Log: Luke/Wren Who: Wren and Luke What: Discussing Luke's little problem (1/2) Where: A church in Marvel When: Before the aliens Warnings/Rating: Some foreplay stuff
Luke’s hope that Marvel might turn out to be a nice, calm place to live was quickly fading day by day. After that crazy ‘accident’ at Oscorp things had spiraled out of control; Jack was missing, those hit by the pulse were developing strange abilities, and now he and Wren were suddenly responsible for other people’s children as well as their own. MK was hiding in the hotel, he had no real faith in Adam’s ability to step up and be a father to Delilah, Evie was sick, and Kyle was off helping Max with what might end up leading them all into a trap. And while he hadn’t been lying when he said that he didn’t know, exactly, what ability he’d gotten slammed with--it was hard to put a label on it--he wasn’t entirely clueless either.
So no, the last few days hadn’t exactly been good. It seemed that whether they were in Las Vegas or comic book New York problems, followed them regardless.
But maybe, just maybe, it would die down. This had to be temporary. It had to be, because five kids was insane no matter how you looked at it. For now, though, they’d just have to make do. He’d managed to find a sitter (an older woman) who wasn’t fazed by the number of children who needed watching, and who didn’t mind taking the kids out, if need be, though with Evie needing to rest and the littler ones he wasn’t sure having the conversation he and Wren were inevitably going to have in the house was such a good idea. He wouldn’t mind getting away for a little while, either, away from what would likely become a chaotic whirlwind of children.
He was nervous energy, and he was worried because she was worried, and it was so, so hard not to pace. He tried but failed, ultimately, and he found the back-and-forth prowl oddly soothing as he waited.
Evie was settled upstairs, and Sadie had joined Delilah and Gus in Gus' room. Wren had spent most of her time, while she waited for Luke to get back with Sadie, watching Delilah and Gus. The little girl reminded her so very much of MK. She was sweet and polite, but she could lash out just as quickly as MK could, and Gus didn't really know what to do with that. Wren knew it was better to let them figure it out herself, and she knew all these changes had to be terrifying to a little girl who had recently lost everything. But she still worried, and part of her still wanted to scoop Gus up when he started stammering. But it had smoothed itself out, and she'd reluctantly gone to get the little ones settled for the sitter once Sadie arrived.
And there was no way around it; the house wasn't big enough for five kids. And every time she realized it, it made her remember why they currently had five kids. And then panic would set in, and so she stayed upstairs longer than she absolutely needed to, wings beating a frantic beat in her belly and the desire to fly away somewhere, anywhere to avoid the bad news that she was absolutely positive awaited her downstairs.
She worried her lip, smoothed down a curl of Lia's cinnamon blonde hair, and wondered how long Lia and Daisy could possibly share that crib. But the sitter was there, and the woman was smiles and kindness. Kisses to both girls' cheeks, and Wren forced her feet to move. Step, step, step down the stairs, and she went faster with each footfall. The wings made way for the desire to see the man waiting at the bottom of the landing, and she was almost running by the time she reached the the final step.
She had taken to stealing clothing from her new job, liking the soft and sheer lines of the dresses, the hats, the shawls. Romantic, and it reminded her of her maman's dressing table. She liked it there, and the woman who stopped for just that long on the bottom step was a cream dress, dark hair still curled and loosely tucked up, feet tucked into slippers that were made of silk and entirely impractical.
She didn't even wait for him to stop that pacing (that was more like a prowl). She just moved, arms and fingers outstretched, expecting him to stop for her.
The more Luke thought, the more he paced. Back and forth, reminiscent of a caged animal desperate to break free. He thought about Jack, he thought about too many kids in a house that wasn’t big enough, he thought about after and options and his inability to fix things right then and there made him curl his hands into fists. Nails much too sharp pressed against his palms and it was only her presence that stopped them from piercing his skin and spilling blood; he heard her footfalls in the same too-sharp clarity he’d been hearing everything in recently, and he looked up to watch her descend. He kept pacing all the while, though, side to side while his gaze moved over her up and down and back again, and he didn’t stop until she reached for him. Arms and fingers, and he turned.
He didn’t say anything, not right away. He kissed her first, arms around her waist and nothing else mattering. Only then did he pull back, just a little, breathing room and little else. “Hey.”
