Who: Luke & Wren What: Stitches and confessions. Where: Their house. When: After this call. Warnings/Rating: None?
The house was quiet. Drawn curtains, and it was still cool outside, and Wren liked to trap the cold. It didn't stay long in the desert, the cold, and winter was a blink that gave way to the endless, dry summer that Las Vegas was known for. But inside, the house was cool and dark. Gus was still at school, and Lia was asleep on the boppy pillow that rested atop a giraffe blanket on the living room floor. Something slow and French played from the ipod that was hooked up to tiny speakers on the kitchen counter. Even the dogs were quiet. Even the bird was quiet, and that was a rare occurrence. The house smelled like tea, chamomile and lemon, and Wren was curled up on the couch with an old cup in her hand.
It had been easy to hide the bulletwound the past few days. Winter came at a good time, and long sleeves were the norm. But she wasn't wearing long sleeves now. She was a lawn dress, white and loose and with cap sleeves that were soft as gossamer wings. Her bare feet were tucked beneath the dress' hem, and she was glad of the cool, loose fabric that didn't rest heavy or tight against bruised skin.
She'd considered lying to Luke about this too, keeping it all from him, but she would have needed to leave in order to do it. She probably could have come up with some lie, some pretty falsehood, but she didn't want to go. She'd missed Gus and Lia so much when she'd stayed with Evie; she'd missed Luke even more than that. Gus had spent a week crawling into their bed to sleep at night after, and he'd asked every morning if she was going to be there when he came home from school. No, she wasn't going to leave, which meant she had to come clean, because there was no hiding the bruises.
And she hadn't been expecting them. Okay, so Selina had obviously gotten shot and a little bruised up a few days earlier, but that kind of thing happened every once in awhile. She assumed that would be it, that Selina would rest and it wouldn't happen again. But then this had happened. The stitches on her arm, which had been messy but sturdy, were all but a memory, and bruises lined her torso like some obscene artwork on pale skin. Her wrists were circles of darkness, and her lips were swollen and red. So, hiding it all wasn't really an options. And she'd known Luke wouldn't take it well. She'd known that.
She hadn't expected to uncover a lie he was keeping. But she knew him. She'd caught him off-guard somehow, and there was something he wasn't telling her. Maybe she was overreacting, and maybe she was reading too much into things, but she didn't think so. His response, how he'd acted, it just made her more sure she was right.
Once upon a time, she would have been really, really sure that the lie meant he was sleeping with someone, that he'd found someone else, that he wasn't hers anymore. But she didn't think that now. For once, she didn't think it had anything to do with another woman, not at all. But that actually made it more worrisome, and her belly complained at the thought.
She sipped her tea, and she watched the door.
Luke might have had a tendency to overreact, but most of the time he thought he was perfectly justified in worrying as much as he did and this was definitely one of those times. Yeah, so he wasn't exactly thrilled that Wren had hid the fact that Selina had went and gotten herself shot, never mind covered in bruises, but mostly he was just fed up with everyone through the damn door. So no one wanted to tell him what was going on? Fine. Next time Bruce was through he'd just give him a heads up and let him figure out what kind of mess Selina had gotten herself into. For now, he was going to focus on stitching up his wife and making sure she was okay. Instead of taking an extended lunch break he just pulled the 'family emergency' card, which worked pretty well when it was common knowledge that he had two young kids at home, and headed straight to the pharmacy to pick up what he needed. Staple stitches, disinfectant, gauze, and other first aid supplies were hastily purchased in his hurry to get home; she had sounded fine on the phone but he still couldn't get the image of her arm gushing blood everywhere out of his head.
And, okay, so maybe he was facing a little more than just bullet wound stitching when he got home, but he tried not to think about that on the drive there. He knew a lie of omission was still a lie, but it wasn't like he kept things from her because he wanted to. His intentions were always good. And he didn't do it often, either. Most of the time he really did tell her everything, but sometimes there were things he thought she was better off not knowing about, like him sabotaging the sheriff or having a potentially triggering conversation with an anonymous murderer. That last one had so not been his fault, though, and it wasn't like he was going to go throw everything away and kill someone because of it. No big deal. As for the sheriff, well, he did feel guilty about keeping it from her; he just didn't feel guilty about what he'd done. The problem was that keeping things from her was one thing, but actually lying to her face? That he couldn't do. But she knew he was keeping something from her, and he couldn't tell her about the sheriff, he just couldn't do it. Which meant a half truth might be his only option.
When he opened the front door, though, bag in hand and still in uniform, his first and only concern was Wren. Careful not to make noise and wake Lia, he closed the door behind him and immediately scanned her for injuries. He saw the bruises around her wrists, the wound on her arm, and while he knew the rest were probably covered it was still enough for his expression to fill with concern. "I got the stuff. Luckily I'm pretty good at playing doctor," he said, hushed, as he approached, leaning in for a quick kiss, not wanting to linger when her lips looked so swollen. "How're you feeling?"
She reached for him when he leaned back, fingers closing on the fabric of his shirt at the chest, the brown winding in her fingers as she tugged him back to her. "That wasn't a kiss," she protested, quiet and her voice never woke Lia unless it was much louder, so she didn't worry about the baby. She tugged again, and she tugged and tugged until she could kiss him, and the swelling of her lips didn't matter; they'd done worse to each other plenty of times before. And she needed the kiss. She needed it, needed to chase away even the tiniest linger of possibility that he was lying about her, him, them in a way that hadn't seemed real or possible until he walked through the door. And maybe that was bad, a sign that she was in too deep, wound around him too tightly, but there was nothing for it now, and she was pretty sure that he knew it too.
