Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2014-01-07 00:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, catwoman |
Who: Luke and Wren
What: Reuniting (1/2).
Where: UNR Planetarium.
When: New Year's Eve (pre-this).
Warnings/Rating: None.
Wren had taken a few things with her when she left the house, despite the fact that she'd promised it was only temporary. She'd taken one of Lia's blankets, soft and pink and with cream roses on the edges. She'd taken one of Gus' discarded toys, a tiny stuffed giraffe that had been sucked on so often that the head was faded. She'd taken the little sofa from the treehouse that Luke had gotten her the year before, the tiny thing pristine, save for the dog hair that tended to coat everything in their house. And she'd taken the USB stick Luke had left in her stocking. Every night, while at Evie's, she'd set the things out on the nightstand of the guest room. Every morning, she'd tucked them away again, safe. And Evie was sweet and kind, and Daisy was a distraction. But the little girl only made her think of Lia, and Evie's sadness only made Wren sadder, because there was nothing she could do to fix her friend, not when she was having trouble talking at all.
She spent the first day in the shower. Layers upon layers of scalding hot water and so much soap that her skin turned warm and raw. It was easier to think with the water slamming down against her back. Or, maybe, it was easier not to think, the roar of water in her ears and no one could hear her tears over the sound. She didn't leave the room that day.
She spent the second day locked in her room, sitting on the floor, never changing out of her pajamas. Crossed legs and so close to her laptop that she could almost hear it without turning the sound up. She watched the video from the USB stick over, over, over. She watched until she'd bitten her lip bloody. She watched until her fingers couldn't stop shaking. She didn't leave the room that day.
After, she had no choice but to leave her room, or Evie would call Luke, and it would all fall apart. And she was already worried about him and the kids, and she didn't want him thinking she'd stopped eating or talking or doing any of the things she actually had stopped doing. She took pictures, moody things and walks through alleys where girls that reminded her of her youth worked. She wandered for hours, coming home with a fake smile and a camera full of film, dirty shoes and assurances that she'd eaten something while she was out. The days stretched endless, and she longed. She tried to imagine a lifetime of this stretched before her, and it just made her stomach ache.
New Year's Eve, and she wasn't sure this had been a good idea. She wasn't sure about anything, really, but she wanted to see Luke so badly that it was permanent blade between her ribs, always there, forever present.
It was a ways out, and she'd done that intentionally, but now she wondered who was taking care of the kids. It made her feel guilty, but she'd gotten the tickets before everything had gone wrong, the last offering of her maman's sold hope chest, and she'd assumed they'd be driving together. But now, the bus was soothing. Sway and sway and highway, and she stared out the windows, grateful for the quiet and the lack of passengers.
She wore cream, the vintage dress gotten for a song at a thrift shop during one of her walks. She'd slipped on heels, and she'd twisted her hair up, and she'd lined her lips. As she took the taxi the rest of the way to the planetarium, she wondered if she would remember what words sounded like; she wasn't sure. It reminded her of the years after thirteen, the silence, but she didn't want to think about that.
She was early, but the parking lot was full. The Evening of Stargazing, as the event was called, involved champagne, an orchestra, dancing and a perpetual show in the observatory. She just waited outside, nervous and lip-bit and shaking her head, no, at any of the men that came offering drinks and a dance.
If it hadn’t been for his kids, Luke probably would have just stayed in bed and shut out the world until New Years Eve. The prospect was a tempting one, admittedly, but with Wren struggling to cope with her demons he had to be the strong one. If he fell apart, who would they have? Trying to explain to Gus why his mother had to go away for a little while was hard enough; he couldn’t leave him too. So he made himself get up in the morning, he made himself smile and act like everything was fine even though the exact opposite was true. He came up with convincing excuses and reassured the little boy that Wren would be back soon, he made breakfast and fed Lia and went to work, where he carried on the charade that life was normal. No one knew his wife was currently staying with a friend because she couldn’t bring herself to be under the same roof as her family. No one knew that he slept on the couch at night, unable to face the bedroom alone, and even then he didn’t sleep much at all. No one knew that he locked himself in the bathroom after work and let the shower run so Gus and Lia wouldn’t hear anything over the sound of water. Max and Jack were great, they were helpful, but neither of them could fill the emptiness left behind by Wren’s absence.