The thing that worried her most was the fact that he didn't stop moving when he saw her. However stressed he was, he always stopped when he saw her, especially if it had been awhile, especially if things were bad. But his movements were just as sporadic as they'd been when she'd first spied him from the upstairs landing. And there was something about the way he moved, something that made her feel like she was looking at one of the animals at the zoos Gus liked so well. It made her a little more nervous, a little more scared, and she was all cling when he turned. She kissed him back, fear on her lips, and she reached down and slid her fingers over the arms that encircled her waist. Hers, hers, and he was there, and it was okay. Even with the pacing, with the way his hands had been balled into fists, it would be okay. And maybe it spoke to just how much she watched him, just how well she knew the way his body moved, the nuances that made him him, but she couldn't convince herself not to worry, even with all the mental reassurances, and even with his arms around her.
She didn't want that breathing room, and she almost fought it. But she wanted to see his face. She needed to see his face. "Hi." It was a whisper, a small thing, and her grey gaze slid across his features, looking for changes, looking for something she couldn't define.
But she didn't wait, she didn't. Because not here, and she slipped back, away from him, and she grabbed his hand and tugged. She tugged him out of the crowded house, where the echo of children carried down the stairs like trumpets. Tug, until they were outside. Tug, and she kept on, quiet and feet along the sidewalk, and she led the way, hoping he wouldn't argue, hoping he would follow.
He could taste her fear, even if that didn’t make any sense at all, and it made him desperate to soothe it away however he could. Being there, he knew, was a start. Words helped but when they were face to face and he was real enough, solid enough, to touch, that made all the difference. It didn’t matter how bad things were or how worried he was; he’d do whatever necessary to calm her down and make her believe everything would be okay. His hold on her tightened when she slid her fingers over his arms, wordless reassurance, and that quiet hi made him smile. Warm and fond, reserved for her and no one else. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said there were no physical changes, at least nothing noticeable enough to be seen just by looking at him, and he knew she was looking.
A disgruntled sound caught in his throat when she moved, because he didn’t want space, but when she grabbed his hand and tugged he didn’t resist. He’d go anywhere she wanted without question, and so he followed. Away from the children and outside, and he followed. “Where are we going?”
The disgruntled sound was audible reassurance, and it made her breathe easier, so very much easier, but it didn't make her slow down. She continued to tug, continued to gain speed. Because with every step, they were closer to her being alone with him, and that was all she wanted. Just that. Just a few minutes to touch him, and to look at him, and to know that he was really there. That he wasn't like Jack, wasn't gone or missing or somewhere she couldn't reach. When he asked where they were going, she just pointed. Visible, just beyond the trees, was the steeple of a small church. She'd found it a few days earlier, and she'd already gone there to light candles once. This time of day, it was empty and quiet, and she tugged more, eager to get inside, to get him alone.
The doors were heavy, cedar and old varnish, and she shoved at one and nudged it just enough to slide through the gap. Inside, the church was a tiny thing, stones and woods and the smell of incense. The windows were stained glass, and candles twinkled from the two matching wrought iron stands near the altar. The door to the sacristy was open, but she ignored it. Instead, she pulled him back toward the confessionals, and she slid inside one, settling in the quiet dim light, her back to the corner, and one leg tucked beneath her on the red velvet seat. She waited impatiently for him to follow her into the space, and then she motioned for him to close the wooden door.
"Hi," she repeated, a whisper in the gloaming, and her fingers finding his face, touching.
He followed the path of where she pointed, catching sight of the church beyond the trees, and nodded. There was only agreement, no protest; he would go wherever she wanted without question. A church might not have been what he was expecting but he figured it would be quiet, though he was a little apprehensive about other people being there. Still, he didn’t say as much. He just kept following, letting her tug him along, and slid through the space after her when she nudged open one of the doors. Once inside he realized his worry that they might not be alone was unfounded, since it was very clearly empty. He glanced around, eyes adjusting easily to the dim light, but then she was pulling on him again and it was a lot easier to just let her lead him wherever she chose.
Which, apparently, was a confessional. He smiled a little, sensing her impatience as she sat and waited for him to follow suit. The door was closed tight behind him, and he settled on the seat facing her, his sight just as good in the dim light as it would have been outside. Better, even. Improved vision was just one of the changes he'd noticed but had kept to himself. It wasn't physically evident, no, and even in the shift from light to dark there was only a sort of glow that could easily be attributed to angles or reflection.