Her fingers smoothed the fabric of his shirt a moment later, long drags of bruised wrist along his chest and down to his belly. Her fingers were slow things, tracing lines only she could see, and she kissed him again, more softly. "Hi," she whispered as she leaned back, a quiet greeting delivered with an upturned face and a soft smile. "I want to handcuff you to the radiator a little," she admitted, because she was scared to ask, scared to find out what was wrong. She didn't like fear. It wasn't an old friend, fear, and she'd never felt it as a child, too many years of drowning in it when she was too young to remember, and by the time she was old enough for atrocities to become part of everyday life in her closet, she'd become too much a broken doll to feel it. But she felt it now, and she felt it with him, and her shaky exhale had nothing to do with the bruises that slumbered beneath the intentionally chastity-long dress.
She let her hand fall away, and she brought her fabric-draped knees up, and she hugged them to her chest. The jagged lines of the wound on her arm were bright-tear red, and she tipped her head as she looked at him. "I think I was always the one who was better at playing doctor," she said, avoiding the elephant in the room a moment longer, just a moment longer, just one. "I'm okay. I promise." Because she wouldn't mind the repetition, were their roles reversed. She wouldn't mind hearing him say it again and again until she believed it. She glanced down at the sleeping baby, and she smiled as the infant won the fight against the pink pacifier in her mouth. "I would say you could ask your daughter to back me up, but she's not being very talkative right now." She looked back at him, her smile warmth and fondness for a moment. "She held her head up a little today. It was a really big accomplishment. And apparently really, really tiring."
He started to explain that he hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but then she was tugging on his shirt and he went willingly, without hesitation, all thoughts of being careful fading away when she kissed him. She never let him hold back, and admittedly he was glad for it. He kissed her back, a little too eager and a little too breathless once she pulled away, and he smiled into her softer kiss. “Hey,” he whispered in return, glancing down to watch her fingers against his shirt for a few seconds before looking back up at her face. “I kind of want to do the same to you.” Even when there was nothing to worry about, he still worried, but with Gotham being the disaster it was and Selina mixed up in some kind of unknown trouble he was pretty sure there was a lot to worry about just then. He caught her shaky exhale and his expression softened; he knew she was worried about whatever he was hiding, and he felt a sharp pang of guilt just then. Maybe he should tell her the whole truth. Sure, she’d be angry, but maybe he could make her understand why he’d had to take some kind of action. “You don’t ever have anything to be afraid of,” he told her, fingers brushing against her cheek and it was true, because when it came to them he would never, ever have lies to keep hidden from her. He'd never meet anyone else, never want anyone else. He was hers, now and always.
"Maybe," he said of her being better at playing doctor, "but I was a close second." Her assurance that she was okay calmed him a little, but he was still worried, and it was only the mention of Delia that managed to distract him. "She did?" He brightened, turning to look at the sleeping infant with no shortage of fondness and even a little pride, too. "That is a big accomplishment. She deserves her rest." He watched his daughter sleep for a few seconds longer before turning back to Wren, and his gaze dropped again to her wound. Worry returned, furrowing his brow, and he bit down on his lip. "Do you want to do this here?" he asked, holding up the bag. This being the stitching of the wound, yes, but also their inevitable conversation.
The kiss helped. It was a balm, that press of lips, and his returned whisper finished soothing over fears that would only resurface in seconds. "I don't get myself in any trouble anymore," she countered, her reasoning for not needing to be handcuffed to anything. Lately, all her troubles came from outside places, other places. The hotel, Selina, her past, but she'd been home for the past few months, thanks to Lia, and it had been quiet and still. She knew that would be ending soon. Lia was waking up every three hours to feed now, but she'd make it to four hours soon, and the police department's daycare would take her then. It would mean pumping in advance, and it would mean finding the strength to let someone else take care of the baby, but they could use the money. She still remembered Adam's taunting words for the Forum Shoppes, and she remembered MK's words from the baby store. She knew Luke wouldn't like it, but she was going to get a job, and one that paid more than taking pictures of babies in a department store. But there were still a few weeks before that fight needed to happen, and she blinked the thoughts away for the time being.
She closed her eyes when his fingers brushed against her cheek, and she smiled a little bit, a little sheepishly. "I'm always afraid," she admitted, though that was no secret. When it came to losing him, she was always afraid. But he brightened a moment later, his attention turning to the sleeping baby, and she laughed a little at his acknowledge of the infant's impressive accomplishment. "She almost smiled today, too," and it seemed such a tiny thing to be happy about. Then he asked about the stitches, and she shook her head. She stood, the white hem of the dress dragging past her toes. "You can clean up my back too. I couldn't get all of the gravel out." She reached back, and she tugged him after her. She didn't stop until she reached the kitchen, where the tile would be easier to clean, and where there was still a clear view of the living room and the slumbering baby.
She pulled the fabric over her head, and she folded it neatly and set it on the counter. Her panties were seafoam, and her back was covered in tiny specks of red and black. The bruises that lined her bare torso weren't made with fingers or hands, and she shyly covered her breasts with one arm. "Okay, the arm first?"
“Anymore,” he echoed, teasing. “I don’t want to get too used to it, just in case.” Admittedly, it’d been nice to not have to worry about her working or going and getting herself into trouble these last few months, and he was trying not to think about the fact that sooner or later she was going to bring up the issue of her going back to work again. He knew they didn’t see eye to eye when it came to that, and he wasn’t looking forward to that conversation. But there was still time, and he was good about not thinking about things. Sometimes, anyway. His smile was adoringly fond when she admitted that she was always afraid; he’d never understand how she could be, not when he was completely, utterly hers. He was afraid too, every now and then, but he wasn’t afraid of losing her to someone else-- he was afraid of her running away more than anything else, though even that fear had begun to fade. “You don’t need to be,” he said, but he was used to her not believing his reassurances. Maybe it still bothered him a little, but not as much as it had in the past. He brightened again when she said Delia had almost smiled, too, since anything about his daughter never failed to make him happy, and he knew he’d be one of those overly excited dads when she started hitting milestones like walking and talking. But he didn’t mind that about himself, not one bit.