The only reason he could manage to keep it together in the first place was because he clung stubbornly to the belief that this really was temporary. Without her, there was no life for him; not even his children could change that. But she was still in the city, he told himself. She hadn’t taken off. She’d promised she wasn’t leaving him. Each day felt like an eternity, but he survived. Every night, one day closer to seeing her, he’d tell himself it would be okay. That, once she’d had some time, it would be better. She’d come home. He couldn’t even consider any other options. The ache in his chest grew, and he almost called countless times, almost texted, craving some form of contact. Did she miss him, he wondered, as much as he missed her? And, too, he didn’t know what their New Years Eve date was. If she’d planned it before everything had fallen apart, was it something else now? Had it become a final goodbye? Did she even plan on coming home, or was she going to leave?
He didn’t know, which meant he walked in blind, nervous and anticipatory and maybe a little scared that she wouldn’t even show up. The kids were left with the sitter, who promised to check in every half hour, and Gus solemnly made him promise to tell his mother that he wanted her to come home, please. He smiled to mask his tears and told him he would, and then he left. The drive started off quiet but it was too hard to push his thoughts aside then, so he cranked the music up loud, loud, and let it serve as a distraction. It took him a good fifteen minutes to park once he arrived at the planetarium, which made him wish he’d taken a taxi, but what was done was done. And, maybe, he hoped that she’d come back with him once the night was over.
Clad in black dress pants, a white collared dress shirt, long sleeved with the cuffs rolled up, and a tie, he looked like he fit in at least a little. Aside from his nerves, which made him look younger, and he scanned the crowd as he approached the entrance, fearful that she wouldn’t be there. Round and round his thoughts swirled, and the relief he felt when he spotted her waiting was indescribable; it felt like someone had been mercilessly squeezing his lungs until that moment, and he could breathe again. His heart beat a regular rhythm. He stared a little too long before he made his feet move, and while he wanted nothing more than to kiss her, to hold her close, he made himself approach at a normal pace. His expression betrayed his control, however, and he slowed to a stop once he was close enough, leaving just a little space between them.
“Hi.” Luke stared some more. He couldn’t help it.
Wren saw him before he saw her, and her breath caught. She didn't breathe for so long that the world spun, lightheaded and gasping to draw in breath after. And once he saw her, once she knew, once she saw his gaze go from something searching to something steady, she tried to look away. She wanted to look away. She should look away. But she was so weak where he was concerned, and she couldn't do it. She bit her lip, the effort at lipstick gone away with the bite, and she rucked the cream fabric of the dress at one hip, old habits that felt so very close now, like they were breathing down her neck and sending shivers down her spine. But she didn't look away. She watched every footstep, and she counted them, her lips moving in silent tally. When he stopped in front of her, she said nothing, not at first. She was wide grey eyes and a shuffle of feet, left, right, left, but without moving from where she was standing. There was music filtering through the door, voices too, and people everywhere, but she didn't move, even when she was jostled. And he was so close. She could reach out and touch him, if she just let herself. She knew she could. She knew he wouldn't pull away. She knew he would let her.
His voice sounded like breathing, like life, and she choked back a sob when he spoke. It was one syllable, tiny, infinitesimal, but it ran through her and made her shudder.
She wanted to say things. She wanted tell him that he looked beautiful. She wanted to ask after Gus, after Lia. She wanted to apologize for all the things that were wrong in her, all the things that made their life hard. She wanted words, but she couldn't find any.
She wanted to touch him, and her fingers twitched. Touching had always been easier for her that words, something soothing in the feel of living beneath her fingertips. She'd never been good with people, never learned the right things to say to make her seem like everyone else. Touching was different, but that feeling of worry welled up, the fear that she'd contaminate him, make him dirty, and she had to swallow it down like bile. Her fingers trembled, and she reached out one hand across the gap and dragged her fingers just over the place where one of his sleeves was rolled up. She traced the fold, just that, and then she pulled her hand back.
