Luke Henry is cursed to live for (aneternity) wrote in rooms,
Re: Queens: Wren & Saint.
Fear was a strong scent, overlapping the bitter copper of blood. Saint was afraid. The children were afraid, albeit in a different way. But Wren, Wren wasn't afraid, because she knew better than to fear him. Luke wouldn't hurt her. She was, perhaps, the safest person in the warehouse. Not that he would ever harm children or a bystander, but they didn't have his loyalty like she did. They weren't the one thing he loved most in all the world, the only thing he couldn't live without.
Her whispered declaration of love, returned, made him smile. It was warm, at odds with the violence strewn about in white and red. Humanity in the midst of monstrosity. His eyes narrowed a little when she assured him that nothing bad happened; he wasn't sure, but he decided to believe her. Just this once. Besides, if he thought about it too long he'd get really, really angry, and bad things happened when he lost his temper. Worse than even what had just occurred. Luke didn't care about pretending, he didn't care about making Saint believe he was some nameless vigilante who'd happened to be in the area. He wouldn't kill him, no, but neither would he allow himself to be arrested because the man whose life he'd just saved didn't understand. This? Was war. He was a soldier. War was brutal, it was violence, and it wasn't just fought in deserts or on battlefields with guns and uniforms. No, sometimes it was fought on the streets, in the shadows, between those like himself and those like the men unconscious on the ground. People like Saint, they weren't soldiers. They were civilians, they witnessed but didn't experience, and seeing bad things through a lens wasn't the same as being there, as being present during the most horrendous acts mankind was capable of. Saint was afraid because he didn't understand. He didn't know. The men would have killed him if no one had intervened and that was simple truth.
It wasn't his fault, though. Luke didn't begrudge him his fear. Once, as a boy, he'd been horrified by this kind of violence too. He hadn't understood it. Now, he did, and he was only sorry he couldn't kill the men; well, he could, but it wasn't smart to do that in front of witnesses. Wren was different. Wren understood.
Her weight was a comfort against his side as he considered what their next move would be. They needed to go, obviously. Should he leave the men? Kill them later? Call the police afterward or do nothing and wait? And, of course, Luke had to ensure Saint didn't turn him in. That he didn't tell people he shouldn't. The children were, admittedly, an afterthought, since most of his focus was on Wren, and he looked down when she asked if there was anything they could do. "Maybe," he said, looking from her to the children and back again. "We could take them somewhere. They can't stay here." He glared down at the unconscious men, and if only looks could kill. "These men are finished." Even if their bones healed, even if they awoke from unconsciousness, this wouldn't continue. Luke would make sure of that. And the system was broken, he knew that, foster care wasn't the haven it should be, but there had to be something. Somewhere. Good people were a rare breed but they weren't extinct just yet, even if sometimes he thought they were close. More often than not, these days.
He knew not telling anyone was more than a suggestion. He knew Wren wouldn't let anything happen to him. But Luke decided to be clearer, just in case Saint didn't know. "You can't." He shifted, no step taken forward or back but he didn't need to; if Saint tried to run, which he didn't think would happen, he wasn't going anywhere. "You can't tell anyone. These men were going to kill you both. Maybe, for you, it would've been quick." His arm tightened around Wren, and his jaw clenched. It was painful. "Not for her." Exhale. "But you're not dead. You're alive. And what happened here stays within these walls."
After all, Luke had saved his life. All he wanted--because he wasn't asking, it wasn't a request--was for Saint to keep quiet.