His smile faded when she mentioned cleaning up her back, and he stumbled over his words as she tugged him into the kitchen. She hadn’t mentioned anything about gravel, but then again she’d hid a bullet wound from him for days; he wasn’t all that surprised. His protests became an exasperated exhale, more air than sound, and he emptied the bag on the counter as she pulled off her dress. The marks on her back made him frown and the bruises on her stomach just made that frown deepen, and even though they’d gotten rough with each other before this was different; he hadn’t left these ones behind. “I hate Gotham,” he sighed, shaking his head. But the way she covered herself, her shyness, that made him smile despite everything. He tipped his head to the side and regarded her with palpable warmth before nodding, reminding himself to focus on the task at hand. “Okay,” he agreed. “You should sit. It’ll be easier.” He bit down on his lip. “And it’s probably going to hurt a little.”
"Maybe we won't run into trouble again. Maybe things will be good and quiet and calm going forward. Maybe." Even as she said the words, she knew they were a fairytale. Something would happen, because something always did. Even when it wasn't their fault, even when it had nothing to do with them, something happened. It had been that way since Seattle, since before, maybe, when they hadn't even met each other yet. But she didn't have any faith in peace, though she wanted to. But there was the door, too, and things there seemed even more dangerous now than before. A chill chased along her spine at the thought, and the very real truth that someone had died recently. That brought back so many things, and she didn't want to think about them, not about any of them. But they were always there, those woven realities, just in the back of her mind, and the look she gave him was sheepish and confessional. "Maybe?" It was a question that she knew he couldn't say yes to, not if he was being in any way honest. After all, they were about to stitch her up, weren't they? So her getting into trouble was a little bit of a given, but maybe he would let her have the fairytale for just a minute longer, just a second. And maybe he would chase away that fear he insisted that she didn't need to feel, like some knight on a steed. "I think those fears are here to stay," she said. And it wasn't just about losing him to a woman. No, lately it was more about losing him to darker things and places she could never, ever get him back from.
When he shook his head and declared his hatred for Gotham, she pressed her hand against his cheek. "It's okay. I didn't actually get hurt. It's just the after stuff, and it's not so bad. And I've sent Selina home with bruises a lot too," she reminded him, her cheeks going blush, even as her eyes darkened with the warmth of memories. She stretched up, arm still over her breasts, and she kissed him on the lips. There was intentional distraction in that kiss, don't worry and I'm fine, and she slid up onto the counter, arm straightening and fingers holding onto his shoulder for leverage. She held out her arm for him, and there was a still-pink scar above the new wound from the Blackgate escape, and she wondered if he would get tired of the scars someday. "I think I can handle a little needle," she said, intentionally teasing, and then she looked at the things he'd spilled onto the counter. "Plus, I know you. There's lidocaine in there somewhere, so it won't hurt so much." Her wrist was a landscape of finger-like bruises as she picked through the items with curious little fingers.
Their lives were rarely ever quiet or calm, though he’d argue that they were still good even despite the bad. Maybe without Gotham what she said could be true, but even if things out here stayed uneventful there was always, always something happening through the door. Some new threat or tragedy which inevitably bled over. She’d nearly died, he’d come back bruised and battered, and now he was stitching her up in their kitchen. It was like Seattle except worse, but he didn’t want to destroy whatever small hope she might have of peace. “Maybe,” he agreed fondly, after a moment, unable to bring himself to tell her no outright. Except he couldn’t quite agree that her fears were there to stay, because he had to have some hope of his own, too, and he hoped that one day she wouldn’t be afraid anymore. “I don’t think so. I think one day you’ll realize that I’m never going anywhere, and you’ll realize there’s nothing to be afraid of,” he told her, certainty in his voice. If he kept on sounding like he believed what he said, he hoped she’d start believing too someday.
He didn’t think it was okay, no more than he thought the bruises and her other wounds were ‘not that bad’. “She was shot.” It was an incredulous statement, and he shook his head when she said she’d sent Selina through with bruises too. “That’s different,” he protested, cheeks reddening slightly, but any further insistence was cut off when she kissed him. It was an effective distraction despite his best efforts, and he sighed as she slid up onto the counter and extended her arm. One day, he’d actually get a whole argument out without completely forgetting what he’d meant to say. “I’m stitching you up with staples, Wren.” He tried to sound serious. “And okay, maybe I do have lidocaine, but only a little. I play doctor, I’m not actually one,” he added, a little sheepish. And despite having stitched himself up before, he was nervous; if he’d done a shit job on himself, it hadn’t mattered. With her it did. But he knew he needed his hands to stay steady, so he tried to stay calm as he set out what he needed. Lidocaine, needle, stitches, stapler, disinfectant, gauze.
“Okay, here goes.” He bit down on his lip again as he cleaned the wound first, hoping it didn’t sting too much, and he held the needle between his teeth as he opened the lidocaine and read the side of the small vial. It was a quick injection, mostly because he was afraid of hurting her, and then he started with the stitches, whispering for her to “keep still” with more than a hint of nerves in the words.
She wasn't really surprised that he agreed. She didn't think he meant it, really, but she wasn't surprised he said it. He said things all the time that he didn't mean, convincing things. Things to keep her from lining train tickets up in a makeshift route on the living room floor. She should be angry with him about it. She should argue that she didn't need to be lied to, that she wasn't a little girl. But she didn't say any of those things, because she understood. He saw her in a certain light, and whether it was true or not, there wasn't going to be any changing it. She realized that now, after he'd seen all the terrible bad things, and still he refused to acknowledge them. So, he'd say things to make her feel better, and maybe it would work for a few seconds. Like everything, it would work when he was there, where she could see or hear him. It was when he was gone that things felt impossible to believe. But that wasn't just then, it wasn't this moment, and she smiled at him, all fond adoration. Despite what he thought about himself, he was a really, really good man. He was lying to her about something, and not just this, but he was a good, good man. "You're afraid too," she told him, when he said that one day she'd realize there was nothing to be afraid of. Maybe he wasn't afraid of the same things she was, and maybe he wasn't afraid in the same way. But she knew he got scared.
