Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-05-06 00:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, catwoman, scarecrow |
Who: Wren, Thierry + Luke
What: Wren pays Thierry a visit, which Luke interrupts.
Where: Thierry's shop.
When: Recently, after this call.
Warnings/Rating: Sads. Teeny bit of violence-ish.
Wren felt calm and at peace. She'd never realized how calm she wasn't, not until now. It wasn't like the layer of fake calm that came with drinking, and it wasn't like the calm that came from being wrapped in Luke's arms. It was an endless calm, something that she didn't fear ending, and that she didn't question. It wasn't even numbness, because there was still feeling there. She was happy, looking forward to the end of Thierry's threats and the danger he brought to her family. She was looking forward to the zoo, and she wanted to maybe spend a quiet night at home with Luke, if he didn't have to work. She thought maybe they could go to dinner, between the zoo and the quiet night at home. But that meant she couldn't spend too much time with Thierry, which made her a little sad.
She didn't have any memory of Gotham, of being at the hotel, of the Door. Her last memory was of the church, of hiding in the confessional for hours, of fear. There was nothing between, and no worry about the missing time between. She knew Luke had mentioned something about being gone, but it didn't seem important just then.
She'd picked up a knife on the way. It was a tiny butterfly, a balisong, and it fit in the center of her palm, the handle pearled and the blade so sharp that it would cut through skin like butter. She was thinking about that as she walked, of the places she'd cut. She hummed something youthful and French, a lullaby, and she pushed open the door to the antique store with complete calmness.
Her hair was loose, and the dress she wore was white and flared to her knees. She'd never looked more like her maman, and maybe that was appropriate. Her maman had walked into a house once, thirteen and pregnant, and she'd set a flame that had changed all of their lives. She should have known Thierry was going to be a problem. She should have known, because he hadn't minded what her maman had done, and he'd never seemed upset that she'd killed two small children. He'd never apologized for his brother, her père, either. She'd noticed, but she'd kept it buried deep, deep inside. Until now.
"Oncle Thierry?" she called sweetly, turning the sign on the door that indicated the small shop was closed. She knew he was alone at this time of evening, because she'd cared once. She cared for different reasons now.
Things were falling apart in a way he never could have predicted. Ever since January, that awful, awful month where even he had problems accurately remembering all that had happened, nothing had gone right. It was his fault, he recognized that, but Thierry also knew that it wasn’t completely him that had done everything. Between Dr. Arden and then the twist of having the crow lurking inside him, it had jumbled up his thoughts, changed the way he saw the world, and had generally fouled up everything he had worked for. Las Vegas, Patch Antiques, the things that he had cherished for some time as being his, as being precious to him, it was all crumbling to pieces and he couldn’t find a way to hold it together.
When the bell over the front door chimed sweetly, indicating a patron in his shop, Thierry withdrew from the shelves he had disappeared into, coming out into the open air in time to see Wren turning over the front sign of the shop to closed. His brow furrowed down in confusion, because this wasn’t right, even he could tell that. And part of him wondered if it had anything to do with the storm that was brewing because of Crane. The crow was good at closing himself off, keeping his thoughts and actions separate from Thierry’s notice, but he knew well enough that something was happening. And maybe it had. Why else would Wren be visiting him here? She wanted nothing to do with him, and really, who could blame her?
“Wren?” Thierry asked, and this his words fell away at the sight she presented, so much like her mother that it hurt deep in his chest. The actions of so many years ago were things that he didn’t like to think about, didn’t like to even remember, because the loss of all of it had stung in a way that Thierry still couldn’t grasp. He had idolized his brother in so many ways, but the man who had done the things that he had, that wasn’t the man Thierry had known growing up. He preferred to hold to the better memories, the things that were bright spots in his childhood. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked a moment later, making no effort to step closer, because something told him that space was needed.
She was quiet and still, perhaps unnaturally so. She tipped her head when she looked at him, dark hair fanning against the white of her short sleeve. There was a calmness in her grey eyes that was unnerving, too much peace and too little worry for her features. She didn't wear calm well, not like she wore happiness or sadness. Calm was a foreign thing in her life, something she'd never really tasted until that moment. She'd been numb, of course. Numb had gotten her through adolescence. It had gotten her through hands on her body, through being a possession. It had gotten her through degrading things, and it had gotten her through hurtful things. But calm wasn't numb, and numb wasn't calm. She was calm. There was no sense of ruffling beneath the surface. A hint of a smile even lingered at the edges of her mouth, a harbinger of anticipation. She would finish here, and she would leave, and everything would be peaceful.
She didn't greet him again, didn't respond to his stating of her name. She stepped forward on camel flats, quiet things that had been designer and lovely once. One step. Two step. Three step. She reached into the pocket of her dress, and she pulled out the tiny bottle of aerosolized chloroform. It was better with a rag, but she'd used the spray in Seattle. She only needed a few seconds. She could be very, very good with binding someone.
She smiled once she was very close. Once she was close enough to touch, and once she could touch him. The shelves were at his back, and maybe she should worry about herding him back there, but she didn't care enough to worry about it. "What did you want to do to me?" she asked him, sweet and almost seductive. Not dangerous at all.
And then she lifted the obscured spray bottle, and she pushed the plastic trigger.