"Hey." He echoed her repetition, and when he felt her fingers against his face he leaned in closer, wanting more of her touch. His fingers found her wrists, brushed briefly over the thin skin there and then continued along her arms. "I'm okay. See?"
She couldn't see as well as he could. He was shadows in the confessional, and she was looking more with her fingers than with her eyes. Touch, and she was reassured when his fingers found her wrists. Okay, he was fine. He was okay. Maybe there were things that were off, not quite right, and maybe they were screaming in her mind and refusing to quiet, but he was okay. Whatever it was, whatever was wrong, it would be fine. Because he was there, and because she was there, and she wasn't going to hyperventilate... much.
She tucked her other leg beneath her, and she pushed herself up on her knees in the near darkness. The confessional smelled of wood and incense, of velvet and closed in space. Her perfume was limes and vanilla, and she cupped his cheeks and kissed him, her hair sliding against his cheeks in dark ringlets that still held some stage glitter captive in its whorls. The kiss lingered, because she didn't want to stop, didn't want to pull away, didn't need to breathe, not really. She took one of his hands, and she moved it from her arm to her chest. There, she pressed his fingers just above her heart, where the thump, thump was fast, where her breathing was shallow. Her eyes were nearly black in the darkness, all pupil and no iris, and she pulled back from the kiss reluctantly. "Say it again," she pleaded, the words wrapped in begging. "Say you're okay. Say it one more time."
She paused, and it was a long pause, silence and darkness and she sat back against her heels. Her fingers wound around his wrist, vices that held tight and didn't (wouldn't) let go. "Say you're okay. Lie to me. And then tell me the truth." Because she knew. She did, she knew. She knew Jack was missing because of whatever the pulse had done to him. She knew the pulse had done something to Luke, too, just like it had to MK, just like it had to Evie. She knew, but she couldn't make it go away, and there was no running. There was no running from this.
Whatever the pulse was, whatever it had done to him, it couldn’t be that bad, he reasoned, because he’d never felt like this. Before. Everything, sights and smells and sounds, were all in razor-sharp clarity, and once the pain faded and he adjusted to the newness of whatever changes had occurred within him he realized he felt-- alive. He was aware of himself in a way no amount of training had ever accomplished. The smells of the confessional, wood and incense, velvet and a contained space, weren’t muted but layered, and he could separate them all. Above that was the smell of her, and the glitter in her hair was shimmers around the edges of his vision. He arched up against her, no strain at all to respond when she kissed him, and he didn’t ever want her to stop. He could hear her heartbeat in the quiet of the confessional, but feeling the beat beneath his fingertips was something else entirely .He tried, in vain, to keep her from pulling back, a whine against her mouth and stubborn refusal to let her put too much space between them.
“I’m okay.” There was no hesitation, no pause. He breathed, and he looked at her, slow and warm in a way that hinted at being able to see more than just shadows and an outline. He didn’t mind the vice-like grip she had on his wrists; if anything, it kept him grounded in here and now. “Don’t. I’m not lying to you,” he said, an eager whisper. “I’m not not okay.” Because he wasn’t hurt, and he wasn’t hearing people’s thoughts or throwing things around rooms without being able to help it. “The truth… the truth is I can do things I couldn’t before. Like, right now, I can see you.” His fingers found her jaw, and he smiled. “It doesn’t matter that it’s dark. There’s glitter in your hair.”
She never, ever thought something wasn't going to be that bad. She expected the worst. She expected the nightmare. In the darkness, all she smelled was dust and skin. All she heard was his breathing, the sound her knees made when she inched closer to him. All she saw was shadows, a nearly-nothing halo of light around his head and the movement of his lips when he spoke. When he kissed her back, there was the desire to slide her hand over his skin as he arched, and only the lingering light from beneath the confessional door stopped her. She had never been religious, and she'd never gone to church. Her maman had told the story of her water breaking a dozen times over, and churches had been defined by the imaginations of a little girl who pictured blood pouring along the floor as her père ignored the girl with bloodstained thighs. Older, she'd learned to find solace in hymns, in Latin, in candles and the smell of incense. Somewhere in-between, she'd embraced her maman's love for hoodoo, but that wasn't her. She would rather hurt someone with a knife, skin flayed, than by needles in a doll or a cursed name on a scroll. It wasn't any respect that kept her from touching him how she wanted to; it was worry, fear, something that had wrapped itself around herself hours prior, something that refused to let go.