"Being shot in the arm isn't dangerous," she reminded him, fingers sliding to tug his uniform shirt free of his pants. She slid her hand beneath the fabric, and her fingers grazed the memory of scars. She didn't need to see them, the errant bullet and knife wounds that he acquired while they were apart. She knew where they were, eyes closed and only her fingers to guide her. "These were dangerous." And then she had to smile at his attempt at serious correction of her comment about needles. She could tell he was nervous; she could tell. "It's okay," she assured him, fingers moving from questing to soothing, and a kiss to his cheek as she stretched from her place on the counter. And maybe she didn't believe any of it. Being shot had scared her, but she'd already died in Gotham; that scared her more. Losing him, that scared her so much that she forgot how to breathe, but she inhaled and she exhaled, and she looked at her arm as he cleaned and injected. She didn't even flinch, because a needle that small was nothing to a girl who sold masochism for most of her life.
She kept still. She didn't move. "How's he doing?" she asked of Bruce, treading a fine line and not knowing whether she should distract him. She didn't ask about the lie, though. Not yet. Not then. He looked too nervous already, and she wanted to smooth the worry lines away. Her fingers twitched with wanting to touch him, and keeping still was a battle waged and won by her still fingers.
He didn’t think of his reassurances as lies, really. More often than not he did mean what he said and only sometimes did he bend the truth a little, embellish it, to soothe her fears and doubts and keep her from running. He’d realized by now that she feared more than most people, and there wasn’t any changing that. She wasn’t going to become totally secure in their relationship one day and stop worrying. It had taken some time but he’d come to accept that, to take it as a very, very small price to pay for all the positives their relationship had, and he’d gotten better at dealing with it too. A little insecurity on her part was nothing in comparison to how happy she made him, or how much better his life was with her in it. And if he had to agree that yes, maybe their lives could be quiet and peace even though he doubted that was possible, then he could do that. For her, he could. And maybe he could even hope a little, too, that it might happen. Her smile was worth everything just then, and he’d never actually lie to her about the important things; he’d learned the hard way that trying to keep her from getting hurt that way would only backfire on him in the end. “I am afraid,” he admitted, because saying otherwise would be an outright lie and he couldn’t do that. “I’m afraid of losing you. Not even to anything specific, I just am. But I think that’s just how it works with people you love.”
Being shot in the arm was so dangerous, and he began to insist as much when she slid her fingers beneath his shirt. The contact made him stop, the words fading away as he looked down, and he sighed. “Being shot is dangerous,” he told you. “Even if it’s just in the arm. You getting hurt in any way is dangerous. I want you safe.” His own scars didn’t matter much, not beyond the shame he tried to keep buried. He hadn’t cared about living or dying when they’d been fresh and new; it wasn’t the same. He smiled a little, sheepish, when she reassured him that it was okay, and he realized he was doing a horrible job of pretending not to be nervous. “Sorry. I just--” He shrugged, because it was just different with her, and tried to focus on the task at hand.
His hands stilled when she asked her question. He looked up, momentarily confused, before the ‘he’ clicked. Oh. “He’s, uh. Pretty much the same, I guess.” That said he started up with the stitches again, biting down on his lip without realizing it. He stopped, studied what he’d done, prodded the skin a little, and then looked back up at her. “I think it’s good? I can wrap it with gauze and as long as Selina behaves herself, it should heal fine,” he said, awaiting her approval.
She considered his words, that loving always came with being afraid. Maybe he was right. Maybe something like fear existed in the feelings she had for Gus and Lia, even for Evie, but it wasn't like the fear she felt whenever she thought about losing him. And, really, she didn't even need to think about it. It was always there, a perpetual constant, the fact that she didn't know what she'd do if she lost him. And maybe that was part of the obsession, and maybe it was unhealthy, but she didn't know how to chase it away or make it go. It was part of what she felt for him; it had always been part of what she felt for him. Even during their years apart, she'd convinced herself that he was fine, happy, better; life would have been unbearable otherwise. "I don't think normal people want to lock someone up, just so nothing bad ever happens." Because she did; she wanted that. She had no idea how Evie did it, how she got out of bed every morning knowing that Will was gone. Thinking about it made her shudder, and she would have reached for him then, but there were stitches, and she stayed still and went quiet, listening to him argue that being shot was dangerous. It made her smile a little, his obvious nervousness. "I would be a lot worse if Bruce got you shot," she admitted. Her reactions were always more extreme than his; she was used to that too. Once, when they were younger, she'd thought it meant he didn't care as much as she did. But she didn't think that anymore.
She looked down at her arm when he asked if it was good, and she nodded reached for the gauze with her other hand. She held it out to him, and then she turned a little on the counter, so that he could reach her back. The bits of gravel lived in scratches from shoulder to hip, embedded deep and indicating heavy weight had caused them to be lodged there, beneath the skin, and not just a passing toss or scrape against rocks. "I think I got most of the gravel out. Maybe just some soap and water for the stubborn ones? A tweezer?" she asked, looking at him over her shoulder. She bit her lip then, considered, and she thought maybe she should wait to press. Maybe, but he was done with the hard part, and maybe this would be easier to talk about while he was preoccupied. "Do you want to tell me what made you stammer on the phone?" she asked, and it was tentative, that question. She wasn't sure he would tell her anything. She thought he might just wave it off, tell her there was nothing, and she knew she wasn't imagining it. She was bad at trust. Before she'd even learned to walk, her maman had taught her never, ever to trust. It was wound into every bedtime story, into every tale of a little girl that was hurt by a man, into every love story that ended in heartbreak. None of the princesses of her childhood had happily ever afters; those girls had all been doomed to agony, parables for a little girl to remember. And she did remember, even though she tried not to. She remembered.