The way she was acting, she didn’t look like Wren. The calmness was worn like an awkward coat, ill-fitting and ill-placed on the young woman he had only begun to get to know. It left him wary, unsure of how to react, and when that small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, Thierry felt the first inkling of fear creep up and over him. Something was definitely wrong, and he was unsure of what he should be doing in response. “Wren?” he asked again, doing his best to keep the fear and anxiety from his voice, but there was a waver there, an uncertainty in that single word. As she stepped closer, he retreated, trying to keep space between them, but the shelves were at his back, giving him no more room to escape. “Wren,” Thierry said again, his voice as calm and even as he could make it, wanting to soothe over whatever issues were brewing, to ease this situation into something he could predict, perhaps even control.
But then there was that softly asked question in words so sweet and kind that they soothed some of the worry. “What?” he repeated, confusion filtering over his face, transforming his features, and then the cloying sweetness of the chloroform kissed his senses. Things went quickly foggy with the surprised breath he drew in, and then the colours of the shop faded into something grey, his knees weakened, the floor rushing up to greet him far too quickly. It was hard to respond, hard to do anything but be, senses obscured into a fuzzy grey thing that made no sense. He might have mumbled her name again, but his words were so thick it came out as an unintelligible mess instead.
She stepped back when he fell, moving out of his way entirely, not wanting him to land on her toes. She watched him and, once she was sure he was out, she rolled him over onto his belly. She sang the same French lullaby as she worked, an old song her maman had been fond of. Wren had heard the song before clients and after clients. She'd heard it when her maman crawled into the bed they shared, smelling of men and salt and sweat. She'd heard it during those endless salt-licked summers before her maman died, when all the other children played outside. She'd sang it on that couch, with her maman's dead body, and she'd sung it after losing track of Gus. She sang it now, as she pulled the ties from her pocket and secured Thierry's hands behind his back, unforgiving and tight at the wrist. And she sang it as she secured his ankles.
She rolled him onto his back, then, and she tugged him further into the open. She wasn't worried enough to drag him back, away, out of sight of the unlocked door. None of that mattered. Instead, she knelt beside him, the pearl balisong weighing heavy in her palm again, and she waited for him to wake up. It was just a little chloroform; it shouldn't take very long at all.
In the meantime, she kept singing.
While Wren tugged this way and that, binding his wrists and ankles securely, Thierry was half conscious and half not, drifting in this spot of blackness that held awareness but no ability to do anything about it. When the world finally started to come back into focus, the soft sounds of the French lullaby accompanied the growing brightness, a strange contrast against the strain in his shoulders from the ties that bound his wrists together. For a brief moment, panic swelled within him, but then the encounter with Wren moments earlier came back, the panic sobering quick enough to leave him on edge. “Wren,” he was saying as blue eyes opened, feeling a presence just to his side, a presence that drew his gaze. Nothing else was said, instead simply taking in the sight of her kneeling beside him, the soft lullaby and the balisong in her hand the focus of his attention. His earlier realization that something was wrong had been putting the situation lightly. This had gone so far past wrong that he was having a hard time accepting this.
She knew she should have been bothered that he did nothing but repeat her name. But it didn't bother her, not really. She didn't need him to say anything; she only needed him to listen. She undid the buttons of his shirt, her singing turning to a quiet humming, and she spread the fabric like she was opening a present, carefully and with a hint of anticipation on her features. "You don't have to say anything," she told him soothingly. "It's okay. I'll say things instead," she promised, as if she was doing him a very big favor.
The knife made a tiny nick at his shoulder, to that shallow place beneath the skin where blood flowed easily and quickly. She watched it bubble up, and then she dragged a careful line, as if she doing something resembling art. She leaned over him, her dark hair trailing into the line of red against his skin, and she continued the cut down, down, toward his navel. "I'm not going to kill you, because Luke doesn't want me to," she told him, "but you're not a good person, and I need to make sure you're going to stay away from everyone I care about. And I want you to know that the next time you try to get me to do something I don't want to, I'll kill you anyway." She leaned down close to his face, red staining her dress and her voice a soft whisper. "I just won't tell anyone I'm doing it." The knife dragged upward toward his other shoulder. "And I hate you very, very much. Do you want to know why?" she asked, not waiting for a response. "Because you didn't stop your brother when he was young, and because you let my maman leave, and because you didn't even notice I was sick when we went to New Orleans. And because of Luke. You shouldn't have made him clean up after you. It was selfish. You know how he is, you know how kind he is, and you took advantage of that. You, not anyone through a door. That was you." She wiped her blood-smeared hand against her cheek, and she looked down at him, considering.
This had soared past wrong into something else entirely as she opened his shirt, warm skin and cool air causing him to shiver in response, though it was partly fear that was to blame as well. His mouth had gone dry, leaving it hard to swallow, chest tight with the panic that was quickly rising to the surface. The sweet hum had taken on a macabre feeling, something that would haunt him long after this afternoon, a hard memory of a painful moment.
As Wren spoke, laid out her threats and promises that there would be no second chances, Thierry didn’t say a word in protest. He knew, better than anyone else, that he had messed up, and some people (not Wren, obviously) might have given him forgiveness, but there was no way that Thierry would ever forgive himself for what he had done. It would have been easy to blame the changes in him on the door, on Arden and Crane, but he was intelligent enough to realise that it ran deeper than that. As the knife nicked his skin, blood swelling to the surface, warm and wet, Thierry closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a shallow breath to hold for several moments. When his eyes opened again, it was to gaze up at Wren when she drew close, and he listened. He listened intently. And nothing she said was something he could argue against. No, he didn’t stop his brother, but he was a child himself when it had happened, lost in the idolatry of a younger brother against the elder, blind to the faults that existed. Well, at least until he knew. But still he hadn’t done anything, hadn’t said a word, and maybe things would have been different had he had the courage to say something. He was at fault for what happened in January, for not noticing Wren had not been well during that visit to New Orleans, because even that he had known. He had wanted to ask, wanted to fuss, but he didn’t feel that was his place to do so. And all of that was coming back to bite him, sharp teeth with an unrelenting grip.
