Luke Henry is cursed to live for (aneternity) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-07-02 02:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *log, luke henry, wren henry |
log, marvel: luke & wren
Who: Luke & Wren
What: A date. (1/2)
Where: Hayden Planetarium, AMNH.
When: Recently.
Warnings/Rating: Nah.
Luke couldn’t really remember the last time they’d left the house for things that weren’t work or wandering into danger, and even though he was still wary of the outside world, of the dead that had faded to become familiar everyday things, he liked the idea of a date. It was a good thing. He wanted that, in the midst of bad things and loss; he wanted good. Jack was gone. Max was gone. Thomas was gone. Aches, in different ways, and he didn’t want to dwell. So he thought, and he thought, and when he had an idea, he went with it. He never settled for simple. She deserved so, so much better than that, and okay, so maybe he spent more time planning this than working like he was supposed to, especially since he had to make up for time missed, but he was sneaky.
His job helped, too. A lot of people hated cops but sometimes they made friends, sometimes you cut somebody a break on, say, a speeding ticket, sometimes you hauled off someone’s sister’s drunken deadbeat boyfriend, etc etc. And then, if you needed a favor, you didn’t need to beg so much as you needed to just ask. (Nicely.) Maybe you had to promise to provide free security for an event or two, but it was worth it. Anything was worth it for Wren.
As promised, he picked out her outfit. White, because he thought it’d look pretty under the lights, and flat shoes, but he left the rest up to her. As for him, he was a little more dressed up than usual, even if he kept tugging at his tie. (Habit.) And the whole blindfolding thing? He wasn’t kidding about that. “You trust me, oui?” It’d been a teasing question, but there was, as always, an undercurrent of something else. An honest question. And then he’d placed it over her eyes, tied it secure but not too tight, with the almost-smug assurance that he wouldn’t be taking it off until he was ready.
Evie was with the kids, and there was no rush. He liked that.
On the cab ride to the Rose Center for Earth and Space he sat close, his thigh pressed against hers, with no care for seatbelts. And when they stopped Luke paid the cabbie first, then opened the door and leaned in, fingers entwining with hers and tug, tug, tugging, coaxing her to follow. “Viens avec moi.”
Wren liked him picking out what she was wearing.
Wren almost liked that best about everything. Oui, she liked leaving the house. Oui, she liked the feeling that the world was maybe, maybe getting back to normal. Oui, she liked that the shadows in his eyes seemed less heavy, and she liked that he smiled a little more. She knew he was sad about losing people he cared about, and she wanted that to be better for him. She wanted the ghosts gone, and she wanted the bad things from the bad door not to chase him. Those things were all really, really important. She wanted Saint to be quiet, and she wanted to not worry about the men in that warehouse and their fate. She wanted those things, and those things were good, but she really, really liked that he was picking out what she was wearing.
He always said everything she wore looked pretty. He always said everything looked good. He never, ever told her what he liked best, and this was a way for her to know things left unsaid. It was small, tiny, and it was so inconsequential in a life with all the tumult that theirs possessed, but she was small, and she was inconsequential, and the dreaming had only made her more and more sure of that. But maybe it wasn't so bad, and maybe it was okay, and she liked that he'd picked out something for her to wear.
And he looked handsome, which she only got a tiny look at before he blindfolded her. But she didn't try to peek, not even once. She was quiet in the cab, close and warm against his side, vanilla and honey and her fingers against his thigh, and oui, she trusted him with everything, and she'd told him so when he'd blindfolded her. "You're all I trust," and it was true. He could walk her into a pit, and she would go fearlessly. There wasn't even a tiny bit of tension to her, and there was just the feel of her fingertips on the fabric of his dress pants as they rode through the city.
She listened, oui? She tried to orient herself with traffic sounds, but she lost track of everything after three turns, and then she just listened to him instead. To his breathing, to his shifting, to the sounds he made without even realizing he was making sounds at all.
And then the cab stopped, and she slid her hand along his side as he opened the cab's door, his fingers tangled up with hers a second later, and the night was Spring and cool and she could hear the city in stereo around them. She turned her head, but she still couldn't see a thing, and she smiled bright in the darkness when he spoke to her in French.
"I love it when you do that, talking in French." She followed, soft and willing steps on those quiet flats.
Being outside was better with her. Bad things melted away with the rest of the world, because she was all that mattered. She was the entirety of his focus. What she looked like, how she felt, her scent, every little piece that made up Wren was a very, very good distraction. For the first time in a long time, Luke didn’t feel burdened. He felt light. He felt okay, and okay was good. He didn’t realize just how much she liked that he’d chosen her clothes, kind of hopelessly oblivious to the fact that his choice indicated a preference, but maybe that was okay too. It was true, that he always said she looked good no matter what. He worried that choices would make her think he found her less attractive if she didn’t wear a certain thing, or look a certain way, and he didn’t want that, because it wasn’t true. But maybe it was okay, this. Maybe it was okay, liking something best. If she liked it, then it couldn’t be bad, right?
He beamed when she said he was all she trusted, even though she couldn’t see. “You’re all I trust, too,” he told her, and maybe it was audible in his voice, his smile. “I like that. I like it a lot.” Her trust was a heady thing, something he was fiercely protective of these days. Nothing bad, there was nothing bad at all, just her hand along his side and her fingers in his. He led, and she followed, up past the sidewalk and along the walkway, and there was a distinct lack of sounds that would indicate the presence of other people.