Maybe having lost her once just made his fear more tangible, but he thought that even if life did become calm and quiet he would still be afraid of losing her. He knew what it was like to have that happen and it had been five years of hell; he couldn’t go through that again. And he understood her desire to lock him up and keep him safe, he did. “Well, as I always say,” he teased, “normal is overrated. I like us just the way we are.” He caught her shudder, and traced his fingers over her skin in an attempt to soothe, to reassure, carefully avoiding the stitches. Neither of them could live without the other, as unhealthy as that might be, and so in a lot of ways he understood the things she felt. They might have felt them in different ways, but he’d vehemently insist that he felt every bit as strongly about her as she did about him. “Luckily Bruce is pretty good at not getting shot,” he told her, fondly. He knew her reaction would be extreme, which was why he too might be tempted to hide any more serious injuries from her if they happened. But so far it was just bruises, the usual, nothing too bad. All that kevlar paid off in the end.
He relaxed a little when she nodded, and he was visibly less nervous when he wrapped the gauze around the wound, careful not to make it too tight, and made sure it was secure. Then his attention was drawn to her back, and he frowned as he looked over the scratches, wincing a little as he thought of how much pressure would have been needed to get gravel stuck in her--Selina’s--skin like that. “Okay,” he agreed, a little absently. “Soap and water. And tweezers.” That sounded a lot easier than stitches. He paused when she asked about his stammer on the phone, and he, once again, silently cursed himself for letting that slip. But he couldn’t lie to her, not now. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Yeah. I do.” He pressed an impulsive kiss to her shoulder and stepped back. “Just let me get tweezers and a washcloth or something, and I’ll tell you.” It didn’t take long, less than a minute, to find what he needed in the bathroom, and then he was back. He ran the washcloth under the tap, dabbed on some soap, and began the process of gently cleansing the scratches first before using the tweezers.
“There was an anonymous post a couple weeks ago,” he began, and he figured it was best to start with that since, if he did tell her about the sheriff, it could lead into that particular confession. “About secrets. I don’t know if you saw it?”
"I'm not going ask if you wouldn't rather have normal, not for the hundredth thousandth time," she said, a small smile on her lips. "I think we already decided I don't know how to leave and actually stay gone." That was true, at least. It didn't mean the desire to hoard train tickets was gone, that the security blanket had been tossed aside. It only meant she understood now. She understood that she wouldn't get on the train. Or, more to the point, she'd call him from the car, the world passing by her window and the distance making it harder and harder for her to breathe. She turned her cheek when his fingers traced lines along her bare shoulder, and she kissed his fingertips. She worried, really worried, that they were like those couples where someone was emotionally abused. She worried that she was hurting him, but that he wouldn't ever leave her, even so, and that she'd never let him go. Sometimes, those thoughts kept her up at night, but she didn't know what to do about them. She didn't think there was anything to do about them, and she kissed his fingers again and wished she was different. Wished she was different for him.
At least he was right about Bruce not getting shot. And, honestly, in two years Selina hadn't done such a bad job of keeping herself in one piece. Just the plague, that had been the only terrible thing, but that wasn't really anyone's fault, and lots of people had gotten sick then. And this, the gravel, it wasn't a big deal either. She was pretty sure it was sexual, since she was sore all over, and not just from the bruises. She considered that it wasn't consensual, the pressure making her wonder, but she had no way to know for sure; Selina would never tell her. Selina didn't tell her much of anything anymore. She almost asked him if he thought someone raped her, Selina, but then she decided it wouldn't be the best thing to ask, so she swallowed the question and kept it to herself. And then he was gone and back, and she closed her eyes as he dabbed at her back. She listened, too, and she was quiet once he stopped. She knew that was a lead-in, the mention of the anonymous post, and she let that wash over her. When she was calm, she looked over her shoulder at him again. "I didn't see it," she admitted, and there was a hint of a question there, a coaxing for him to keep going, encouragement in her tone.
He laughed when she said she wouldn’t ask if he’d rather have normal, the sound one of warmth and fondness because he was pretty sure she knew what his answer would be. And the fact that she didn’t know how to leave and stay gone, that was soothing relief, lessening the ache of his fear, and he couldn’t help smiling. “I’m glad you don’t,” he admitted. “I don’t want you to leave, and I don’t want you to stay gone, not ever. I’d just find you and bring you back.” This time, he would. He’d search and search until his last breath if he had to, but he wouldn’t do what he’d done before, wouldn’t simply exist until he became little more than a husk waiting to die. He leaned against her a little when she kissed his fingers, not too much, not wanting to hurt her. Maybe he worried too, sometimes, about whether or not he was really good for her, but he needed her to survive; that was just fact. He couldn’t leave her. And so he had to believe that he wasn’t bad for her, that he just had to keep trying, keep working on his anger, and maybe one day he’d feel like he actually deserved her. Maybe.
It hadn’t occurred to him that whatever had caused the bruises and left gravel embedded in her back might not have been consensual, mostly because he didn’t want to consider that option. Wren and Selina were separate, yes, but things carried over, and if one was raped then it was sort of like the other had been too. So he didn’t think about it, just like he didn’t think about the possibility that it might have been Bruce; he didn’t want to think about the other man being capable of something like this. Hurting criminals was one thing, but Selina? That was something else entirely. And as he began to confess, it was easy to push those dark thoughts out of his mind. “Oh,” he said, when she told him she hadn’t seen it, and he paused to carefully pull a piece of gravel out before continuing. “Well, there was someone who responded, someone anonymous, and they were talking like-- like they were getting away with murder. Like they had been for a while. So I-- I talked to them, anonymously, I guess I figured if I could find out something-- people shouldn’t get away with that, you know?” He shrugged. Hypocritical, maybe, but he still saw a difference between himself and the criminals he’d gone after. One hunted the innocent and one hunted the hunters. “But, uh, they were… like me. Like how I used to be. They only killed people who’d done bad things, and I tried to tell them they had to stop, but…” He trailed off and focused on her back for a couple of seconds, on the rhythm of the washcloth against her skin. “They said things I used to say. Things I used to tell myself to justify what I did. About why criminals deserve to die, about someone having to stop them. I-- It was just hard, I guess, because I think, sometimes, that I still believe those things.” He let out a long exhale. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything about it, I just-- I didn’t want to worry you.”