And then it boiled down to Luke. What he had done to the young man who had been, for a painfully brief moment, like a son to him. And he had ruined that, crushed it, destroyed it. “I know,” Thierry said softly, because he wouldn’t protest or give excuses. What she had said was true, and there was no point in denying it, in making himself look worse a person than he already was. Even an apology wasn’t enough, and the thought of saying the words seemed shallow at that moment.
There was no calm, no peace, for Luke. It had been a long, long time since he’d felt either, beyond a brief moment or two, and he doubted he would have either for a long time yet. Initially, he’d thought that Wren’s strange behavior had been a result of her snapping under too much pressure, but no, of course Gotham was at fault. He should have known immediately, without question. Without details, and without Bruce to act as his source of information, he could only attempt to put the pieces together on his own; it was enough. Wren spoke of not being worried, of not being afraid. That she was so very calm about killing someone, as though it was on par with picking up groceries or running errands, made him think that all the things that held her back, the things that made her hesitate, made her think, was gone.
And that was dangerous. Not just for her, but for everyone. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to worry about anyone else just then. Jason seemed unaffected, and he could only hope he would remain that way. Right now, his attention was focused entirely on Wren and stopping her before she did something she would regret.
Gus was left with the babysitter, entirely ignorant of what was going on. Luke instructed that she take him to the park, the movies, whatever; anything that would take time, and he would let her know when (or if) she could bring the little boy home. If worse came to worst, he could always ask Evie and Will for a favor, at least until this was taken care of. He wouldn’t be able to let her out of his sight, not when she was like this, which brought with it it’s own complications; first, however, he had to find her. He thought having a car gave him an advantage, and he brought his gun with him at the last minute, just in case, just as a precaution-- he would never pull a weapon on her, not ever, but he didn’t know if Thierry’s threats had come from Crane, or if they’d been entirely him; he wanted to be sure, that was all. He didn’t want to be caught off guard by whatever he might find. He hoped he could get there in time. He hoped Thierry wouldn’t use this against her, like he’d tried to use his part in covering up the girl’s murder, but no, he wouldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t. Whatever he had to do, even if he didn’t want to do it, to keep Wren safe would be worth it.
The closed sign was visible when he pulled up, and Luke felt a sharp, sudden bolt of panic in his chest before he fought it off and pushed forward. Maybe he wasn’t too late. Maybe he’d gotten there in time. His gun was slid into the waistband of his pants, held in place by his belt and hidden by his shirt, and he approached the door carefully, listening for any signs of life within. But it was quiet, and that just made his panic spike. Resisting the urge to reach for the gun, finding a sort of protection in it, he turned the doorknob and pushed, stepping inside immediately and filling up the doorway. He came to a halt, and he stared at the scene before him; Thierry, on the floor, restrained. Wren beside him. The knife, and the blood. Oh, this was so, so bad, but he was still alive. At least he was still alive. He could still salvage this somehow, keep it from getting any worse.
“Wren,” he said, a quiet, breathless sound, as he shut (and locked) the door behind him. “Stop. Please stop.” He took a few steps forward, keeping his hands at his sides, yet still intentionally within view; he didn’t believe she would ever attack him, but she wasn’t thinking right at the moment, and he wasn’t sure how she would react to his interruption.
Wren looked up when the door shut. She wasn't worried, even before Luke spoke, about being caught there, bloody and with Thierry bound on the floor. She wasn't worried, but her features still brightened when she saw Luke, pure pleasure at his arrival, her gaze adoring. Her hair clung to her bloody cheek, and she smiled. There was no anger, no fear, no stress. She was just happy to see him, and she didn't mind that he was there, wasn't concerned that he'd stop her. She'd said what she'd needed to say. She'd promised she wouldn't kill Thierry, and she hadn't. There was no guilt for her actions. There was nothing bad. For once, there was nothing bad at all.
She closed the balisong, the pearl handle covering the blade silently, and she held it in her palm, her fingers closing around it as she stood. "Hi," she said, grounding her camel-covered toe into the puddle of blood near Thierry's side. She moved then, a second later, and she crossed the shop, a happy thing in blood-stained linen as she moved between the rows of dusty old furniture and other peoples' lives. "Hi," she repeated, coming close without stopping, not realizing Luke might be upset with her. She was upset by nothing, so why would he be upset? She bounced on her toes in front of him, and she hugged him without warning, bloodied fingers tangling in the hair at his nape, and her bloodied cheek pressing to his. "Hi," she whispered in his ear, the balisong falling onto the floor with a clatter, forgotten and unimportant, just like Thierry was suddenly forgotten and unimportant.
It was such a tiny thing, such a baby step from normalcy to knives for her. She pretended at normalcy, she played at it, just like she played at being like other people. She was good at it, but it was pretense, and maybe it wasn't ever more obvious than it was then. She kissed Luke's cheek, a slow linger kiss. "Can we go?" she asked, unconcerned with cleaning up or setting Thierry free. "He won't do anything else," she promised, glancing back at Thierry. "He knows it'll be bad if he does." She pulled her sticky fingers from Luke's hair, and she took his hand, and she tugged, sticky-light and harmless again. "Viens avec moi."