And his smile was too warm. It should be tight, concerned, because the world was falling down and they were standing in the middle of the debris field. But even in the dark, she could tell that the outline of his smile was real. Maybe her heart beat a little slower, a little more normally. His eager whisper made worry spike again, but in a different way. His tone reminded her of a boy in Seattle, one that brought home scrapes and bruises and thought it was fun to slip off roofs and mostly land on his feet.
She stilled when his fingers found her jaw, and she stared when he said there was glitter in her hair. Parted lips and wide eyes in the darkness. "You saw that when we were walking." Reason, reason, and that was reasonable. "You can't see me, Luke," she whispered, as if it was blasphemy and sacrilege and worse than the desire to slide her fingers beneath his shirt. "It's too dark." She tried to focus her own vision, to see more, and her fingers went tighter around his wrist.
He wanted her to touch him, and he didn’t care about the sacredness of churches or religious blasphemy. His parents had never been religious, and church had only been an occasional thing that faded and stopped entirely once he reached his teens, and it hadn’t ever been a large part of his life; once, maybe, he’d thought there was a God, but not anymore. He didn’t have faith in an omniscient presence. He had faith in more tangible things, in people, in a bond of love that could never, ever be broken. And so he didn’t care, and in all honesty the world had narrowed to just the two of them and where they were was already forgotten. Maybe he was too eager, maybe her fear wasn’t mirrored in him, but despite the risk he just didn’t see this as a curse. Had it been something else, maybe he would have, but it wasn’t bad. Despite her worry he really didn’t think it was bad at all.
When she said that he’d seen the glitter outside, he shook his head. “I can see you.” Quiet insistence, and he moved closer, as though the less space there was between them the more inclined she’d be to accept what he was saying. His palms slid against her skin as he cupped her face so she couldn’t look away, and his voice remained a whisper. “You wanted the truth, baby. This is it. I can see you. I can hear you. Your heartbeat, every little movement you make, the way you breathe,” he said, and shifted closer still. “I can smell you, too. Not just your perfume, vanilla and lime, but you. It’s like-- like a fingerprint, it’s unique. There’s other things, but--” He paused. “I know you’re scared, I know, but it isn’t bad. It doesn’t have to be. Nobody has to know.”
She tried to ignore that quiet insistence, and she tried to tell herself that he was wrong, or that he was lying, or that he was imagining it. But she trusted him too much to ever question his sanity. And, while she believed without reservation that he would lie until his tongue fell out of his mouth, if he thought it would protect her, she didn't think he was lying to her now. There was something too earnest in the quiet words, in the way he slid closer, demolishing the space between them without any effort at all. She could feel the fabric of his pants against her bare knees, and she closed her eyes when his fingers slid against her skin. She didn't even try to look away. She couldn't see him, not really, but she couldn't look away. And that whisper, that solidified it. It made it real in a way that all the proof in the world couldn't. He could have screamed at her from the rooftops, and it wouldn't have made her breath catch with belief the way that whisper did.
When he shifted closer, it became harder to think. It always became harder to think around him, but the space was quiet and dark, enclosed and private, and privacy hadn't existed in their lives since they been dragged away from Vegas. Maybe it was good, though, because his presence, his closeness, it kept the potential panic at bay, at least a little. She let go his wrist, and her fingers found his face in the darkness, as if she was seeking out differences through touch. "What other things?" she finally asked, and it took all the effort in the world to voice the question. She inched forward on her knees, not caring that there wasn't actually any space left between them at all. One of her knees rested beside his thigh on the bench, and the other pressed into his hip. "Nobody has to know," she repeated, as if it would help her believe the words. An inhale, and she shook her head, glitter slipping free and landing on her arms, his arms. "You'll want to use it for something good. I know you, Luke." The fingers against his face twitched and pressed against his skin. "I know you."
Maybe he was counting on his closeness distracting her, just a little, a tactic on his part to keep her calm. But for the most part it was just a desire to be close to her, the same desire that was so much a part of him that the day he stopped feeling it was the day he stopped living entirely. He would lie to her to protect her, he would, but he would never lie to her about something like this; the lie would be to conceal it. He heard her breath catch, and he just wanted to make it better, but he didn’t know how.