“C’est pour tu,” he said of the French. He knew he didn’t always get it right, but he tried, oui? “I like that you love it.” He stopped, then, and let go of one of her hands. The sound of keys. Metal against plastic. Key, lock, tapping sounds. Luke couldn’t help a tiny smile as he wondered if she was confused yet. “I’m sworn to secrecy. No one’s supposed to know we’re here, okay?” He grinned. “Come on,” a nudge, so he could lead her inside.
She forgot about the bad things a lot, and maybe that was just her way of coping with a life that had too many of them. But she forgot a lot, and with him she forgot easier, especially when he was like this. When he didn't look haunted, and when he wasn't looking for ghosts out of the corner of his eyes. No claws and no growl and no fear that anything bad would happen, and it made him look so much younger. Just a boy, really, and he reminded her so much of Gus when he was like this. When his world wasn't shadows and shadows, and when he beamed like it was bright and sunshine, even in the dark of the New York night. And she couldn't see that beam, that smile, non, but she could hear it in his voice, and she could feel it in fingers that gripped hers for the pleasure of touching, and not because he felt like he had to grip her close out of an overwhelming fear. It felt different, the touch of his hands, and she could imagine the smile on his lips, even from behind her blindfold.
Trust, trust, and she followed will small steps that weren't careful. He would keep her from tripping, and he would keep her safe, and she knew that. She knew it, and she knew it more certainty than she knew anything in the whole entire world. It was something born over years, something fought for, and she wasn't even really sure when it happened entirely. But for the little girl that had grown up trusting no one and nothing, it was a really, really big deal. Liberating, and she wasn't afraid, and she followed as he led her through quiet that made her turn her face this way, that way, curious. "Est silencieux."
It didn't matter how close he came with her maman's tongue; she loved that he tried, because she knew he did it for her. It made her smile softer, lips tipping with adoring warmth. "I know it's for me. I love that, but you sound really, really cute too." Simplicity, small, tiny, but she did love it, and maybe pretending to be worldlier than she was, maybe he didn't need that. That was something left over from the dreams, something small, but she felt a little better about her diminutive little life in the afterglow. Tonight helped. This helped, because it was so normal. It wasn't heroes and saving the world and really important things that she'd never understand and never be able to compete with. It was just them, and she was okay at them.
She turned her head when she heard the jangle of metal, instinct tipping her head down, even though it was hopeless to see through the blindfold. She didn't ask what he was doing, because she knew he wouldn't tell, but she did try to slip her fingers forward to feel around for his hand and see what he was holding. But they were moving again before she managed it, and there was some bit of tiny thrill in his voice when he said no one was supposed to know. "Are you breaking rules, mari?" She asked it smiling, and she asked it shocked, and she asked it pleased to her toes.
His fear never, ever went away, but it could be forgotten for a while. It was like a balance, sort of, and lately fear and worry outweighed everything else, which made it hard to live normally; he just had to find a way to get that balance back. For tonight, though, he could let it go. Tonight it was just her and him and nothing else in the whole wide world. He held her close because he wanted to, not because an all-encompassing fear of losing her pressed down on his chest and made it hard to breathe. He wound his fingers in hers because he didn’t want to stop touching her, not because he feared her disappearing if he didn’t hold on tightly enough. It didn’t matter if she tripped or stumbled, because Luke was right there to catch her and he always, always would be. “Oui,” he agreed, when Wren pointed out the silence. “I want… uh, je te veux pour moi.” It wasn’t right, maybe, but he beamed nonetheless.
She said he sounded cute, and he felt his face flush with heat. “Cute or not, it’s still for you.” He didn’t sound that way for anyone else, he didn’t want to. Her smile turned soft, warm, and he couldn’t help reaching out to trace her lips with his fingers. “Je ne veux jamais arrêter,” he said, a thoughtless whisper, hushed, as though someone else might hear and he didn’t want them to.
He pulled his hand back with a grin when she tried to slip her fingers forward, because nu-uh, she had to wait for him to take the blindfold off. “Maybe,” he teased, when she asked if he was breaking rules, and the door clicked shut behind them once he nudged her inside. They’d never really had a chance to be young and stupid—not ‘wander into a drug dealer’s warehouse’ stupid, but the kind of harmless carefree thoughtlessness that defined teenage years. They’d been forced to grow up too fast. It wasn’t fair, and they were still young, really, even though they had two kids. Maybe this was something like making up for lost time. It was dark inside the planetarium, even quieter than outside, and the night guard? Conveniently not there.
“Just a little farther.” What he’d brought her here for was inside the Space Theater.
She was a girl, smiling bright when he tried to keep going in French about the quiet, about wanting her all to himself. Tiptoes and cheeks that tipped in at dimples, and she could forget about every little bad thing when she heard him sounding like that. There, holding onto her, and nothing but them and whatever silence wrapped them up like a springtime blanket. She wanted to see him, because he was beautiful, and because she loved looking at him. But she didn't need to see him in order to picture him just then. Memorized, she could hear his movements and translate that into action behind her eyelids. And his fingers on her lips made her gasp, soft as he traced slightly-pinked pink. She kissed his fingers as he whispered, kissed again, and she tipped her head, as if she could see the movement of his lips when he said he would never stop. "J’ai besoin de toi." She did need him. In every, every way, she needed him, and she didn't shy away from the words, and she didn't shy away from chasing the fingers he tugged back and away, one last kiss before metal and the jangle of keys.