For a moment, Luke forgot. He forgot about Thierry, forgot why he was there, forgot that something was very, very wrong. It was so easy when she looked at him like that, like he was her entire world, smiling and happy in a carefree sort of way he so rarely saw. But then she closed the knife, and that brought him back to reality. She may have been smiling, and she may have been glad to see him, but none of that changed the fact that there was blood on her dress and on her cheek, or that Thierry was still behind her, restrained and bleeding, or that she didn’t seem to care at all about what she’d just done. He’d seen a lot of things, done a lot of things, but so few people were capable of causing harm with no guilt, no emotion, just a careless sort of ease like what she possessed now. It scared him, in a way he never, ever thought anything about her would scare him, but he wasn’t scared of her; no, he was scared for her. He’d always wanted her to be free of fear and worry, but not like this. Because this? It wasn’t moving past her fear, or learning to cope with it. No, it was just an unnatural absence of the things that should make her care, that would have stopped her from taking a knife to Thierry in the first place. It was wrong; that was really the only word for it. She was still her, of course, still Wren, still the woman he loved, but this was wrong.
He stared as she approached, remembering just in time to smile, to pretend like everything was okay, because he knew reasoning with her wasn’t going to work. No, he had to play along, had to get her home, had to get her cleaned up, and then... then he’d have to figure something else out. Somehow, he had to protect her from herself. “Hi,” he echoed, just before she hugged him, and he only hesitated for a second, less, even, before returning the embrace. Maybe he held her a little too tightly, but he was worried, even if she wasn’t, and this was the first time he’d seen her in days. “I missed you,” he whispered, closing his eyes when she kissed his cheek, as though he could just will everything away by not looking, by pretending none of this was happening. But seconds ticked by, and when he opened his eyes, Thierry was still there. He looked at him, wordlessly apologetic, because he didn’t deserve this. Despite his anger, and despite his warning over the forums, Luke didn’t think he was a bad person. Weak, yes. Maybe even a coward, but those two things didn’t necessarily make him a monster.
“Sure we can go,” he said, shifting back a little to look down at her. “We can go home. Whatever you want. But, listen, I have to let him go first, okay? Otherwise someone might come in and see, and they’ll ask questions. I know you’re not worried about anything right now, and all I want is for you to be happy. So I’ll worry, and I’ll take care of everything.” He pulled his hands back to cup her face, and he kissed her, like everything was fine, and his heart wasn’t breaking where no one could see. “Just stay right here. I’ll only be a minute, and then we can go.”
Not fearing, not caring, it didn't mean that she noticed things any less. She knew Luke's stare wasn't loving, and she knew it wasn't right. She knew he was playing along, that he wasn't being genuine. She noticed that hesitation, however short, even if she didn't fear it like she normally would. Normally, that would have been enough to start a chain reaction of panic, to make her fear losing him, to make her fear losing everything they had. And, more than anything, to fear the loss of his love. Normally, she would have wound her way through those emotions, and she would have reached the other side with a frightened desperation that made her cling to him even tighter. But she wasn't normal just then; she noticed, but she didn't panic. She wasn't sure if she should believe his declaration about missing her, not when everything in his body language was so wrong, but she didn't ask or contradict. She watched the apologetic shift of Luke's gaze toward Thierry a second later, watched the expression that passed over Luke's face. And, oh, okay. She understood. Still calm, still peaceful, she understood. He thought it was wrong, what she'd done.
She nodded when Luke said he was going to let Thierry go. And her gaze was a strangely understanding grey as he cupped her face. She returned his kiss lightly, but it wasn't the happy kiss from moments earlier. "You think I did the wrong thing," she said when he told her to stay where she was. "I'm not sorry," she told him, and it was plain truth and no apology. "He's terrible, and what he did was wrong, and I'm tired of having to be okay with the things other people do to me." It was quiet, no ire, no rage. But there was something like betrayal in her eyes when she looked at him, even if it didn't reach her voice.
She stepped back, stepped aside. "You can let him go," she said, not bothering to look at Thierry again. She was still calm, but no longer happy, and she glanced toward the door longingly. "I think I'll go too. Don't worry, I don't want to hurt anyone else. I know you don't understand, but I just want to be okay. I felt okay before you came." She shrugged shoulders draped in linen white. "Tell Gus I love him?" she asked, because this hadn't changed that. It hadn't changed how she felt about the man in front of her either, but she understood that he couldn't be okay with her this way. It was better to go. She almost kissed his cheek again, but she refrained.
Almost immediately, Luke knew he’d done something-- no, everything wrong. He could sense the shift, the understanding, even without seeing the way the expression on her face changed or that happiness vanish like a flame swiftly extinguished. He hated himself for it, because no, this wasn’t her fault. Her lack of guilt, her not caring, that was beyond her control. He shook his head, because it wasn’t about that, not really; he’d done so many terrible things that he couldn’t even begin to judge her, even if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t, and he wasn’t. He just thought she was better than this, and maybe his belief that she was a much, much better person than himself was blind, but he’d always thought that, and he always would. “I know what he did was wrong,” he said. “I know. I’m not saying it wasn’t, and I’m not saying you should be okay with it. You shouldn’t.” He almost flinched back at what he perceived as betrayal in her gaze, and it hurt, oh, it hurt. This was so far from what he’d wanted when he came here; he just wanted her safe, and he wanted her home. It was less about saving Thierry and more about saving her from something he knew she would normally never do. “He’s not worth it, Wren. He’s not worth this. I don’t want-- I don’t want this to hurt you somehow, later, once whatever happened in Gotham wears off.” Maybe then she would understand. Maybe.