She knew he'd bring her back; she knew. And, truthfully, he'd been right when he'd said she wanted him to talk her out of things. She wanted him to make her not leave, and she wanted him to bring her back if she did. And there was guilt with that new realization, so much guilt, and he shouldn't be responsible for that, shouldn't need to drag her back to a life she didn't want to actually leave. And so she wouldn't go, even if the loss of the security blanket made her insecurity spike and peak and eat at her insides some days.
She listened and, midway, she turned, so that she could look at his face while he talked. This was more important than gravel, and she took the tweezers from between his fingers by the time he finished. The washcloth went next, both set down upon the counter beside her bare thigh. She looked at him, a long, long look, ages and forever as she tried to decide if she thought there was anything else to the story. But the apology convinced her, coaxed her distrust away a little, and she slipped her fingers along his jaw. She was worried. She was scared. Of course she was, and she still remembered how hard it had been for him during the years when he was killing. She hadn't been there, no, but the hotel was good at showing, and she'd seen how he'd broken down after, talking about it, reliving it. He'd always been too good for that life, always been too good to kill even bad people without it tearing him apart. Her fingers slid along his chin, back along his jaw, then up to his cheek. It was a soothing nothing little touch, nothing sexual about it, nothing seductive. Touch for the sake of touching and nothing else. She wanted to tell him all the reasons that he wasn't that person anymore. That, really, he hadn't ever been that person. She could kill and not feel an ounce of guilt, but he bathed himself in blood and guilt every single time, and she didn't want that for him; she'd never wanted that for him. She wanted to tell him, but she didn't. She bit her lip a moment, worried it raw, and then she slid her fingers beneath his chin, tip and tilt, so that he couldn't look away from her. "Do you want to go back to that?" she asked. She wanted to tell, but she didn't, because he'd had this conversation on his own, and he'd come to this conclusion on his own. Even if it terrified her, and even if it made her heart catch in her throat, she wasn't going to lecture him about it. She couldn't hide him away and keep him from talking to people, no matter how much she wanted to. "Would you be happier? I know- I know you stopped because I said." And she was scared of the answer, and it showed on her face. "That was all?" she finally asked. "You just talked to this person once?"
He didn’t try to resist when she took the tweezers and washcloth from him, though he cast a brief glance downward and made a feeble attempt at protesting that he hadn’t finished yet. The way she was looking at him kept him from insisting too much, though, and he did his best to meet her gaze without looking guilty. There was guilt in keeping this from her, but there was also guilt in wanting to go back to his old ways, in agreeing with the anonymous person and what they said. Guilt because it was wrong, because he’d hated the person he was then and he didn’t understand why he still had the desire to return to that. He did end up looking down when her fingers brushed his jaw, and he was quiet as she touched him, the slide of her fingers soothing reassurance. He was expecting her to tell him that he wasn’t that person, that he was good, and it came as a surprise when she didn’t immediately launch into what she’d told him a thousand times before. Enough of one that, when she slid her fingers beneath his chin, he looked up at her without thinking. “I didn’t just stop because you said,” he told her. “I mean, I stopped for you and Gus, but I stopped because-- because I didn’t like who I was while I was doing that. I couldn’t look at myself. And no, I wouldn’t be happier because I wasn’t happy to begin with. I’m happy now.” He managed a small smile. “Sometimes it’s just frustrating, because the law fails a lot of people and I see injustice every day, and for a long time I only knew one way to deal with that. But I’m fighting too hard to not go back to that, and I know if I slipped, if I gave in, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.” It was like any addiction, he thought; the temptation would always be there. He just had to be stronger than it.
And he might have just left it there, but then she asked if that was all and he knew he had a choice. He could say yes and leave it there, hope she never found out about the sheriff, or he could just tell her. The thing was that he wanted to, he did, because he hated lying to her and while keeping things from her always seemed like such a good idea at the time, like it would protect her, be better than the truth, he wasn’t sure the guilt was worth it. And it would be bad if she found out on her own, he knew it would be. “I only talked to them once, yeah,” he said, “but… that’s not all. There’s one other thing.” He bit down on his lip, apprehensive, but he thought it might feel good to get this off his chest. No more secrets, no more lies. He remembered how it’d felt when he’d told her about the killing; it had been terrifying, and he’d worried that it would destroy them, but it was also like a huge weight being lifted off his shoulders. “The sheriff, the one from the memory-- Robert? He called,” he admitted. “I pretended he had the wrong number, that you weren’t here, but I knew it was him.” He paused there, waiting for her reaction before he went further.
She'd been holding her breath. Holding and holding it, and she exhaled when he gave all the reasons he'd stopped, all the reasons that weren't just because she'd told him to. That small smile made her heartbeat return to normal, and her fingers slid down beneath his chin and over his adam's apple; a tiny touch, just enough for him to not fear that she was going to pull back because of his confession. "Ever since I left Florida, I did things like that. I didn't kill anyone - well, not many people - but it wasn't because I cared about them staying alive. I wanted to hurt them, and I wanted them to be ashamed every single time they went outside, or every single time they looked in a mirror. I wanted them to live with it. I liked it, pinning those men down and cutting into them. I liked it when they begged and cried. I liked it later, when I was just hitting them for money. I liked making them hurt. I still want to do it sometimes. Sometimes, I want to so bad it I can taste it. I still practice with my knives every single day, while you're at work. I don't think the system works. I know it's messy and it's bad, but I think cops like you make it better. If someone like you had come when my maman died, I would have ended up with a really, really different life. And I'm selfish. I don't want you to go to jail, and I don't want you executed. That scares me. It scares me more than anything does. But I know you still want to, I know. You're less angry now, but it's still there. I didn't think it had just gone away."