She licked her lips, and the song inside changed, and she held out his ticket. Then, a second later, she turned and disappeared inside, run and hide and she needed to catch her breath. She needed to remember how to breathe, and there were people everywhere. Black tie and tux, suits and sweaters, dresses and gowns, and she wove through them like string through cloth.
Once, she looked over her shoulder. Once.
Someone else might have been discouraged by her silence. But he knew Wren too well to think that her lack of greeting meant she didn’t want to see him and, anyway, the way she looked at him said more than words ever could. He stood. He breathed. It was easier around her, like there was limited air in her absence. He drank in the sight of her, slow and lingering, and he almost moved forward when she choked back that sob. Almost. It was a tangible thing, that aborted half-step towards her, and he inhaled sharply at the effort of showing restraint. He’d never been very good at it and he was even worse when he didn’t want to hold back; he didn’t want to now. The world melted away to just the two of them, music and voices and other people fading in importance, and he looked down when she traced over his sleeve.
It wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted more. “Wren,” he began, and maybe it was a plea, or maybe he just wanted to say her name. Regardless, she held out his ticket and he stopped, the words falling short, reaching to take the ticket a second later and letting his fingers brush oh-so-briefly against hers. He would have moved forward then but she turned, disappeared into the crowd, and it was pure instinct that drove him to follow her. It wasn’t like it had been in the club all those months ago; he wasn’t angry, wasn’t shoving past obstacles blindly. He was calm. He wove like she did, and maybe he worried about whether or not she wanted him to follow. Maybe he wondered, briefly, if she was running away from him.
Then he caught a glimpse of her, looking over her shoulder, and he knew.
He moved people out of his way without pushing. He shook his head at waiters carrying champagne, his gaze fixed on her. He had to keep her in his sights, had to catch up; she was the only thing he cared about here.
She didn't shove or push, and she didn't run, though she wanted to. She wanted to just make everyone go. She wanted to breathe, to think, to stop the racing rhythm of her heart. Days and days, and it was almost too much all at once. She headed toward the bathroom, where she could find the quiet of a stall and stay there until she had her feelings back in her body again, beneath her skin, and she didn't know how to deal with all the feelings that being young had drawn up, drawn out. She headed that way, following discreetly placed signs, but the sign for the observatory caught her attention. She swerved, the turn sharp and apologetic, and then she disappeared down the long hall of blue walls, blue ceilings, blue carpet. People wandered there, slow and unrushed. But she wasn't slow; she wasn't unrushed. She didn't stop until the double doors opened out into the observatory, where the circle of stadium seats were starting to fill. Old people, really old, their fingers twined on shared seat arms. Teenagers, kissing like the world was going to end and it was their last chance. As she stood there, the lights dropped, leaving blue lights on stairs and just the glow of the moon overhead.
She went left.
She circled the top level. Round, round, and she didn't look back. She didn't look even once. Ruck went her dress at her hip, and she bit her lip, and she climbed the blue-stairs to the topmost row. Pardonnez-moi, over and over, as she passed legs and skirts. She stopped at the end, the edge, the farthest seat from the row, the railing at her side, and she pushed down the seat and sat on the plush blue that was nothing like the pot-simplicity of the planetarium they'd gone to in their younger years. It was quiet there, in that corner. The view wasn't great, and there were empty seats to her left, a dozen at least, before a nice old couple with twined fingers was oblivious to anything but each other.
She smoothed her skirt out on the seat, fanned it over her thighs and against the plush blues. She looked down, her shoes the most interesting thing in the world just then. She didn't look up, and she didn't even know why. Her breath was fast, hummingbird's wings in her chest, and her fingers dug into the cushion's edge, seeking purchase, seeking gravity. The lights went even further down, the blue lights nearly disappearing, and an overhead voice was saying something that she didn't care about, something about music, dancing, champagne and countdowns.