A very, very real fear rose in his chest when she said she would leave. He didn’t understand it, didn’t know how, exactly, but he felt without a doubt that he would lose her if she walked through that door. Maybe it was just irrational fear, but he couldn’t shake it. If their roles were reversed, she wouldn’t let him leave, wouldn’t just stand back and hope for the best. He’d already lost her for days, when Selina had broken her word. He couldn’t do that again, not for days, certainly not for weeks, and he couldn’t lie to Gus either. Not again. Even if it might have been better to let her go, to let her be on her own, Luke had made the mistake of doing that before and he’d always come to regret it. “I’m sorry. I want you to be okay too,” he said quietly. His throat was tight, and just getting out words ached, but he couldn’t lose her. No, no, not like this. “I can’t-- I can’t just watch you go, Wren, and not know when I’ll see you again. I can’t. I can’t tell Gus you love him and lie to him when he asks where you are. I can’t lose you. Don’t leave without me,” and it was almost a plea, almost, and he glanced over his shoulder once at Thierry, but if it was a choice between him and Wren, it would always, always be her. He was restrained, yes, but he’d be okay. He wouldn’t bleed to death. He told himself that, as he stooped to pick up the knife, sliding it into his pocket. He needed to be with her more than he needed to be with Thierry.
“Wherever you go, I go.” It would be fine. Somehow, it would be fine. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he told her, an echo of something from their past, stubborn and firm, and he reached for her hand, hoping so hard it hurt that she didn’t push him away. He just wanted to go home.
"It won't hurt me later," she said with perfect thoughtlessness. It wouldn't. That was the difference between them. All the bad things she'd done, all the men she'd marked, and even the ones she'd killed, she wasn't sorry about any of them. She'd told him dozens of times that he was a better person than her, and she knew that this was why. Life had chipped away at her conscience. She could survive things that broke MK into shards, and she could do things that made him cut himself with guilt; but she was fine. There were no knife marks on her body, no self-inflicted wounds. She'd tried drinking, but even that hadn't been something she'd needed for very long. She'd blackmailed a very bad man, and she hadn't hurt him or turned him in, and all because she wanted money. She'd done so many things, and she hardly thought about any of them. The only things that really hurt, that really stayed with her, were things she'd done to him and to Gus. Those things never, ever faded, and they never, ever left her mind. But nothing else mattered. When she'd found out that he killed people, it had floored her. But if had floored her because he was who he was, not because of anything else. Someone else would fear a murderer; she didn't. She understood, just like she understood why Cerise had made the choice she'd made. And, until then, she'd known he was different, but she hadn't realized how much of a disappointment it might be to him. She knew he put her up on a pedestal, but she didn't really understand it until that moment.
What was happening behind his eyes would have, any other day, made her cry for what she putting him through. It would have been enough to make her agree with anything he wanted, and with anything he needed from her. She would have been terrified that she'd managed to shake his faith in her, that this one thing could have destroyed everything. Right then, she thought it might have, but she wasn't scared. She was sad, and that showed in her eyes, a stark contrast from the happiness that she'd felt since finding herself in the Passages hallway. She didn't like the sadness, and she didn't want it. She looked from him to Thierry, and then back at him. "It's better if I go," she said quietly, sadness seeping into even that. She stepped away from him when he reached for her hand, not letting him grab her still, not yet. But she didn't walk to the door. Instead, she walked to Thierry, and she crouched beside him. From her pocket, she pulled her keys, and she reached beneath Thierry and undid the ties, freeing him. She didn't stand before looking over at Luke, grey eyes clear. "There. You don't have to worry now," she said, and he didn't. The lines on Thierry's torso barely went beneath the first layer of skin. He wouldn't die. But none of that mattered, not when Luke was looking at her the way he was. She remembered, then, belatedly, that he was a policeman now. It was logic that made her hold her hand out for the balisong. "I'll call the police. Give me the knife?" she asked. She could wipe it on her dress, and everything would be fine. She didn't want to go home anymore. She wasn't scared, but she didn't want him looking at her like that either. Jail was better. "Unless you want to do it?" she asked, holding her wrists out and together as she stood.
That silenced him for a moment. Somewhere along the line, Wren had become everything good in his life, his better half, and Luke had never thought her capable of hurting anyone without remorse. His faith in her was unwavering, resolute, and it was why this bothered him so much, because he really did believe this wasn’t who she really was, and it wasn’t fair, for all this to be beyond her control. “You don’t know that,” he managed, after his pause. This wasn’t her fault. It was Crane’s, for doing whatever he had done, and once Bruce returned to Gotham, he would pay. “If you got caught, Wren, you might have gone to prison. That would hurt you. It would kill me.” Losing her like that, with permanence, would be so, so much worse than letting her walk away now.
He wanted nothing more than to get rid of her sadness, but he didn’t know how; everything he said, everything he did, only seemed to make it worse. “No, it’s not,” he said, when she repeated that it would be better if she went, and hurt flashed in his gaze when she pulled away. His fingers tightened into a fist, closing around nothing but air, before he let his hand drop to his side, and he watched in confusion as she approached Thierry. When it clicked, what she was doing, he shook his head, running his hands down his face in wordless frustration. Didn’t she see that he cared about her, that this was about her, so much more than it was about Thierry? “I wasn’t worried about him, I didn’t come here for him, I did it for you.” The words came out muffled, not that he expected them to have any effect. Nothing else had; why would anything he said now be different? Then she was talking about the police, and he lowered his hands, staring in a mix of disbelief and bone-deep panic, when he realized her intentions. “You’re not calling the police,” he protested, his voice gaining volume in his distress. “I’m not-- no, I don’t want to do it, how can you ask me that? How? I would never, ever arrest you, I-- I love you, why would you even think--” This was escalating so far out of his control, and in his desperation he moved forward, not caring that she’d pulled away before. His fingers curled around hers, and he tugged, trying to get her away from Thierry, to get her out of here. “Please, Wren, please, let’s just go. I don’t want you in jail. I don’t want you to leave. I just want you home, with me, and with Gus,” he pleaded. “Come with me. Please.”