She hadn't been waiting for more; she'd thought that was it, that was all of it. But she could tell, right away, when he started talking again, she could tell. She bit her lip, and her breath caught, and her fingers stilled against the top buttons of his shirt. One other thing, and she thought the room might spin out of control. Her fingers slid to his shoulder, grip and tight, and she pressed the fingers of her other hand to his mouth when he said Robert's name. She shook her head, no and no and no. The memory, that rain-hot day that wasn't real, it felt like it was just over her shoulder right then, and she didn't dare turn and look. She'd thought it was okay. She'd thought the Sheriff - the Sheriff, because she'd never called him Robert, not ever, not even in bed - wouldn't be able to find her here, in the quiet still of this house. She did glance over her shoulder then, a tiny panic as she made sure the baby was still asleep, still clueless in her slumber. She looked back at him then, fingers sliding away from his mouth, fingertips trembling. "Et?" she finally asked, unthinkingly slipping into the French of her childhood. And?
He listened as she spoke, fingers on her knees and nothing like disgust or horror in his expression because he understood. At first it was about making sure criminals couldn’t reoffend and keeping people safe, but then he grew to find a sick sort of satisfaction in torture, in making sure they knew why they were dying, in making them beg and cry and be afraid; the same thing they’d done to their victims. So he understood, and given her history he didn’t begrudge her the enjoyment of hurting men. It had been nothing less than they deserved. “I know what that’s like,” he admitted. “And I don’t think it makes us bad people. Well, not you. It’s harder to believe that about myself. I don’t think the system works either. Not really. But killing people, that didn’t fix it. That didn’t change anything. And sooner or later I would’ve either gotten caught or gotten killed, and I didn’t care before, but I do now,” he said. “I don’t want to go to jail. I don’t want to leave you, or the kids. You don’t have to be afraid of that happening, because it won’t. I have too much to lose now.” He let out a long exhale. “If I can be the cop who makes a difference, then maybe-- maybe it’s worth it.”
Her reaction made him regret telling her, but it was too late to take the words back now. His expression fell and he immediately sought to reassure her, to make that fear go away, even though he didn’t know how. “Hey,” he said, firmly, trying to get her attention, “listen, okay? Baby, it’s okay, just listen.” He slid his fingers beneath her jaw to make sure she looked at him, and he entwined the fingers of his other hand with hers. “He can’t do anything to you. I won’t let him,” he promised. “He thinks he had the wrong number, and he hasn’t called back since.” He decided not to tell her that he’d traced the number, just so he could be sure, since the calls had been coming for a while and she’d never told him. “I did some digging, and I found other girls. Young, vulnerable, with dead mothers. He’s a repeat offender and I made sure the right people got the information. I didn’t mention you, don’t worry. So, see, he’ll get what he deserves,” he assured her. One way or another, he’d make sure of it.
She shook her head when he said that not you, fingers to his lips and an attempt to shush him. "No. It's the same. You can't say it doesn't make me bad, and then turn around and say it does make you bad. Non." But she couldn't disagree with him about the system, she couldn't, and she wouldn't lie about it. Lying wasn't going to make him suddenly think everything was okay; she knew that. When he said that he cared now, that he hadn't cared then, her fingers slid up along his cheeks. "I don't want you hurt," she repeated. Maybe it made her terrible. Maybe she was a terrible person for wanting that first, before anything else, but there wasn't any point in pretending. Just like there wasn't any point in pretending that she knew how to breathe without him, because she didn't. "I don't want to be Evie. I don't want to bury you and have to figure out how to go on, because I'm not Evie; I wouldn't know how." Not even for the kids, and she knew herself well enough to be able to say that, to accept it, to know it was true. "I'm still afraid," she admitted, when he said she didn't need to be. "If something happens, if something goes wrong, if someone finds out." She left it at that, because those were really, really big fears. They panicked her sometimes, kept her up nights, especially since things had gone so badly with Adam. She didn't trust Adam to stay quiet, and she didn't have Luke's faith that there wasn't any real evidence. She breathed, breathed again, and then she gave him a little smile. "Right. If you'd showed up at my door when my maman died, you would have done things right. By being a cop, you're doing that for some other little girl somewhere. It doesn't fix everything, but it can make a really big difference for one person."
And then he mentioned Robert, and it was only his fingers beneath her jaw that made her remember to breathe in, breathe out and not scream or cry. "I'm not worried about me," she said quickly, words almost overlapping his. "I'm not afraid for me. I'm not." She wasn't. She was afraid of what they would do to each other. She was too old for the Sheriff now, she knew that, but she'd been his first, and he still clung to that in a way that she'd never, ever been able to shake. And Luke, Luke wasn't that little boy he'd been in Seattle anymore; he wouldn't just stand aside. "He'll come. If he can't get in touch on the phone, he'll come. I should just talk to him," she suggested, but then he was saying he'd done some digging, and she went quiet, still, shock and memories and guilt. She should have killed the Sheriff. She should have- And then the bit about the dead mothers registered, and her eyes were wide grey shock. "You think he- Maman- I mean, you think he-" But she couldn't say the words, she couldn't. Quiet for a few seconds, then a few heartbeats longer, and her fingers twisted in the fabric at the front of his shirt. "They can't trace you? You're sure they can't? Promise me. Promise."
He kissed her fingers when she pressed them to his lips, but he didn’t let her shush him. “It’s always been easier with you,” he told her, fond. And it had been. He could absolve her when he couldn’t absolve himself, make excuses for her when he condemned himself instead. That was just how it was and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to change that, even if he did try to berate himself less and less these days, for her sake. His expression turned fonder when she admitted that she didn’t want him hurt, and when she started talking about not wanting to be Evie, not wanting to bury him, he pressed a little closer, squeezing her fingers just a little tighter. “You’re not going to bury me. Nothing’s going to happen, okay? I promise. I’d never leave you. Not ever, no matter what happens,” he vowed, and even if it was an impossible promise to make he meant every word. Nothing and no one would ever take him away from her, or her from him. He smiled, a little wistfully, because he wished someone had been there for her when she was younger. He wished a good, decent cop had shown up at her door, but he couldn’t change the past. He couldn’t fix it. But like she said, he could make sure another little girl didn’t have to go through what she had. “I know it doesn’t fix everything,” he admitted, “but making a difference for even one person, that’s something. I couldn’t help you, when you were a kid. But maybe I can help someone else.” It was a tentative, hopeful thing, and he even smiled a little.
