from him,” she said, stubbornly determined despite the reality that loomed ahead. She had no papers, no true identity, and a history that was bad at best. And she had done it; it was as simple (and as complicated) as that.
Despite wanting to deny it, Luke knew Thomas was right. The evidence would implicate Wren in the boy’s death even if he did fight to take the blame on himself. For a few long moments he struggled with what to say, torn between admitting the truth and sticking to his story. “She can’t go to jail, Thomas.” He looked up, hoping he’d understand. Luke didn’t want to go to jail either, and the prospect terrified him, but he didn’t let it show. “You know it won’t be fair and the truth won’t mean anything, not when they twist it,” he said, convinced that they would do just that. The mention of Stephen made him think of Stephen’s father, though, and he made a sudden movement to sit up that didn’t go so well. “Wait. His father, if we can prove what he is, wouldn’t it help? He won’t come near me,” he added to Wren, an attempt at reassurance he didn’t feel.
“The boy I stabbed wasn’t even armed, I don’t think. He just grabbed me, and I wasn’t expecting it,” Wren said, moving quickly, unthinking of the pain in her feet, to sit on the couch when Luke moved to sit up. “Don’t,” she said, placing a fever-warm hand on the center of Luke’s chest, stilling him, and looking over at Thomas, trusting Thomas to make Luke understand. If she knew one thing, it was that Thomas would choose Luke over her; she was counting on it.
Thomas wasn't throwing anyone to the proverbial wolves. These children seemed to think he was some kind of monster that would let them lie their way into hell without so much as a drop of worry. A death was a serious thing, none more serious for Thomas, but he was not so green as to trust eyewitness testimony from two so unreliable witnesses. He would get Luke and Wren medical assistance, and then he would find out the truth of the matter himself, through science and logic, the way he always did. The truth would protect Luke, he was sure, and Wren just as likely. "We will deal with this fairly. Both of you focus on yourselves and tell the truth as you remember it to whoever asks." He met Luke's eyes. "No one is getting hurt." Steel gray into Wren's. "We'll figure this out. Help me get him to the car, it's right outside."
And, without even asking permission or giving warning, Thomas picked Luke up under his shoulders and his knees, deliberately dropping some of the weight of his legs to make sure Wren went along the way he wanted her to. He would get certain staff out to the side of the hospital. Doctors that could be trusted. Questioning officers would be as fair as he could ensure.