Thierry recognized, as he watched the scene in front of him play out, that this wasn't a place for him to say a word. The multiple looks that Luke tossed his way weren't so much ignored as they went without acknowledgement, because he didn't deserve an ounce of concern. Instead, he lay quietly on the floor, the wound on his chest already starting to clot, and he stared at the ceiling, already going through the plans that would take him out of here, that would leave him to abandon the life he had built for himself in Vegas over the years. There was nothing left in the city for him, the things that might have held him here had life led down another path now wanted nothing to do with him, but he didn't blame them for that. Quiet acceptance draped over him, and as Wren came closer, he didn't look her way, didn't murmur a thank you, because this was beyond that.
Blood rushed back into his fingers as his wrists were released, his ankles moments later, and without another word or glance towards the pair that he had likely scarred in some fashion he would never be able to repair, Thierry got to his feet and disappeared into the back of the store, leaving the puddle of drying blood behind and not a whisper in his wake.
When Luke tugged on Wren's fingers, she went without hesitating. And by the time Thierry stood and disappeared into the back of the store, she was already clear of him. She gave Thierry's retreating back a look, and then she looked back at Luke, all clear-eyed grey. She should have been worried that Thierry had retreated to call the police, and she should have been worried that the puddle on the floor would serve as proof of crime, should Thierry call the police. She wasn't thinking about either. Thierry was a forgotten thing, inconsequential now that she'd done what she'd wanted. He might be better dead, safer, but she'd promised, and there was nothing to worry about just then.
"Do we have to go home?" she asked instead. There was something about Luke's reaction that made her think of repercussions, of after. "It won't be okay, once I'm back to normal," she said observantly. She was pretty sure this all wasn't going to be okay, not even if she stopped feeling calm and numb. "Can we go somewhere while it's still okay?" she asked. It was almost acquiescence. She would go home with him, if he wanted to go. But she wasn't sure that was good for him, either. She slid her fingers from his, her fingertips blood-sticky now. She touched his cheeks softly, fingers tracing along his cheekbones. "I promise I won't do anything to make you worry," she said, looking into his eyes when she said it, serenity in the soft tilt of her words. "Please?" She wasn't worried about the gore-red stained dress, or about the red that tipped the ends of Luke's hair from her fingers. All of that seemed insignificant, unimportant.
And it was an somber question. She looked for hesitation, for fear in Luke's eyes, for anything that indicated he wasn't okay with going somewhere with her. How could she go home with him that way? She couldn't. For his own sake, she couldn't. And that realization was so very calming. She found anything that was for his own benefit easiest to swallow, even like this. As much as she wanted to just tug him out the door, and to find somewhere to hide with him, she waited. She wished he could feel what she felt, she wished he could feel free, but she knew he didn't, couldn't, even if she didn't grasp that this was about Gotham and Crane and Selina; she could see the hurt in his eyes. The same hurt that she would remember later. She knew she wouldn't forget.
Part of him was afraid that she might pull away again, and honestly Luke wasn’t sure what he would have done had that happened. But it didn’t, and the relief was almost overwhelming, enough to momentarily make him forget that Thierry was there at all. Maybe he should have done more to ensure the other man wouldn’t call the police, but aside from a glance over his shoulder, he let him go. Thierry knew what would happen if he pursued this; maybe he would leave it alone. Maybe this was the end. He could always make sure it wouldn’t go beyond this later. Right then, his attention wasn’t focused on the man who’d disappeared into the back of the shop; it was focused entirely on Wren.
He didn’t want to admit to himself that it might not be okay later, once this had worn off and she was back to normal. Crane and Gotham and all the madness, it couldn’t win, not after everything they’d been through. “It will be okay,” he insisted, trying to sound sure of himself as opposed to simply desperate. “This is just-- it’s like the fear toxin, but different. He made it different. You were through the door when it hit, that’s all.” Fortunately, while it was a double edged-sword, Bruce’s absence meant he’d been spared. And maybe he should have realized that explanation wouldn’t make sense to her, since she still thought Selina was gone and didn’t remember going through the door at all, but he failed to remember that just then. Home was safer, and he thought they should go there, especially considering what had just transpired, but he was so, so bad at telling her no. His breath hitched when her fingers brushed against his cheeks, and while there was no fear in his eyes, no worry of what she might do, it was because he would be with her, and he wouldn’t let anything bad happen, regardless of the circumstances.
“Okay,” he said. “We don’t have to go home right now. We can go somewhere else, wherever you want.” And then they could go home, after, and he’d keep watch over her until whatever this was had worn off. His fingers closed around her wrists, the touch lingering, and then he ran them down her arms, stopping at her elbows, before resuming the caress in the opposite direction again. “But we should find somewhere to clean up first,” he added, almost reluctantly. She might not have been worried about the blood, but that didn’t change the fact that people were bound to notice.