He pulled his hand back, denying her curious little fingers, and she huffed a quiet little sound of failure. But she wasn't really upset. She couldn't be, not when he was teasing her like that, and after the bad door she'd wondered if they'd ever make it back here. Not to a place, non, not to a physical thing, and not even to the triumph of getting him to leave the house. Non, to this, him teasing, being playful, thinking about something other than all the bad things, even if the bad things were just pushed away a little and not gone completely.
Youth was something that had escaped them both. He'd had some of it, more than her, but she wasn't sure that made it better. She'd never lost anything, because she'd never had it. He'd lost everything, and she thought maybe that was harder. She didn't feel young, not most days, but tonight she was a giggle that escaped her lips as he admitted to breaking rules, and this was different. This wasn't saving the world, and it wasn't someone sending him to be a hero, and it wasn't her trying to eek out recovery with a tiny blade. This was just them, and the kids were home safe with someone they both loved, and it had been so, so long.
He said it was just a little farther, and she was turning her head to try to figure out what the new cool and quiet around them was. "We're inside somewhere now, oui?" They were; she could tell, because the air was different. She pressed close to his side, liking the way the white fabric of the dress felt against her skin, against his dress clothes, against the lean and strong length of his side. She tugged on his fingers, moving ahead without knowing where she was going, but she knew he would nudge her back on course if she went the wrong way in the blindfold-darkness.
Pictures had never been his thing, but he wished he had a camera to capture the way her smile looked in the darkness. If life could always be like this—no bad things, no outside world, just them—Luke would be stupidly happy. He didn't need a whole lot, even if she thought he should get out and be in the world more. Maybe that was selfish, wanting just her and nothing else, but he really, really didn't care. He laughed when his fingers on her lips elicited a gasp, quiet and fond, and it became a soft sound of pleasure a moment later when she kissed his fingertips. "I need you too." There was audible yearning in his tone, but he was trying to be good, yeah? At least for now.
He missed the feel of her lips against her fingers, but he thought her little huff was adorable. Teasing, being playful, they felt like old things but he remembered them well. Because he hadn't always been seized by fear, there had been a time when he only worried a normal amount, without the compulsion to keep her locked up in the house. Even if it was just for tonight, he wanted to go back to that.
She deserved to have youth, just as much as he did; at least he'd had a chance to be young, before Seattle, before it was taken away. He wanted to give her the same chance, wanted her to laugh and smile like there wasn't anything to worry about at all. Her giggle, he thought that was a good start. It'd been awhile since he'd heard her sound like that. "Oui, we're inside," he said, intentionally not giving her any more information. He liked how she felt against his side, and he let her move ahead, close enough that he could keep her on track if she strayed. —Well, he followed behind for a few seconds before giving up on that and slipping behind her, sliding his fingers free to rest his hands on her hips and guide her that way. "Maybe I should blindfold you more often," a teasing whisper against her ear. Pressure made her go this way or that, where he wanted her, before he suddenly tugged her to a stop. More keys and jingling, and he nudged her with his hips to make sure she kept her curious fingers to herself. Tug, tug, into the Theater before he brought her to an abrupt stop again.
"Wait here." He gave her fingers a squeeze before moving away. She'd be able to hear him muttering to himself, fiddling with something—then, music started playing. Slow, instrumental more background than anything else, and he was at her side again. "Okay," he tipped her chin up with his fingers, then moved to untie the blindfold and pull it away, "your eyes better be open."
The theater was awash with blue lights, casting a glow over their bodies, and above them was a night sky peppered with stars, midnight blues and dark purples that seemed both close enough to touch and far out of their reach. "Pretty, oui? And it's all ours."
She loved his laughter. When he'd stopped, after the bad door, she'd remembered the sound, the memory of it something sad in her mind, because she wasn't sure it would ever return. It was like the smile of his youth. Seattle and when he still thought he could save the world, make it better, and all because he wanted to so badly. She didn't want to lose that laughter, and she'd already lost the smile. The years between in New York and Vegas, they'd changed him. Not inside, not where it mattered, but he'd gone from trusting to jaded, from painfully optimistic to not optimistic at all, and she always worried he'd slip further, slip more, slip to where she couldn't reach, couldn't tug him back. She wasn't optimistic, not at all, and she'd never been, but he had been, and she didn't want to lose any other bits of him to a world she'd always known as cruel hands and closed-in closet walls. But he laughed, and the yearning in his voice when she kissed her fingers, it was real, and it wasn't dark, and she was proud of herself for this idea. It was in her smile, oui? That teensy bit of pride.