When he was calm and, by extension, focused, he was good at this. Anger blinded him, made him sloppy, but he wasn’t angry now and everything was in crystal-clear focus, sharp lines and bright colors. He’d taught himself how to follow a target without fail, to fade out the rest of the world and keep a steady pace. This was a little different, of course, because Wren wasn’t someone he was hunting, but the tactics were the same. When she took that abrupt turn and changed course he wasn’t fazed; he simply adapted. Surrounded by blue and people and he saw none of it, only her, barely feeling the brush of bodies as he moved past, thoughtless apologies falling past his lips like some part of him was on autopilot. It had only been days, but it felt like an eternity, and deep down a sort of desperation lived, like if he let her slip through his fingers now that would be it; he’d never be able to get her back. Silly, maybe, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.
He stopped when she did, a couple feet behind with people moving between them. The lights dimmed and she was bathed in a glow that made him want to stare and stare, but he couldn’t. Besides, staring wasn’t enough. Not after being apart, not when that’d been the very last thing he’d wanted. He pushed a young couple apart in his haste to follow once she started moving again, and the apology he threw over was thoughtless; he didn’t wait to hear their response. There was a few moments of time when he lost track her, the lack of lights working against him, but he knew her. He knew where she would go, and so he went up. Up and up, looking all the while, searching, and maybe his desire to find her played a part; he didn’t know. He couldn’t be sure. But he did find her, seated at the end of the row all by herself, and he hesitated briefly, wondering if maybe she had wanted to get away from him.
But she’d asked him to meet him. She could tell him no, she could leave. And he wanted to be near her to very badly, to beg her to come home and stop putting them both through hell by being apart.
He smiled at the older couple as he passed, apologizing as he did so, and he sat next to her. At first, he didn’t look at her. He looked at his knees. He looked at the way her fingers dug into the seat. Then, slowly, he reached out and covered her hand with his. His fingers slid between hers, and then, then he lifted his gaze and looked at her. “Hi,” he said, repeating his greeting from earlier, softer this time.
There was nowhere to run, and she'd cornered herself. She'd done it intentionally, because she knew the butterflies madly flapping their wings against her ribs would make her run, nerves and feet that wouldn't stop. And so she'd cornered herself, and it was hard to breathe, even with the cool air and the night sky projected overhead.
When his hand touched hers, her gaze shifted. She watched as his hand covered hers, and she watched as his fingers slid between hers, and she held her breath and bit her lip. Her fingers trembled, but she didn't pull her hand away, and the last bit of blue light went out, and everything was darkness until her eyes adjusted to only the pinpoints of starry light overhead, far up in the observatory dome. She tipped her head back, and she looked at the false sky. She knew he was looking at her; she could tell. She wanted nothing more than to look back at him, but she wanted to do anything but that. And he was right. He was right that this had been hell, but she didn't know how to fix it, and she finally drew in a shuddery breath and slid her hand out from beneath his, the movement of fingers a slow slip of skin against skin.
She used the arms of the chair to lift herself up, and she tucked her legs beneath her, shoes kicked off and so much younger for the position. She turned toward him a little - just a little - and she finally looked at him. Like outside, she stared. The darkness was lightened now, constellations and galaxies, and he was cast in a silver blue light that seemed otherworldly. She dragged in a breath, and her cheeks went warm with embarrassment and memories of being young and kissing him on the cheek, and then she looked down again. "Hi," she echoed, nearly a whisper and the soft and wordless music that was playing almost eclipsing the sound. "Hi," she repeated, and her voice broke on the word. She twisted the fabric of the dress in her lap, ruck and hitch and bared thighs without thinking. And it had been so long since they'd been together. Not just days, but since before the baby was born, and it felt like eternity. Time, distance, it was supposed to make it easier, but it hadn't. It just made her want more, made her miss more, and she should have learned her lesson about that five years ago.