"I don't go to the hotel anymore," she said, confusion touching her features. "I don't have Selina anymore, and I don't go to the hotel anymore." She sounded a little sad, but it wasn't anything like the fear that had come with that actual realization. Her own insecurities making a frightening connection between Bruce finding someone else, and Luke finding someone else. Like there would be a new person to share the bonds that Gotham's nightmares forged. But that wasn't in her voice just then. Just then, she wasn't scare of losing him. Oh, she could rationalize leaving him, for his own good, in a way she would normally never be able to do. But she wasn't scared of losing him to someone who possessed a person Bruce cared about. His breath hitched while she was considering it, and she looked into his eyes and tried to see if she should pull back because of it, if it was a sigh, a tell. He shouldn't be here, she knew, but that wasn't enough to make her pull away. Fear would do it, though, and she searched for it. "Maybe someone new will come and make it better," she suggested, sadness there too. She wanted the happy calm back. She wanted that peace.
His caress, the feel of fingers on her forearms, it was soothing, and it brought back some of her lost okayness. She didn't brighten, not yet, not exactly, but there was a little bit less concern in her face, less trying to figure things out. She looked down when he mentioned cleaning up, taking in the bloodied white of the dress, and the red that had transferred to his shirt. She smiled, and she tugged on his fingers, pulling him to the rack of antique clothing that Thierry kept in the shop. Most people would consider them costumes, but they were just what Wren needed just then. She pulled out a flapper dress, sleeveless and dusty rose, and she crumpled it in her hand. "The bathroom's back here," she said, tugging on Luke, impatient for him to make a choice from the collection of suits and trousers and shirts there. It was like playing, and that was enough to make her brighten, as if she hadn't just committed a dreadful atrocity. She tugged free of his grip, and she disappeared back between old dressers and old cupboards. The sound of water running in a faucet came next, and her white, bloody dress littered the floor halfway to the sound of the running water.
Luke searched her face for a long, long moment, trying to decide whether or not to explain it to her now, or leave it for later. Selina was still Selina, but she was different, he knew that much, and he was angry at her for taking control of Wren like she had every right to do so, with no thought for the effect it would have upon her. “You still have Selina,” he said slowly. “She went back home, to her Gotham, but she’s not gone. You just didn’t know. But-- listen, we can talk about this later, okay?” She probably wouldn’t absorb the knowledge properly right now anyway, and he wasn’t letting her go back through that door, not until this had worn off, and not until Bruce was back in Gotham to start fixing this entire mess. He shook his head when she suggested that someone new might come, might make things better. “No one new is going to come,” he said quietly, but left it at that. He was glad she didn’t pull away; his breath hitching had everything to do with the feel of her fingers on his skin, regardless of the stickiness of blood, and nothing at all to do with fear.
He was glad when she smiled, despite how jumbled up and disjointed everything seemed just then. When she tugged on his fingers, he followed, willing to go wherever she led and do whatever she wanted. It took a couple of seconds for it to click, what her intentions were, and while he wouldn’t have seen the rack of clothing as anything he would ever wear, it seemed she had different ideas. Well, okay. He could work with that. He’d spent his whole life being okay with things, after all, rationalizing what he’d done, even when he knew it was all lies; it wouldn’t be difficult at all do to the same now, especially since it was her, and he believed she was the better person of the two of them. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was about time she stopped forcing herself to be okay with the horrible things people did. Thierry had no right to threaten her, to try to blackmail her into doing something she didn’t want to do. And she would care, later, once the effects had worn off. Was it really so bad, what she’d done, in the grand scheme of things? Just this once, and never again; maybe she was justified. He laughed when she tugged on him, forcing all the bad things away, all his fear, his worry, far back into his mind for a later time; just now now. He didn’t want any of it now. Whereas she had been quick to choose her outfit, Luke lingered, until he found a shirt and a pair of trousers that wouldn’t make him stand out too much, before following her back to the bathroom.
They had to get rid of her dress; he knew that. But he didn’t expect her to worry about that, so he would take care of it, later, and everything would be fine. He should get rid of his clothes too, but again, later. He’d do it later. It was a quick thing, really, to change into the clothes he’d taken, pulling on the shirt and trousers with ease, and then it was just the blood she’d left in his hair and on his skin that he needed to wash off.
"I'll feel better about that later," Wren said of still having Selina. She didn't ask questions or demand clarification, not like she normally would. It was enough to know that she'd be soothed by it later, when it mattered, and the logistics really didn't concern her very much just then. "I was worried," she admitted, very much past tense and not now at all. She closed her eyes when he assured her no one else was going to come, and she rested her forehead against his chin for a moment, completely still and unconcerned with even the tiniest thing. It was the quiet in his voice that did it, that soothed her, and by the time she was pulling away, she was smiling and happy again. "Is Bruce okay?" she asked, an afterthought that was more curiosity than worry. If she was feeling this way, why wasn't he?
By the time he made it to the bathroom, her face was scrubbed clean, and her fingers were pristine, and there wasn't even a hint of Thierry's blood on her cheeks. She'd let her bra slip to the floor, drops of blood having seeped through the white fabric of her dress to mar it, and she was standing in front of an antique mirror in white underwear, dragging her fingers through the damp ends of her hair. She looked over when she heard him, and she smiled a bright smile, one completely at ease with everything. The few minutes of quiet in the bathroom had chased away the lingering sadness from moments earlier. Right then, there was only him, and only the prospect of going somewhere with him. No worries, no bad things, no reality. Just the two of them. She had no interest in jumping off buildings or running into traffic, and she had no desire to hurt someone, not other than Thierry. She watched him, grey eyes wide and appreciative, and then she grabbed the pink dress from the edge of the counter and slipped it over her head. Her camel flats had been cleaned, and she stepped back into them as she watched him, not looking away through it all, not as the fabric slipped over her bare skin, and not as she moved forward, leaving the water running for him.