He tipped his head to the side to get more of her fingers, and he watched her as she spoke. He listened to the sound of her knees against the seat, and focused on the warmth of the places where her body pressed against his. “I can-- I can do things, I guess, that people shouldn’t be able to. The way I move. It’s hard to explain.” He bit down on his lower lip, hard. “And there’s… this.” He trailed two fingers down her cheek, and his fingernails turned sharp, pointed and curved, but the pressure was light enough that they didn’t leave so much as a tiny mark behind on her skin. And as for wanting to use it for something good, of course he would; she knew him too well for him to even try denying it. He was quiet, gaze dropping to the way the glitter looked on her arm before he looked back up at her face. “Ask me not to.” He was close enough to kiss her, but instead he just breathed, the words spoken just shy of contact. “Ask me not to, and I won’t.”
She knew it was coming, that admission that he could do other things. She knew it with the same certainty that she knew that moving into the hotel wasn't going to be easy, wasn't going to be quiet, wasn't going to be safe. She knew, and she held her breath until her chest hurt, as if the lightheadedness and stars that came from lack of oxygen would make this easier to bear somehow. She wanted to tell him not to explain, to show her, but that was going to take a few seconds, oxygen and courage that she just hadn't managed to find yet. That and there's... this distracted her from her own inability to ask him to show her, and she didn't understand what was happening against her skin at first. Not fingers... But....
She took his hand in hers, pulled it away from her face and tried to make her eyes focus in the dim light of the confessional. Opening the door wasn't an option, it wasn't. She had this image of whoever had taken Jack out there, sitting, waiting. No, she didn't open the door. She tried to look and, when that wasn't enough, she took her fingers and ran them over his nails. Nails? Claws? She didn't think she could breathe. "Those weren't there earlier." She would have noticed. Surely she would have noticed. She reached into her pocket, and she pulled out her cellphone. She didn't let go of his hand, couldn't let go of his hand. No, no, wouldn't let go. And it took some fumbling to get the phone's screen to light up. Slow, so slow that it was obvious she was scared, she moved the phone close to the hand she held. Closer, closer, and she almost dropped the phone entirely. She fumbled, and the light turned off, and she looked up at his face.
She couldn't see him, because her eyes hadn't adjusted to the new darkness again, but she didn't need to. She could picture every bit of his expression when he told her to ask him not to be a hero. She knew. She bit her lip, and she tried to remember why changing him was bad, why asking him not to do what he wanted to do was bad. She wanted to demand, to insist, to do precisely as he said. She wanted to. He would be safe, and he would be home, and he would be hers. But she couldn't do it. She couldn't. It was too much a part of him, that endearingly horrible desire to save the world. It always had been, and he wouldn't be happy if she clipped his wings, not in the long run. Instead, she took a breath so deep that it hurt. "Show me."
His worry spiked when she held her breath, and he started to tell her not to do that, to stop, but then she took hold of his hand and the words fell, half finished, into silence. Part of him wondered if he should have told her at all--maybe he should only have told her some of the truth--but he couldn’t lie to her in person, not when they were this close and he could see her so very clearly. It just wasn’t in him; he wasn’t a liar, when all was said and done. “No,” he admitted. “I can make them come and go. They’re retractable, I guess.” That explanation made the most sense. And he almost pulled back when she reached for her phone, an instinctive reaction when he realized she was going to try to get a better look, but he forced himself to stay still instead. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like her fear, which he swore he could smell, and he didn’t like that he seemed to be making it worse instead of better. Maybe, he thought, he should’ve just lied after all. To her, to everyone else, and even to himself. It wouldn’t have been anything he hadn’t done before.
He waited. He waited for her to ask him, a yes ready on his lips, but she didn’t. She didn’t, and he wasn’t sure whether he should be disappointed or relieved. “I can’t show you in here,” he said, and it was true. He needed space to show her, but he didn’t actually want space, because they had so little time alone as it was and if they left, if they went outside, that would be it. “I don’t want you to be afraid.” He spoke quickly, trying to cut her off before she could insist, before she could try to make him move. “I won’t leave you to run off and play hero, Wren, I promise. I-- that’s not what this is. Tell me you know that.”
She didn't realize he'd almost pulled away from the phone and the light. She didn't think he was afraid of her, because she knew she would never, ever, not ever hurt him in any way. He could have closed the door on the confessional and admitted that he was killing people again, and she wouldn't have done anything, wouldn't have turned him in, wouldn't have left him. There was nothing he could tell her that could make her leave, and so she wouldn't have understood the fear. And she didn't understand that her fear was something tangible. She thought she was good at hiding, at staying calm. She thought he couldn't see, but she didn't realize he could smell the sheer panic and terror on her skin. Because she was afraid, she was so very afraid. But fear was something that clung to her skin; she lived with it, day and night, and there were only glimmers of moments when it wasn't there. She didn't even realize it most of the time, because it had just been there since she was little, since before she could remember any other way. "Do they hurt?" The question was a reluctant whisper, a wordless please say no.