"I- I-" She began, but her voice was an unused, rusty things. Quiet for days, and she didn't keep trying. Instead, she freed one of her hands from the fabric that was bunched in her lap, and she lifted her fingers to his cheek. Her stomach turned over, and she had to fight the feeling that she shouldn't touch him, not at all, as her fingers brushed his jaw.
He didn’t stop watching her, even when the lights went out and it took his eyes a few moments to adjust. After having gone days without seeing her, he wasn’t going to look away now that she was here, this close, her fingers warm and tangible under his. Skin against skin, and he wanted so much more. But he held himself back, the fear of pushing pervasive in his chest, and he drew in his breath sharply when she slid her hand out from under his. No, he thought. The loss of contact was an ache between his ribs but his gaze remained steady still, unmoving, as she tucked her legs beneath herself and turned towards him. He wanted so, so badly for her to look at him that, when she did, he almost whimpered in relief. Almost. Instead of sound or words his expression changed, warm and fondness and the ghost of a smile as she finally met his gaze. He didn’t even mind when she looked away again, not really. For her he could have all the patience in the world, because she was his world.
The sound of her voice was, like seeing her, a soothing balm on the ache of being apart. He watched the way she rucked her dress, and he watched as she freed one hand and brought her fingers to his cheek. Instinctively he moved closer, craving her touch, and as soon as he felt her fingers brush his jaw he closed his eyes to savor it. A second later he covered her hand with his again, wanting to keep her fingers there, on his skin, to keep her from pulling away. “I missed you,” he whispered, a shuddery confession, and he opened his eyes to look at her. “Every second of every day. I never stopped thinking about you.” A pause, and he took in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I know you missed me too. It’s okay. You don’t have to say it.” He could use words enough for the both of them.
She had to swallow back a sob when he smiled. And she could try to convince herself that he was smiling because it was okay, because he was okay. She could use that smile to convince herself that he was fine without her. He wouldn't be able to smile if it was that bad, would he? She knew she should grasp onto that, that she should use it to help her make the decision that she'd finally accepted that she was too weak to make on her own. But she couldn't do it. She just couldn't, and she swallowed back that sob and let that ghost of smile go, let the opportunity to cling to it go.
Whatever hesitation remained in her melted when his hand caught hers against his jaw. She scooted closer and, somehow, she hadn't expected him to talk. Maybe she should have, but she still couldn't predict what he would do in most situations. She knew the bigger things, the more important things, like the fact that he would always absolve her, like the fact that he would never admit how much better his life could have been without her. Those things she knew, but the small nuances still evaded her, and he had changed so much during their years apart, grown up so much, lost so much of that anger that had made things so hard before. She didn't manage to swallow down the sob when he spoke, and her fingers slid over to his lips and traced them, back and forth, up and down. She wished she could see him better, and yet she was grateful for the darkness, and she dragged her fingers down over his chin, over his throat. She tucked her fingertips beneath the buttoned collar of his shirt, and she curled them beneath his tie. The touch was frenetic, guilty, and she should stop. She knew she should stop, but she had missed him, she had. So very much.
Her fingers dragged regrets along the front of his shirt, and she didn't know how to apologize for being twelve and getting him hurt. She didn't know how to apologize, and she knew he would discount the explanation. She knew, but she still wanted to find words for it, and her fingers stilled against the fabric that covered his belly. "Even at twelve, I got you hurt," she managed, rusty and tentative and quiet. She knew he would counter it; she knew that, but at least she'd managed to say it, and not just replay the sentence over and over in her head. Even small, she'd gotten him hurt.
The room could have been bathed in bright, blinding light, making the two of them visible to everyone present, and he wouldn’t have cared. Dark or light his world had shrunk to encompass the two of them, nothing more, and a quiet whimper caught in his throat when she moved closer. He didn’t want space. He wanted to feel her, to breathe her breaths, and to never, ever be apart again. Temporary was manageable but he couldn’t do it again. Even though he was in the same city, he just couldn’t. His breath hitched when her fingers traced over his lips, and it came out thick and thready as the touch continued down, over his chin and throat over fabric, and he didn’t want her to stop. He couldn’t find the words to tell her as much, but maybe he didn’t need to; the way he leaned towards her, his body language, said it all.