He said they were inside, which really, really wasn't helpful, but she knew that was the point. It made her nudge him, a tap of her foot to where she could hear his own steps falling, and then his hands were on her hips, and she slowed enough so that she was pressed back against him as he guided her forward in the blindfold-gloaming. Her feet between his, and she giggled each time they almost tripped, and she slid her hands down to rest where his rested, over the white fabric that clothed her soft and curved hips. "I'd whine if you blindfolded me a lot," she said, his voice against her ear and a little turn of her cheek. Her lips brushed against his chin. "I'd miss seeing you."
She would've kept going, but he tugged her to a stop, and the metal jangled. Keys, she realized, and she kept her fingers where they were, very, very obedient of his nudge.
She could tell they were in a new space, because the air changed, and his steps echoed more. Bigger, someplace bigger, and he told her to wait, which she didn't want to do. She was impatient a little now, bouncing on her heels and twisting fabric at her hips. But she stayed, stayed, waited and smiled as he muttered. She listened, trying to figure out the secret, but she just wasn't very good at extrapolation. Then, the music started, slow and instrumental, and she turned in a white-fabric circle, as if she could find the source within the pinwheel of twisting legs. A second later, he was back, his hands on her chin, and she opened her eyes wide before he pulled the blindfold away.
She stared. Head tipped up at the blues and purples, at the bright starburst in the sky and at the projector in the center. She turned again, slower this time than before, taking in all the empty seats and all the overhanging be'twinkled blue. Then, turn done, she looked at him. Slow, slow and she stared and stared, and then she brought her hands to his cheeks and cupped them. She always expected him to forget, oui? Dancing in the aisle beneath false stars and confessions and them being really small, and he never forgot. "I love it." Her words were water, soft and damp with emotion, and she stretched on her toes and brought a kiss to his lips. "Je t'aime. So much, bebe. So, so much."
There was another persistent fear in the back of his mind, not of losing her but of losing himself. In the years between New York and Vegas Luke had gone to a dark, dark place, shadows and blood and he hadn’t thought he would ever find his way out. She was what brought him back, her and Gus, and now, now she was what kept him in the light. But sometimes he slipped, sometimes he lost his footing. She was always there to catch him, oui, to hold on tight, but he was afraid of what he was capable of, and he worried that one day he might be pushed too far. After the bad door, it seemed like maybe that would be his breaking point—he was glad it wasn’t. He still remembered how to smile. He still remembered how to laugh. And she reminded him that there was good in the world, there was, even if there wasn’t very much of it. She was enough. She could be the last good thing left, and it would be enough.
He could sense the pride in her smile more than he could see it, and he couldn’t help but smile back. A little sheepish, a little knowing, because this was a good idea and it was all hers. “Ingénieux,” he teased.
It was really, really hard to stop moving, especially with her pressed back against him and giggling every time their feet tangled and they almost tripped. He liked the sound, and he wanted more of it. More, more, and he rocked against her just a little when her lips brushed his chin. "I like it when you whine," he told her, low and heat. "I'd let you see me, baby. I'd just drive you a little crazy first." And if he hadn't wanted her to see the starry-sky projection so badly, he might have tried right then. But he did want her to see, and he wasn't any better at waiting for things than she was. She wanted to see too, oui? Impatience and her turning in a white-dress circle, and he never could deny her anything.
While she stared upward, he stared at her. He wanted her to like it, wanted her to know he did remember, and he watched as she turned slow, slow, taking everything in. He bit down on his lower lip when she looked at him, waiting, waiting, and then she was cupping his cheeks and telling him that she loved it. "Really?" His face split into a grin, and he was all too eager to kiss her back, to press forward when she stretched on her toes and entwine his fingers in white. "I love you too," he vowed. "Very, very much."
He made himself stop, however much he wanted to keep going, and gave a mock bow before holding out one hand. "May I have this dance?"
Wren had always been in a dark place; she lived there. There was nowhere bad for her to go, nowhere worse, and the only thing that made a difference was him. If he was there, it was good, and she was good, and she knew that was a lot of responsibility for him. She knew, too, that it was different for him. She knew he'd lost faith, and she knew he'd lost belief, and she knew the golden optimism of his youth was something he'd never reclaim, no matter what either of them did, no matter how either of them tried. But she knew him. She knew, she knew, she had him memorized like other girls memorized books or fashion. She knew, and she knew this was better than before, than the days since the bad door. She didn't understand why he was better, if it was just time, if it was more, and she wished she did understand. If she understood, she could do it again, if things got bad, whatever it was that made him return to her, eyes less haunted and a smile that warmed his mouth in the mornings. But she didn't know, and all she could do was hold on and hope that she could reel him back in if things went wrong again. She'd never give up, never ever, not on him, and no one could make her do it.
He teased, and he rocked against her, and it was only curiosity that kept her from trying to turn this into something else, something warmer in the cold air of the foreign place. But she was curious, curious, and her voice only dropped a little when he said he liked it when she whined. "I'll whine for you tonight, oui?" It was a promise beneath the stars, and she was turning in that circle a moment later, soft and grace, then her gaze on his as she cupped his cheeks. He bit his lip, and he was that little boy then, the one from Seattle that wanted so very much to please. Her fingers slid, teased his hair behind his ears with soft touches in thick brown. "Really, really, really," she assured him of loving it, and his eager grin made her eyes dampen.
She wanted to keep kissing him. She did. She really, really wanted to keep kissing him.