She might not have been afraid for her, but he was. He wasn’t afraid of the Sheriff. If he came anywhere near her or his family, he’d put a bullet in his head and that was just instinct, pure and simple. He’d claim self-defense. “I am worried about you,” he insisted. “And he won’t come here. He won’t come anywhere near you. Don’t talk to him. No. He has no right to contact you.” He was vehement, firm, and it was clear he wouldn’t back down. He faltered a little when she asked about her mother, and after a few long moments he shook his head. “I-- I don’t know. I just know what I found, and there’s-- there’s a definite pattern,” he said carefully. Anyone with eyes could see it. When she asked if he was sure they couldn’t trace him he nodded, without hesitation, wanting to soothe her fears about that, at least. “No, they can’t. I promise. I was really, really careful.”
When he crowded her, moving closer and pressing harder with his fingers, it made it easier for her to breathe. "You aren't allowed to die," she told him, hitched voice and cracking breath, and she followed the completely illogical declaration with a kiss, soft and linger against the corner of his mouth. She didn't pull back immediately. She stayed. She breathed against his skin, and she smiled when he admitted that making the difference for even one person could help. It felt like progress, like safety, like a step toward something good, instead of a step back toward all the blood that had been their lives in Seattle and beyond. And even his insistence that he was worried about the Sheriff couldn't shake that. The future was more important than the past - his future, and even the conversation about her maman seemed a little more tolerable on the heels of his agreement. But he was talking about patterns, and she slid to the edge of the counter and wrapped her arms over his shoulders. It made the new stitches pull, and it made the stubborn gravel sting, but she didn't care. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, breath against the side of his neck, bare skin against the scratch of brown uniform. Safe, he felt safe, and he always did. "Okay," she said when he swore that no one would trace him. "Okay." And maybe he should have told her first, maybe he shouldn't have done it at all. But he was telling her now, and that was something. She had no idea why. Why he hadn't just left it at the half-confession; she never would have known, never would have found out, maybe. But she was glad, even though it made her scared, and even though she'd look at the phone with trepidation every time it rang, she was glad. "I don't want him to find out about Lia. He can be really, really patient. Will you let me know if something happens? If you find something out?" she asked, the question quiet and uncertain. Part of her didn't want to know. Part of her wanted to go and take care of it herself. The Sheriff would let her get close; he would, and Luke would never need to be involved. But she couldn't drag Luke down; she couldn't, and if she got caught she would do precisely that. And all the thoughts swirled in her mind, and she closed her eyes and reminded herself to breathe.
“I know,” he whispered when she told him he wasn’t allowed to die, voice serious despite a small smile. “I won’t die. I’m not going anywhere.” Death wasn’t something he could control, he knew that, but maybe a part of him thought he could; he’d lived through so much, after all. Bullets and knives and coming so very close, but he’d always survived and that was when he hadn’t had anything to live for. Now he did. He had so, so much, and it made determination burn in his belly when she kissed him. Maybe he should have told her no when she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, for the sake of her stitches, but he wanted her close. He wanted to feel her against him. His arms went around her waist as he held her, quiet and still. Truthfully, there was no single reason why he’d told her; maybe it would have been better to keep this secret. But he remembered the scars dishonesty left behind; her not telling him she was pregnant, him not telling her about Brielle, and all the little things in between. He didn’t want lies to be what their relationship, their marriage, was based on. “He won’t find out about Lia,” he said fiercely, without hesitation. No matter what he had to do, that bastard wouldn’t get anywhere near his family, and he’d never know his daughter even existed. “I’ll let you know. If something happens, I’ll let you know.” When, he thought, not if, but he kept that to himself. “It’s going to be okay,” he told her, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I promise.” And that was a promise he knew he could keep, because he knew himself. He’d do anything to keep her safe.
Maybe it was decision, a knowing one, but she believed him. Right there, with him standing in that kitchen, she believed that he wouldn't die, that he wouldn't leave, that he wouldn't be like every single man her maman had ever told her about. He was nothing like the men who'd populated the fairytales of her childhood. He didn't cheat on his princess, and he didn't cast her out, and he didn't secretly have a queen and two tiny princesses in another castle. He wasn't like that, and sometimes she forgot, but not just then. Not in that moment. And she wouldn't have cared if he cautioned her about the stitches. Nothing mattered but holding on and holding on. That fierce determination, that scared her, though, and she wondered how far he would go if he was pushed. Nothing had threatened the kids. Nothing had threatened her in months and months, and the more he grew, the more she realized he wouldn't just sit by, not like he had when they were kids. It scared her, that realization, and she held him tighter. She nodded when he promised he would let her know, not wanting to let go and not caring about the gravel that the tweezers had left behind. "Curl up with me?" she asked instead. The couch was close, just there, and maybe her arm had stopped throbbing enough with the injection to let her nap. And Lia, Lia wouldn't wake up for another hour at least. "I just want to, just for a little bit?" It was cool in the house. Cool and safe and quiet, the music still playing softly in the background and the occasional sound of a pacifier being sucked back into a tiny mouth. She kissed his cheek. "Just for a little bit?"
She was right; he wasn’t the boy he’d been, the one who sat back and stayed quiet and let things happen. Then, he’d taken action after. Now, he would take action before, prevention instead of reaction. There was no limit to how far he would go when it came to protecting his family, no limit to what he would do, but he didn’t want to talk about that. It would be okay, and she wouldn’t have to worry. He hesitated when she asked if he would curl up with her, only because he knew he hadn’t finished removing the gravel from her back, but he couldn’t tell her no-- didn’t want to tell her no. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, and paused, breath against her neck as he lingered just a little bit longer. “Okay,” he whispered, fond. “Anything you want.” He pulled back enough to look at her and smiled, tugging on her waist. “I’ll finish your back later.” For now, he just wanted to hold her close.