Who: Luke What: Narrative. Where: Preschool → home. When: After this call, and continuing throughout the day. Warnings/Rating: Some angst.
When the phone rang, he was expecting it to be Wren.
But it wasn't.
No, it was Gus' preschool, informing him that his son was still there, waiting, because his mother hadn't come to pick him up. That was when he knew without a doubt that Wren was in worse shape than he'd initially thought; it would take a lot for her to forget about Gus.
So Luke apologized, over and over, and promised to be right over. He was still in uniform when he showed up, finding Gus seated in the classroom with his fingers shoved into his mouth and one arm curled around his current stuffed animal of choice, a fuzzy orange cat. His cheeks were stained with dried tears, and he felt a sharp slice of anger then as he looked at his son, anger at Thierry, mostly, but a hint of anger at Wren, too, for letting this break her, because Gus was the one who was forced to suffer the consequences. But that wasn't fair, he knew it wasn't, and he felt immediately guilty afterward.
He explained to Gus' teacher that there had been a miscommunication, and reassured her that it wouldn't happen again. She was understanding, thankfully, and after a bit of coaxing he managed to get the little boy to take his hand so they could go home. His fingers were damp from his mouth, and he clung to his father's hand with surprising tightness, as though terrified that he would disappear otherwise. He stayed close on their way to the car, and it took him nearly ten minutes to get Gus into his carseat, as he insisted on attaching himself to Luke's leg and refusing to let go. His fingers went back in his mouth during the car ride home, which was painfully quiet, and once they were in the house he looked up with wide, solemn eyes and asked where his maman was.
Luke hated questions like this. He'd had to answer them time and time again, when one thing or another threw their lives into chaos, and he was running out of convincing excuses. In the end, he told his son the only thing he could think of; that Mommy had gotten held up at work, but she'd be home soon, and she was very, very sorry for not coming to get him from school. Gus didn't seem entirely mollified, and there was still a hint of hurt in his gaze, but at least he didn't ask any more questions.
She would be home soon, he thought. She had to be.
Minutes passed, then hours. He gave Gus a bath. He changed him out of his school clothes, and they had cookies and milk and watched cartoons with Finch curled at their feet. And still, Wren didn't come home, and she didn't call. Despite being calm on the outside, he was falling to pieces internally, where no one could see, where panic made it difficult to breathe.
Dusk approached. Gus fell asleep in his lap, and he managed to get the boy into bed without waking him. Finch, who usually stayed in the little boy's room and slept at the foot of his bed, followed Luke back out into the living room instead, and when he sat, the dog laid his head on his knee and whined, as though he knew that something was wrong.
Yes, something was wrong. Something was wrong, and it wasn't fair. Things had been going so well, and now everything was crumbling again, crashing down around him, and he didn't know how to fix it. Wren sounded like she'd been transported back five years, to when they were teenagers and everything was terrible, and he hated it. He hated how afraid of Thierry she seemed, he hated how desperate she'd been to do what the man wanted in order to keep him out of jail, he hated the sound of her voice, the things she'd said, and how he hadn't been able to make it better no matter what he'd said.
He buried his head in his hands. All of this, because he'd been stupid enough to trust Thierry. If he'd never helped him cover up that girl's murder, then he wouldn't have had anything to threaten Wren with, and none of this would have come to pass. And oh, it hurt, knowing that someone he'd had faith in had used his his help against him. Cleaning up Thierry's mess had gone against everything he believed in, but he'd still done it, because he cared, and he really had believed that the other man was remorseful, that he hadn't meant to kill the girl.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
It was his fault. His fault Wren had progressed back to that scared, broken girl she'd once been. His fault for forgetting.
Forgetting was bad. Forgetting got people killed, got people hurt. Luke knew that. He knew, and he should have remembered. He should have remembered the men who'd squandered their chances, who hadn't tried to change, who had laughed in his face when he gave them an opportunity to prove themselves.
Yes, he should have remembered. But this time, he would. He wouldn't forget, not ever again. People couldn't be trusted. They weren't inherently good. A few were trustworthy, but most... most were not.
Maybe Thierry would listen. Maybe he would stay away from Wren, and maybe he would prove himself one of the few. Because he liked Thierry, he did. He wanted him to do the right thing. But if he didn't-- if he threatened her again, after nearly destroying her this time--
"We'll just have to deal with him, won't we?" Luke scratched behind Finch's ears, and the dog gave a short, sharp bark.
He smiled, but it was a sad, shaky thing, and he closed his eyes, all that panic and worry he'd been keeping locked up for hours finally seeping through. Hours, and Wren still wasn't home. Why, why, why? He whimpered the question against Finch's scruff, finding reassurance in warm fur, but the dog could give no answers. A little longer, Luke thought, and if he couldn't get a hold of her by then, or if she wasn't home, he'd go out looking. He'd tell Jack, too, and get him to help. Yes. They'd find her, and bring her home, and everything would--
Everything would be--
No, he couldn't do it. He couldn't convince himself that everything would be okay. Not this time.