But she knew she would get to. She knew the night would end with their clothes draped over the empty blue seats, and she liked that about being married, about something permanent and steady. Sometimes, she missed the insanity of finding corners, bars and bathrooms and anywhere they could get their hands on each other. But she liked knowing more. Knowing that he'd be hers before the night ended, and that they'd go home after, and that they'd fall asleep tangled up in sheets that smelled like both of them.
So, she let him draw back, and she giggled when he bowed and held out his hand. It was quiet, the giggle, fingers pressed lightly to her lips before she reached out to take his outstretched hand. Her curtsey was burlesque, too much hip, too much of the seductress innate in the cinnamon-haired girl in virginal white. But her smile was blush-sweet, and her voice was adoration. "Oui, monsieur."
Luke knew there were some things he'd lost that he could never get back. Smiles and laughter couldn't resurrect his faith in the world, in the goodness of people, and it couldn't restore his stubborn optimism. He'd seen parts of the world, dark parts, that he could never forget. He knew what people were capable of. He knew monsters were real, and he knew evil existed. But Wren, she made all of that bearable. She made it okay, even, and she didn't really need to do anything to reel him in, to bring him back; she just had to be there. The dead hadn't disappeared but they weren't so bad anymore—they were familiar, part of the things he saw every day, and he barely even noticed them. Bad things never went away for good, but being able to live with them, that was what counted. And he had her to remind him that there was good, too. He lived for her, and the kids afterward, and that was enough. She'd never give up on him and that mattered, but he'd never give up on her either, not ever.
Even though they'd been married for years, her promise that she'd whine for him tonight still thrilled him. Maybe that kind of thing faded for some people but not them, never them, she could still take his breath away and make him want her more than he'd ever wanted anyone in his life. "Oui," he breathed, desire in his eyes and the thickness of his voice. Her fingers in his hair made him sigh, pleased, and his smile was bright and hopelessly adoring when she reassured him that she really did like it. That was all he wanted, to make her happy and give her everything he thought she deserved.
Impatience was just part of who he was, of how he felt about her, but he knew, too, that he'd get the chance to touch her like he wanted to before the night ended. There was something to be said of the days of bars and dark corners, frenzy in a lack of permanence, but like her he really, really liked the surety of being married. He loved falling asleep beside her and waking up next to her in the morning. He loved knowing she was his, and he was hers, and that they both clung too tightly to ever let go. She was the one constant in his life, the one certainty, and that was better than anything ever.
"I like that," he whispered when she giggled, and his fingers wound around hers when she took his hand. His gaze dropped when she curtseyed, staring, staring, and he looked back up in time to catch her smile. "Merci, amour." He pulled her close, his other hand resting on her hip as he nuzzled against her cheek and breathed her in. "I have an idea," he said against her ear, as they swayed together. "I'll tell you everything I love about you, and you'll tell me everything you love about me, and we'll see how long we can keep dancing, oui?"
She'd learned early to draw the curtains on the bad things, to make her mind blank, to make her body numb. She'd learned, and so the bad things did disappear for her. It was a willful skill, a thing built by the little girl in the closet, a construct, and Wren bounced back from things really, really easily as a result. The bad door had taken longer, but she'd still come back from it before him, before Evie, before Jack. She'd broken entirely, shattered, and knitted herself back with soup and silence and white walls, and there wasn't anything left now. Not even scars, and she knew everyone else had lines upon their souls born in fog and sparking metal along the ground. But that made her feel a little bit better for her friends, because it meant they could heal. Whole, whole, and better than her, and she wanted it for Luke most of all. Selfish, but she didn't feel guilty about it anymore. She wanted him to be okay, and she wanted it with everything she was, with everything she had.
Desire in his eyes, and she didn't worry as much about boring him sexually, not like she worried about boring him in other ways. His want for her, that was something she could see, that she could hear in the thickness of his voice, and he wasn't a really good actor; he'd never be able to pretend he wanted her, not if he didn't. "Oui," she echoed, loving his breathlessness, loving the way he sounded when her fingers danced through his hair. And she loved his impatience, too. It had taken her a really, really long time to coax it out of him, to get him to show her everything, how much he wanted, what he wanted, and that impatience was hers. She wanted to wrap her fingers around it, tuck it into her pocket forever. She'd kill for him, for it, and that darkness didn't scare her like it had once. It was bad; she knew it was bad. But he was good. He was so, so good that it was okay, and he was her everything, and she'd stopped fighting.
She kept her gaze locked on his when she curtseyed for him, her fingers light against his, balance and nothing more in the tangle of fingertips. She didn't move forward, didn't close the space between their bodies, even though she really wanted to. She waited, waited, waited, and then he pulled her close and she sighed as he nuzzled her cheek. His hand on her hip felt like claim, and she glanced down at his fingers with a warm-linger gaze. Close now, and she rocked against him with a sway of soft hips, slow and sinuous, unhurried and she didn't move away once her body met his through fabric and fabric. Hers, and she could stand close, dance close, be close, and her free hand rested on his shoulder. His voice was heat in her ear, promise, and her nod was a tiny thing. "Oui. Tell me what you love about me, and I'll see if I can keep dancing. Then you." She said it with a little bit of smugness, with a little bit of threat, and with more than a little bit of heat.