When her fingers dragged over his shirt he watched, chin tipped down, and then he finally managed to make himself move, to reciprocate. His fingers brushed over her cheeks, traced her jaw, and moved down, over her shoulders and along her sides. “You didn’t,” he whispered, countering her explanation just as she’d thought he would. “I could’ve run away. I didn’t want to. Even then, I wanted to be your hero. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you.” His hands lingered on her hips, pressing through the fabric, and then slid along her thighs there fabric met bare skin. “You’d do the same for me.” Of that, he was certain. He shifted to the very edge of his seat, and his mouth was so, so very close to hers; he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to, and it was painfully obvious, but he didn’t. Not yet. He breathed instead. “I don’t know how to be without you,” he admitted, hushed, because he didn’t. This was the most alive he’d felt in days, since she’d gone to stay with Evie.
His touch made it hard for her to hold onto the argument. It made logic hard, and it made all the sound reasons she'd lined up like soldiers in her mind hard. It made her want to just give in, capitulate, all her good intentions lost like so much nothing. "Not wanting anything bad to happen to me gets you hurt," she managed, a hoarse whisper and the memory of Briggs on a roof in Seattle, of what could have happened then. Her fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt at the memory, at the reminder, but his hands on her hips derailed her thoughts, made it hard to think again. "I wanted to hide you in my closet forever," she admitted, the words touch-unthinking. Confessions like that wouldn't help, they wouldn't, but it was true nonetheless. And he was right; she would do the same for him, but that was different, that was so very different. She almost told him, her lips forming the words, but he shifted to the edge of his seat. The movement, his hands on her thighs, they stole the thought, chased it away like clouds in a summer sky.
She looked at his mouth, stared, licked her lips unthinkingly, huffed breath across his lips in the tiny distance. Then, she forced herself to look up when he spoke. She wanted better for him; she did. At the cost of her own sanity, she wanted better for him, but that was so hard to remember when he looked at her like that, when he sounded like that, like he might unravel. She slid a hand over his cheek, the touch a little angry, nothing light. "You're so stubborn," she choked out. "You're so stubborn," and the heel of her palm slid down and met with his shoulder. She shoved, she hit, and it was soundless in the dark and music-filled space. "Why won't you let me save you? The kids? Why? You know I'll melt. You know I will," she said, words tumbling like water now, soaking them both. "Jack tried to tell me that me whoring myself was the same as what you two had done," she continued, voice a little broken, a mad whisper in the dark. "Can you believe that?" She shook her head incredulously. "I never told the Sheriff no. After my maman died, he came, and he took me away, and he put me to work, and I never told him no. Don't you see? I never told anyone no.”
He shook his head, wordless denial when she insisted that wanting to protect her got him hurt. Even if, factually, it was true, he’d never admit as much and besides, it went both ways. She always seemed to downplay the repercussions of her selflessness in comparison to his. But it was just the way they were and he’d accepted that; she would put him first, and he would put her first. It would never be any different. “You don’t hurt me,” he told her, hushed and sure. She had, once, when she’d left, but that was in the past and it had been as much his fault as it had been hers. “Wanting you to be happy and safe, that’s not a bad thing. You want the same for me. We want to protect each other. We’re better together,” he insisted. “Being away from you, that’s what hurts.” She’d only ever wanted the best for him, and he knew that. He knew, and so he’d never, ever agree that she was bad for him. His fingers dragged over her thighs, fabric and then skin, when she admitted that she’d wanted to hide him in her closet, and another faint smile made an appearance before it was gone. “I wanted you to come live with me,” he admitted. “I was going to show you my comic books and teach you all about superheroes.” Maybe it hadn’t been real, their return to childhood, but he still liked to think that even as kids they’d had something. He wasn’t a big believer in destiny or fate but he did believe in soulmates, at least a little, since having met her.
