In the beginning, his expression was neutral -- leaning to a frown, with a kind of softness in his eyes left over from trying to comfort Alana. And it stayed this way, until the words slowly grew darker and darker, drawing him in; his own brows drew together in a way that looked suspiciously like his uncle's, though he seemed completely unaware of the horror dawning on his face, the color draining from his cheeks.
And then it was over.
"Uh..." Luke started, wetting his lips. He blinked, glanced at his aunt, glanced at Uncle B, and then glanced at his sneakers.
"Damn, Uncle B."
He couldn't decide what his voice sounded like: angry, maybe, at the sight of the bullethole and the knowledge that someone had had the nerve to do something like that to the man standing in front of him. Maybe a little subdued. A little guilty, too, because as much as Lucas hated the thought of someone sacrificing a member of his family to keep themselves safe... He'd probably do the same if it came down to protecting one of them. Probably.
So fucked up. The world is so fucked up.
He almost didn't realize Uncle B had asked a question.
"Uhh... Not long. Three days? Four days? You should ask the guy," he muttered. "They don't like talking to me."