He thought she deserved better. Better than a life of bad things, better than childhood that wasn't a childhood at all and taught her too young how to go numb and blank. Luke had spent a long, long time blaming himself for things he couldn't change, and he used to drive himself crazy wishing he could. But he'd learned, slowly, slowly, that wasn't any way to live, and he stitched himself back together now. Sometimes it was messy and sometimes it left scars, and maybe he'd never really be whole, as much as she wanted him to be, but that was okay. Even with all the bad things, he had more good days than not. More days where he didn't hate himself so much, when he smiled, laughed, and the dead were quiet. There, following, but easier to ignore. And here, now, none of that existed. The starry sky above them couldn't compete with her; he would rather stare at her for eternity than anything else. He couldn't pretend with her. He didn't want to pretend with her. Wren was the only person who saw him, raw and open and honest. She knew him too well for anything else, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
They both had darkness in them, and it didn't matter. If anything, it just made them more entwined, two parts to a whole, because no one else understood. Maybe the intensity of how they felt about each other would scare other people, but he didn't care about that either. His hand on her hip was claim, the same way every touch was, every look, because she was his, his, his. She rocked against him, and his whimper was a hushed thing against her ear as his fingers pressed in to keep her body against his; he didn't need space, he didn't want it.
"Oui." Agreement, half teasing challenge and half rough whisper. He wasn't always good at words, he was better at showing how he felt, but he could try. “I love your faith in me. I love that you really believe I’m a good person, and I love that you’ll never stop arguing when I say I’m not. I love that you’re selfless, and you want the people you care about to be happy,and I love that you’ll always, always have my back. I love that I can trust you without thinking.” Sway, sway, and his lips formed the words against her skin. “I love that you’re strong and brave, and you’re smarter than you think, and I even love how you drive me crazy.” His tone was adoring up until then, soft, but then it changed, low and warm and the hand at her hip inched lower. “I love how you feel. How you smell. How you taste. I love being close to you. I love looking at you, and listening to your voice, and I love that everything we do is good, it’s—special. I love that it’s never, ever boring, and it never, ever will be. I love that you’re mine, and I love that I’m yours.” He pressed a kiss to her jaw. “And I really, really love how we show each other, oui?"
She knew it was better. She knew. She knew it wasn't perfect, and she knew the lines he'd drawn across his skin with blades wouldn't heal, not really. She knew. But she knew they were steady now, solid and, in a world that was completely unreliable, they had each other. The hotel could take that away. Could separate them, could put years between them like it did to others, and she knew that, too. But as long as they found each other again, she had to believe they could find this again. More scars, maybe more broken, but she had to believe it, or she'd lose her mind. And she was good at believing what she needed to believe, just like she was good at blanks, at shutting off pain. Simple, she was simple, and maybe that made it all easier, and maybe it kept the fears at bay. But she knew it was better. Father's Day was coming, and she'd helped Gus engrave a keychain for Luke, declaring him the best père. There was a stuffed giraffe in a box, along with a new watch and a picture of the kids for his visor in the police cruiser. There would be pancakes in bed, and the zoo, and it was tiny, tiny, this life of theirs, but maybe that was good, especially when everything else seemed so very big.
The darkness didn't scare her anymore. Hers. His. Intensity, but she didn't want anything else, and she loved the weight of his fingers on her hip, and she loved his whimper when she rocked against him. Space was nothing necessary, not for them, and the world thought people should be individuals, apart, and she wouldn't know how to do that; she wouldn't want to. She'd tried for a long, long time to force him there, back into that sunny place where other couples lived; she wasn't trying to do that anymore.
He talked. He said the things he loved, he swayed and his words became sound against her skin. His hand inched down along white fabric, and she whimpered when he said he loved how she tasted. That was the one that made her shudder, buckling knees, but she kept swaying, kept dancing against him. Soft roll of hips, nearly lazy, but never stopping> Mine and yours, his lips against her jaw, and she sighed quiet when he finished. She turned her cheek, nearly kissed him, almost a brush of her lips against his before she drew back. Both of her arms slid over his shoulders, elbows against collarbones and her fingers lost in his thick hair. "Oui," she agreed, and she was wide grey eyes that stared at his face, as if looking away wasn't an option. "Don't stop dancing," she reminded him, her voice husky from the roll of her own hips against him, her own want bright on her face like the stars overhead. "I love how warm you are in the mornings, when I press against your back and you're mussed and sleepy and still not awake enough to roll over and grab me. I love how you are with the kids, patient, sweet, and like they're all you ever wanted, even when Gus hides for hours, and even when Lia tries to eat the power cords. I love how you look in your uniform, buttons and badge and handsome, heroic, and I always to want to get you out of it as soon as you put it on." Her fingers twirled strands of brown. "I love how you look at me when you don't think I'm looking. I love looking at you when you don't see me there. I love how kind you are. I love how you love me. I love how you feel beneath my fingertips." Her fingers slid down along his cheeks, down beneath his chin, down over his throat, and her hips still moved against him, soft and slow. "I love how you feel inside me." A roll of her hips. "But what I love best is late at night, when you walk through the door. When you come back to me. When I can breathe again, and when my heart start again. That's what I love best, you, shadowed in the doorway, looking tired and coming back to me."