It was so, so hard to stay still, to not just kiss her and forget about words entirely when she licked her lips, but he managed. He leaned into her hand, not caring that the touch was angry, and when her hand slid down, when she hit and shoved, he let her. The blows were nothing to him. He waited, he withstood her frustration, and then he caught her wrists to make her stop. It also allowed him to pull her closer, which he did, unable to resist. “I know I’m stubborn,” he told her. “And I don’t need saving. Neither do the kids. We don’t need saving from you, baby. We need you.” And he knew she’d melt; he was counting on it. He would have kissed her, then, and he almost did, parted lips and a lean forward, but then she mentioned Jack and he held himself back. Though he didn’t say it, he suspected Jack hadn’t actually meant to compare their past with hers; he’d probably just been trying to make her see that she wasn’t dirty or tainted or bad for them to be around. He listened, and he tried to think of the right words so he wouldn’t do the same, so what he meant and what he said would be the same and not get all twisted up in misunderstandings.
“You not saying no doesn’t mean you wanted it,” he began, careful and quiet. “It doesn’t make what that Sheriff did right. He was wrong, and all those men who used you, they were wrong too. It wasn’t your fault. You’re not dirty, and you’re not bad.” He knew she wouldn’t believe him, but he knew, just as much, that he was right. “Nothing gave them the right to hurt you,” he added, one hand remaining on her thigh while the other slid up, up, fingers brushing over her cheek and sliding along her jaw.
Wordless denial or not, she knew it was true. He could shake his head forever, and he could tell her no forever, and she would still know that she'd managed to get him hurt, even then, even in a scenario that never existed, not really. "If you'd ended up with someone who had nothing bad, nothing evil about them, then it wouldn't have happened like that," she insisted. But she was losing this fight, and her voice wasn't as strong as it had been before. Having him close, it made her forget everything, even though she tried to close her fist around the memory and hold it close. "I'm better with you. I don't think you can say we're better together, because I don't make you better." And she would've kept going, but his fingers dragging over her thighs silenced her on an intake of breath, a gasp. His comment about comic books, that drew a smile out of her. For a moment, she almost forgot the bad things. Her smile was small, a barely-there thing in the darkness. "I told you all your superheroes were lies," she reminded him, but the words were memory-fond, soft. "It feels so real," she finally whispered, because it did. If it didn't feel real, she wouldn't have been scrubbing her skin raw for days. But it did feel real, and she didn't know how to erase everything but him from the memory. "I bet no one else got you hurt, no one else that you saw."
When he caught her wrists, after all that futile pummeling, she fought for a second, just a second, until he pulled her closer. Then, she stopped. Altogether stopped, because she'd wanted to be close to him for days, wanted to feel his grip, to remember. And he was right; right about her wanting him to convince her. She did, because she couldn't imagine living without him, without the kids. She knew it was wrong, and she felt it in her bones like old aches on a rainy day, but she wasn't good, not like him. She knew, like she knew the expressions that crossed his face on any given day, that he would leave her if he thought it was better for her. She knew he was more selfless than her, better than her. She knew, and yet that didn't stop her from inching ever closer, even as he held her wrists. Her knees pressed against his, and she slid her feet out from beneath her. Her bare toes pressed against the floor, leverage when he parted his lips and leaned in. But the kiss didn't come, and she sighed, not knowing that the mention of Jack had caused him to stop.
She listened. He was so quiet, that she was still and attention. She listened, and she knew there was logic in what he said. She knew she would say the same thing to anyone who came to her with a similar story. She knew, and yet it was so hard to believe when it was her. "It didn't hurt me," she finally said, her voice quieter, softer. She believed it. Conditioned, and she believed, and that was what bothered her most, what made her so sure that she was broken beyond repair. And didn't he deserve better than that. Didn't he? She cupped his cheeks, fingers raw from all the hot showers and scrubbing. "You saw how I was. I didn't care," she said plaintively. And that was bad. Her fingers pressed against his cheeks, pressure and a sob, and she thought she'd cried herself out. She'd thought there were no tears left.