The fact that he couldn't show her in the confessional gave her an idea of how bad it was. And she mentally cringed when she thought the word bad. Nothing about him was bad. Nothing about him would ever, ever be bad. She didn't make any move to open the confessional door, because she didn't want to go outside either. She didn't want to lose this enclosed closeness, where it felt like maybe they would survive this. Maybe if she could just breathe him in enough, she could survive this. She considered telling him she wasn't afraid, but she couldn't do it. Her fingers tangled in his hair, the grip tighter than intended. But it was soothing somehow, and she let herself have it for just a second, just two. "I'm scared. I'm scared, but I know you wouldn't leave me to go play hero. I know. You would already be out there looking for Jack if that was the case. I know." Her fingers slid down to his cheeks, and she leaned in close enough to feel his breath on her lips. "But I can't make you not be you. I can't. You'll hate me. I'll hate me."
She was the one person he trusted enough to tell this to. Everything, all of it, and drawing away from the phone’s light was instinct, something not even he fully understood. It wasn’t a conscious choice so much as a reaction, and he was glad she hadn’t noticed, because he didn’t want her thinking he was afraid of her. Nothing she did could ever make that happen. And he knew that her fear wasn’t of him, but he still didn’t like it. He’d caused it, even if it hadn’t been intentional. The tightness of her fingers against his skin, the way she breathed, or didn’t breath, even her voice; it all spoke to her fear. He wondered if it would always be this way now, if he’d always know that fear, wondered if it would linger on her even when she was smiling and happy. If so, he didn’t think he’d ever stop trying to make it go away. “No,” he assured her. “It feels kind of funny, but they’re not painful.”
Even if she had told him that she wasn’t afraid, he wouldn’t have believed her. He knew better. When her fingers tangled in his hair, tight enough to sting, he let her have it; he didn’t try to pull away, didn’t even make a sound. “I don’t want you to be scared.” It was a simple, quiet admission, but it was honest. “Don’t say that. I could never hate you,” he insisted, and he pulled his hands back so he could slip his arms around her waist. “You make me who I am. You, and the kids. You could never, ever make me not be me.” He wanted to help people, he wanted to do good, but he hated the thought of her thinking that she could ever alter him so drastically. The more he thought about it, the more he frowned, and just then closeness wasn’t enough. He didn’t even need to move all that much to kiss her, and it was slow, nothing quick, heat and demand that she not deny him.
She relaxed the tiniest bit when he said the nails (claws?) didn't hurt. She breathed a little easier, not much, but a little. Evie had been bleeding for days, and she'd been uncomfortable and in bed, and Wren didn't want that for Luke. She didn't want anything to hurt him, not ever, so at least that helped the tiniest bit. She didn't realize the contradiction between that and the tight tangle of her fingers in his hair, but she was a bird grounded in feelings, not thoughts, and she wanted to hold him tight and never let him go. It helped that he didn't move, that he didn't pull away. She worried that he could. That she wouldn't be able to hold him now, which was silly. He'd always been stronger than her, even when he'd been young and inexperienced, and even when she'd been flaying the skin off men with her knives. But she still felt that she could hold him, keep him where she wanted, bring him back from nearly anything. It was a confidence she hadn't owned in her youth, but she did now, and she was afraid of losing it. She was afraid this would change him.
Didn't mutations do that? They changed people.
And as soon as she thought the word - mutation - she wanted to unthink it. She wanted it to go away, never to return. But it was there, even as he was talking. Even as he was saying he could never hate her. His arms around her waist were sanity, and she whimpered quietly in the confessional. "I could," she countered of her ability to make not be himself. "I could. It would be selfish, and I want to do it, but I won't." She pressed a hand to his chest, just at the center, and then he kissed her, and she didn't deny him anything. The confessional didn't matter, the church didn't matter, the flicker of candlelight beneath the door's lip didn't matter. She whined, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and crawled into his lap, and she fought to speed the kiss up, to give it the frenetic energy that she felt - had felt - for days. Need and teeth and her fingers back in his hair.