Nothing could keep them apart—he really, really believed that. The hotel could separate them, it could age them up or down, it could send them to bad doors where the dead slipped through cracks to follow back, and still their bond was too strong to break. Luke would kill to keep her, and he knew she would kill to keep him, too, and it didn’t matter if society would say that was wrong. He wasn’t anything without her, and he didn’t need independance. He just needed her. Nothing could break him for good, nothing, so long as he didn’t lose her. And maybe their life—not lives, but life—was small, but he didn’t aspire to heroism anymore. Father’s Day and the zoo, Wren and the kids, that was all he needed, all he wanted; he didn’t even feel bad about skipping things like the attack on Stark Tower to stay with her. Even when he was at work she had him on her tether, and he loved nothing more than when she reeled him in, when he returned, home and safe and her.
Their darkness was different. It wasn’t scary, it wasn’t bad, it was warmth and familiarity instead of the unknown. It was theirs. He loved the exclusivity of it.
His words were a distraction, the desire to say them overpowering (barely) the feel of her hips rolling against him, the sound of her whimper, the way she shuddered. But she kept dancing, and he whined at the almost-brush of her lips on his. A kiss, but not a kiss, and he gasped as he tried too late to take what she denied him. His other hand found her hip through white fabric when her arms slid over his shoulders, and he liked the feel of her fingers in his hair, he really, really did. Don’t stop dancing, and he nodded without thinking. He found the hem of her dress as she spoke, inching the fabric up little by little, a slow tease, and the more she moved against him, the heavier his breathing became, as much a sign of his want as the warmth in his expression and the way his eyes darkened as he looked at her. Oui, he looked, stared, not breaking her gaze, and he only just managed to keep dancing. Her words were almost as good as her touch, almost, proof that she really did think the best or him despite what he thought of himself. His breath caught in his throat when she said she loved how he felt inside her, and he tipped his head back for her fingers, oui, complete submission. “Coming back to you, coming home, is the best part of my day,” he breathed, eager and honest. “It’s the only thing that matters.” He had her dress rucked up around her thighs now, palms against her skin, and he leaned in to kiss her with a needy whimper.
She worried about the tether. She worried about checking in all the time, and she worried about suffocating him. She worried about always wanting him home, and she worried about denying him heroics. She'd guilted him out of the X-Mansion, and she'd taken away his choices during the attack on Stark Tower. Logically, she knew those things were bad. She knew he had a right to decide, to be, to do what he wanted to do. She knew that, but she couldn't quell her desire to hold him close, to hold him tight, and it was scary sometimes. Scary, because she knew she'd lock him up and throw away the key in order to keep him. That was bad. That was really, really bad. But she couldn't help it, not even a little, and all she could do was hope it never happened, that he never left, that he never grew tired or bored with her tiny little mind and its tiny little workings.
But none of that mattered now. Now was about his fingers on her hips, his other hand staking claim on white fabric as she swayed. Her smile when he nodded, agreeing to keep dancing, was a quiet and private thing of a smile. He was so good to her, he always, always tried to do what she wanted, and she knew that, she saw it, and she didn't take it for granted. She was always amazed he was hers, that she'd found him, captured him somehow, selfless and sweet and too giving for his own good. He was something to protect, something to keep safe, and yet she didn't want that at all. She was greedy, greedy when it came to him, and she only glanced down once as his fingers found the hem of her dress and tugged, inching fabric up as his breathing became heavier, like weight she could feel against her skin. His gaze darkened, and she swayed closer, his breath caught in his throat and her wanting nothing more than to kiss him. But she didn't, she didn't; she held out, lips not brushing against his, and his head tipped back for fingers that slipped down to where skin disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.
Dress hem up around her thighs, and she'd picked the underthings beneath herself. Flimsy fabric, see-thru and nothing netting between thighs and over pink nipples, and she nudged back just a little when he tried to kiss her. His needy whimper, she felt that all the way to her toes, but non, non, non. Not yet, not yet, and she looked at him. "Non. Tell me about coming home, oui? Dites moi."
It was sweet, he thought, that she worried. He worried too, about the same things—about suffocating her, about holding on too tight and keeping her away from the outside world. But he liked his tether, and he willingly let her slip her collar around his neck. It was what he wanted. And that was just how they loved each other, obsessive and needy, too tight, too close, intensity that no one else could understand. He would always come back. Even when he was at work, and she was at home, he was still hers. He thought about her every second they weren't together, and she was all that mattered when they were. Like here, now, the rest of the world didn't exist—only the two of them did. He would always, always give her whatever she wanted, anything at all, and he wanted to protect her just as much as she wanted to protect him. Everything, that was what he wanted. Everything and more and more and more, he could never get enough.
She swayed closer, and her fingers were at his collar, and he really, really wanted to kiss her. He wanted her dress off, too, and he thought she'd let him, or maybe he just wanted her too much to think. Denial was like torture, and he whined when she nudged back, growled, a disgruntled little sound. "Baby—" But non, she said, and he shoved her dress higher, pressing against her to keep the fabric from falling back down. "Coming home," he echoed, hands sliding beneath white, palming her breasts through the flimsy netting that covered them. "Coming home is like... being whole again, oui? When I'm not with you, I'm half a person. But when I'm back with you, when I'm home, I'm complete. I can breathe again." He rocked against her, slow, slow. "I can feel. You make me feel."