"I won't move, promise," she said, approaching him and coming almost close enough to touch. "Leave the door open, if you want to keep an eye on me," she offered, and she leaned back against a dresser and watched him in return, gaze unflinching and hiding nothing. She worried her lower lip, and then she glanced toward the front of the shop. "Did you drive?" she asked him. "I know where I want to go," she said, softly confident and not even a hint of demurring uncertainty. It wasn't a question, really, and that made it sound different than how she normally told him she wanted things. The address she rattled off a second later was just off the strip, at the local community college.
"You won't have to be worried anymore," he said of her thinking she'd lost Selina, since he knew she wasn't worried about it now, and she didn't feel as relieved about that as she should have either. His own sense of relief came with seeing her sadness disappear, even though he knew, in the back of his mind, that going back to normal wouldn't be easy for her, not after knowing what it was like to be free of worry and fear. But that was a concern for later, and Luke nodded when she asked if Bruce was okay, a small smile, almost sad smile on his lips before it was gone. "He's fine, Wren," he said. "Bruce isn't in Gotham right now." Which was both a blessing and a curse.
It was easier to pretend nothing had happened with Thierry's blood washed away, and he couldn't help but stare, despite having known her for so long that it should have been nothing at all, really, seeing her half-dressed. He was so easily distracted when it came to her, and he didn't hesitate before returning her smile with his own, warm and fond. Already, Thierry was fading in importance. It was difficult to stay still with her watching him as she was, to not go to her, to not touch her, but he managed, albeit barely. "Okay," he said, when she offered to leave the door open, not wanting to let her out of his sight. He scrubbed his hands clean, then his face, before rinsing the blood out of his hair. "Yeah, I drove," he said over his shoulder as he shut off the water and studied his reflection briefly to ensure he'd done a sufficient job.
When he was satisfied, he turned, something curious entering his expression when she gave the address of where she wanted to go, but he didn't ask why. He approached her instead, taking her hands in his, and tugged her towards the door. "Let's go, then."
By the time he said she wouldn't need to be worried anymore, even the thought of worry was gone, faded from her memory like a forgotten thing. Instead, she became lost in watching him wash up, and she didn't even listen for sounds from the backroom, where Thierry was. She didn't kiss or touch him when he came close, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, but she let him take her hands, and then she turned, so that she could face him as she walked, and she led him out of the store. There was only a brief pause to unlock the door, and she left the Closed sign facing the street. She didn't think Thierry would want customers just then.
She let go of his fingers to climb into the car, where she curled her legs beneath her and closed her eyes. She listened to the sounds of the world outside, pleased with the fact that none of them bothered her, and she opened them again once she heard the driver's side door open and close. She looked over at him, all grey-eyed peace, her fingers toying with the hem of the soft pink dress. She wondered if she should leave while he slept, if that would make it easier for him. She wondered a lot of things as she sat there, things she wouldn't be able to consider without terror and tears normally. "Are you happy?" she asked him plainly, and her gaze said she would be fine with his response, whatever he said. It was an out, perhaps, one she couldn't normally give him. She glanced back at the store, and then she looked back at Luke. Maybe the gaze was related to the question, maybe it wasn't. She squeezed his fingers on the steering wheel.
"It's the planetarium," she said of the address. She'd found the domed building ages ago; she'd even taken Gus once. "We can go for a little bit, and then we can go home?" she suggested. She would have told him that he didn't need to go, but she knew he wouldn't agree. But there was something inside her that wondered if that would be harder for him, given how he felt. "Unless that's hard? Do you want to just go to the hotel instead?" Maybe it was the best solution. She let her fingers fall away from his, and she slipped her seatbelt on for his benefit. "Or home," she finally added, because she knew he preferred that option best, even if she didn't. She closed her eyes, willing to let him choose.
Fortunately, Luke had no inkling of the thoughts that went through her mind as she sat there beside him; they were the sort of things that would make him panic, that would bring forth waves of fear, and he would have clung to her tightly until he could be sure that she wouldn’t leave him. Even so, he didn’t intend on letting her out of his sight until she was back to normal. Maybe part of him felt guilty for wanting that, because it meant the return of her fear, of endless worry, but she couldn’t stay like this forever. As much as he wanted her bad things to disappear, this wasn’t the way. He looked back at her during the silence, and nodded when she asked if he was happy; her lack of care didn’t make him unhappy, didn’t change that he was happier with her than he’d ever been. “Yeah, I am,” he said, and he didn’t look back at the store, even when her gaze drifted there. He smiled when she squeezed his fingers, and returned the gesture with a sort of too-tight pressure; a silent plea for her to stay.
He shook his head as soon as she mentioned the hotel, the movement jerky enough to be panicked and impulsive. “No. Not the hotel.” Staying away from Gotham was a good idea right now, at least for her, since the door wouldn’t open for Bruce there anyway. He did want to go home, more than anything, just the two of them, but she wanted to go to the planetarium, and he would never deny her that. He remembered, long ago, a time when they’d gone to see a laser show, when they were both young and he was stupidly oblivious to what he had standing right in front of him. “We’ll go to the planetarium first,” he said, “and then home.” And then everything would be fine, somehow. It had to be.