Physically, she couldn’t hold him. She couldn’t keep him anywhere he didn’t want to be, not through strength alone, but her power over him ran much, much deeper than that. She could hold him with a word. Anything she wanted he would give her; if she asked, if she demanded, he would handcuff himself to the radiator and never, ever leave. He would kneel at her feet. He’d stay here, forever, in the dark quiet, and she wouldn’t have to force him to do any of it. All he wanted was for her to see that, for her to know that nothing could change the fact that she had all of him, everything he was and everything he ever would be.
He shook his head, stubbornly refusing to agree. “No,” he insisted. “Stop. You couldn’t. You’re part of me, Wren, how could you ever make me someone else?” There weren’t words for just how much he loved her, because he knew she was sacrificing her own peace of mind to let him be who she thought he should be. He knew, and he loved her for it, but she always, always sacrificed, and he didn’t want her to. When she crawled into his lap he growled in his throat, a sound of pleasure, of getting what he wanted, and he slid his hands down to take firm hold of her hips. He fought, just for a few seconds, to keep the kiss slow, but he ended up giving in, getting caught up in her frenetic need. It became desperate, frenzied, and he tugged her closer against him. “I don’t want you to be scared,” he gasped against her mouth, between kisses. “I don’t want you to-- to be hurt. You always do everything for me, baby. Always-- let me do something for you. Be selfish, just a little. Please.” He didn’t know if she would, didn’t know if she was capable of it, and he was quick to silence whatever she might say with another kiss, so she couldn’t tell him no.
She knew he loved her. She knew he would die for her. She knew she would die for him. For him, she would do and be anything. Like the girl she'd been, the one who had let people do anything for money. She would let him do all those same anythings, but for a very different reason. He owned her. Most people, she knew, would hate that sentiment. They would say that people couldn't be owned, that they didn't belong to anyone. But he did. He owned her completely. "I could ask you to stay home. To get a job in an office. To never go out and help anyone again. I want to do it all the time. I want to tell you to not work at all. To stay with the kids. To be safe. I would do anything to make sure you were safe. I would work doing anything. I would sell myself, I would do anything, if it just meant you were safe. If it just meant that nothing would ever happen to you. I could do that. I could ask you, but you would hate me for it eventually. You would. The days would go by, and you would wish you were out there, helping people, doing something good. That's just who you are. You're a good man, Luke Henry.”
The growl in his throat washed over her like a balm, the sound reassuring, telling her that he still wanted her, even if he was changed, even if he was different. And his hands on her hips tethered her, kept the fear and worry from setting her adrift. For a second, that fear ebbed. During the kiss, it was nearly nothing, and something else replaced it. Desire, warm and husky and heavy on her skin. She whimpered when he tugged her closer, and all the saints could hear for all she cared. She slid her hands along his face, slid her fingers behind his ears. "I am selfish. I have you here, with me now, instead of out there looking for Jack. For a few minutes, I'm selfish." She tried to edge closer, but there wasn't anywhere closer, and her fingers slid down along the sides of his throat. "Tell me what you want, Luke."
With anyone else, he’d have thought ownership was unhealthy. People couldn’t be owned, he’d say, but with them, with them it was different. It always had been. He owned her, and she owned him. It was just who they were that they belonged to completely to each other, and maybe with other people it would have been bad but not with them. No, because he knew they loved each other too much to ever abuse that power. She would never hurt him. He would never hurt her. They would give their lives to make sure the other was safe, and that made all the difference. He listened while she told him all the things she could ask him to do, but when she said she would do anything to keep him safe, that she would sell herself, he frowned and shook his head. No, no, and his hold on her turned bruising. “Don’t say that,” he told her, a fierce, possessive whisper. “I’d never let you work doing anything. I’d never let you sell yourself. You couldn’t. You won’t. You’re mine, and you won’t.” She was better than that. She was so much better, and she belonged to him, and he’d lock her up somewhere before he’d let her go back to selling herself. Maybe that was dangerous, maybe that was wrong, but the boy who’d stood by and stayed silent was long gone, left behind and discarded. Part of him knew she hadn’t actually meant that she would do those things, but he’d gotten himself worked up regardless and tried to regulate his breathing. “I want the same. I feel the same. I just-- I don’t want you to think I’m choosing something else over you. I’d never do that,” he insisted. “I want to help people, I want to do good, but none of that is more important than you.” And it wasn’t. He couldn’t have that without her; it wouldn’t be enough.