She loved that he shoved her dress higher, even after her non, and no one would understand that. Like the blades and the bruises and the choking, she knew no one would understand. But consent, it wasn't something that existed when you belonged to someone else the way she belonged to him. It went beyond submission. It was a thing all its own, no label explaining it clearly enough, and denying him wasn't ever real, because it was like denying breath in her own lungs. This was torture, and it was on purpose, and she really, really liked it. It was them. It was a part of them no one else knew about it, and it was a part of them the rest of the world would never comprehend. Non, and he he pressed against her to keep the fabric from falling.
He answered; she knew he would.
She didn't tell him not to touch. She didn't do anything to stop the slip of his hands beneath the white fabric and over netting delicate as gossamer. She sighed when he palmed her breasts, a slight arch of her back to bring her closer to him, even as she swished her hips a little against his, slow and breathing a little harder as he talked, as he rocked. Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, tiny deterrents that she tugged free of their enclosures, and maybe she should've worried about people, night staff, someone, anyone. But the truth was she didn't care. The seats could be filled with bodies, and it would still be only them in the vast room with the stars overhead. There was no one else but him, and the buttons slipped and slipped and slipped free.
"Tell me something about your day," she said, torment and sweet and her smile said she knew what she was doing, that it was deliberate, that she was drawing it out. Her voice was quieter now, husky and low, and she nuzzled against his jaw, nose there against his warm skin and an inhale to center herself, to find the strength to keep going, going, going until he snapped for her. Until he growled. Until everything stopped for him but this, her, and she needed that. She wanted it, all of him, everything, and no space for anything else but his need for her.
If she ever told him no and meant it, he would stop. Nothing she didn’t want, not ever, and people wouldn’t understand but he could tell. He knew the difference between teasing torment and an actual lack of consent. This? Was the former; it always was. It had taken him a long, long time to trust, but now he did, wholly and implicitly. She wanted everything with him, and he wanted everything with her, which left no room for ‘no’. So he shoved her dress higher, and his hands slid under fabric, against her skin, and he knew she wanted. It wasn’t something he questioned, not even for a second. She sighed for him, and he knew. Her back arched, and her breathing became harder, and he knew. His world had narrowed to her, and he didn't even think about someone walking in on them. The planetarium was closed, and he knew the night guard, but even if there was still a risk of discovery it didn't matter. What did matter was this, them, and his gaze was greedy as he watched her work at his buttons.
The way her voice sounded, husky and low, made him moan, a low sound in the back of his throat. She was teasing him, he knew she was, asking about his day like she didn't know that he wanted something entirely not talking. The friction of all that rocking had made him hard, and he nudged her dress up just a little more, hardness against the flimsy fabric that covered her. "My day," he repeated, like he was trying to focus past the feel of her nuzzling against his jaw, past the way each rock against her made his breath hitch, made him whine for more. "I thought about you a lot." That was the most he could articulate, and maybe it was cheating, but he didn't care. He dragged his mouth along her jaw, and his fingers slipped beneath netting to tease her nipples, briefly, more torment than pleasure, before pulling them away and tugging the hem of her dress up.
Up, up, rough and unyielding. "Lift your arms," he demanded, rough and breathless. "I want it off."
She would never mean it, non, not ever. She knew people did sometimes, people in other relationships. She knew couples said it, non, and it didn't mean anything bad. It meant not now, and maybe it meant I'm busy, or I'm tired, or I feel sick. She knew those things, but she knew she'd never say that word, not in that context. Not wanting him, it would be like not wanting her heart to beat beneath her ribcage. Her skin smelled of want, of desire, and she knew he could tell. Whatever she smelled like, vanilla and limes and honey, he could always tell what she felt, and she loved that. It was like language without language, and he shoved the fabric of her dress higher, hands slipping beneath, and he was nothing like the scared boy in the Seattle, the one who hadn't known how to let himself touch her.
He moaned, and she whimpered. The sound was something born against the back of her throat, and it was something warm and feminine. And she was teasing, oui. She was teasing, making him talk, and she knew he didn't want to, even before he nudged against white fabric more, hard and obvious, and this time her whine was quieter, somehow more wanting in its keening. Desire chased along her spine, coated her skin, and she listened as he nudged her more, pressed against her harder as he tried to focus. She freed buttons, one by one, and he was inarticulate and she loved it. She smiled, head ducked to watch the buttons come loose and bare skin beneath, and she shoved at the fabric on his shoulders as he dragged his mouth along her jaw. But it was his fingers that made her own hands still on his shoulders, gripping there, as if she needed him to keep her grounded. He was her balance, and he was her destruction, and she clung as his fingers teased her nipples hard beneath soft netting.
"Non," a quiet whisper as he withdrew his touch, but then he was shoving her hem up, demanding she lift her arms, and she giggled a husky thing of a giggle. Acquiescence, and she lifted her arms long enough to let him pull the dress off. And then she danced out of his grip, deliberately back and around him. She pressed there, her chest to his spine, bare skin and gossamer. "What did you think of? About me, what did you think?" she asked, tips of her toes and her lips against his ear.