log: luke/wren, marvel Who: Luke & Wren What: Reunions, sort of. (2/3) Where: Their (new) house. When: Recently. Warnings/Rating: None.
When he said he made a mistake, she shook her head. "You didn't make a mistake. It's not a mistake. It's just something that happened, and maybe we need to find out what it means." She knew he wouldn't like that, knew he wouldn't like the implication that not talking to her meant something bigger or deeper. But she thought it did, even if he wasn't willing to consider it, and she just wanted him to be honest, to think it through, to consider that maybe, maybe, he hadn't talked to her because he hadn't wanted to, or because there hadn't been anything to say. She thought maybe that happened, quiet in marriages. "If you're caught up in something, then I want you to be caught up in it. I don't want to be the person who's pulling you back." She went on quickly, not giving him space to misunderstand. "It doesn't mean you don't want me, and it doesn't mean you don't want to be married to me, okay? Maybe it just means things need to change, or you want other things too, and I'm not very good at sharing you with the world." Luke was much, much more social than she was, and he'd always, always been more social than she was. "I think losing sight of something happens for a reason," she added, soft, and she didn't want him to feel guilty, she didn't.
But she didn't like the idea of him killing people again, and he was so sure he would; she wasn't sure. She didn't think he had it in him, not now, not the way he was now. To her knowledge, he hadn't killed anyone in a really, really long time. He always doubted himself, and she just shook her head, silent disagreement. "Non," she finally said. "You're good. You wouldn't, not like you think you would."
She was pretty sure he had no idea what he needed. She knew that, and she just wanted him to be able to figure it out. She wanted him to be okay with figuring it out, whatever that meant, and she wasn't very good at selfless when it came to maybe losing him, but she was trying.
When he knelt on the stairs and tugged her knees apart, she parted her stockinged thighs for him without any hesitation. It was instinct, and she leaned forward the tiniest bit, because closeness was what she wanted, and it was what she always wanted, and she couldn't help it, even now. Her eyes shuttered closed a moment when he cupped her face, and then she opened them, because she knew he was doing this so she wouldn't look away. "You do matter." She was trying to let him talk, to let him say, but she had to contradict that, and the words overlapped his insistence that he knew she would contradict him.
Her fingers had been clutched in her lap, and she unwound them and brought them up to his lips as he exhaled. "Go back to the police," she said, and it was a whisper, and it wasn't really what she'd intended to say at all. Maybe it wasn't a solution to anything, really, and maybe it wouldn't fix them, but anything that made him feel worthwhile was good, and she had a hard time focusing on what she was feeling when he was floundering like he was. "You say you don't want to be a hero, and you worry about going too far, but being heroic is just who you are. It's part of you to want to help people," she said, fingers moving to push strands of brown off his forehead. "I hate it, and it's dangerous, and I don't get a lot of sleep at night, but you're happier. We're better when you're happier. When you can't figure things out, then you're not really here when you're here," she said, and maybe that didn't make sense either, but it did to her. It made a lot of sense to her. "Then I feel like you don't really want to be. Here, I mean, like you don't really want to be here."
She was right; he didn’t like the implication that it meant something, that it was more than just a mistake along the road. Part of him wished she would agree, that she would make it simple, but a larger part of him knew that wouldn’t fix what was wrong. Hiding and pretending everything was okay had brought them here, it had made things so bad in New York, and he couldn’t fall back on old habits again, he couldn’t. “What do you think it means?” It was a reluctant question, one he really didn’t want to ask, but he was trying. He was trying to see it from her point of view instead of insisting that things were fine. “I don’t think that’s true,” he argued, overlapping her words, because he didn’t think being caught up in something was always a good thing. But he made himself stay quiet, refrained from interrupting again when she rushed forward to say that it didn’t mean he didn’t want her or to be married to her. At least she knew that. But he still worried, still doubted, and maybe she had something in that him being scared of her leaving played into his lack of communication. She’d never felt the compulsion to help people like he had, and he didn’t care, it didn’t matter, but he worried that she would take it the wrong way and think she wasn’t enough. He wasn’t very good at balancing the two. “I’m not very good at sharing you either,” he admitted, with something like a half smile. “I want you all to myself. I understand, I do. But I’ll always be yours, no matter what.” He bit his lip. “I think sometimes getting caught up in something is a bad thing. I think sometimes I need you to pull me back. We don’t always do things that are good for us, and sometimes we hurt ourselves without realizing it and it takes other people to make us see what we’re doing,” he explained, and maybe he wasn’t making any sense, but he’d done a lot of harm to himself over the years and he hadn’t always been aware of it. And he couldn’t help feeling guilty, no matter what she said or did; that wouldn’t change.
He didn’t deserve her faith in him. She always thought he was good, always thought the best of him, but she was wrong; he just couldn’t bear to tell her as much. “You’ve always believed in me more than I believe in myself,” he said quietly, and his smile was a fond thing with just a tinge of sadness. “But I would. I know I would. I can’t lie to myself about that, Wren. It’s been really, really hard to stop, and I can’t risk it. Not-- not after everything, not when I finally have the kind of life I never thought I deserved.” He shook his head. He’d slipped up once or twice, but that wasn’t the same as going back, as doing it on a regular basis; he couldn’t live with himself if he did. He wouldn’t be fit to be around his kids, or around her, if he came home every night with blood on his hands. He’d lose them and he couldn’t bear that, he couldn’t.
It would have been easy to forget talking and everything else when she was this close, and he wanted to, but he made himself stay focused. He leaned toward her, closer, and he kissed her fingers when she brought them to his lips, but he fought to keep from becoming distracted. He held his breath when she told him to go back to the police, because he was so, so sure she was just saying that for his sake. He just wanted her to be okay with the fact that he needed to help people, and he wasn’t sure that she was, and not talking was all wrapped up in that uncertainty, that fear. He didn’t want to lose her because he felt like he should be doing something worthwhile with his life. “I understand,” he said, softly, and he did. Maybe she thought it didn’t make sense, but it did. “It doesn’t mean I don’t want to be here, but I’m-- I was distant, I know, you’re right. I--” He paused, tried to gather his words. “I don’t want to be a vigilante again, but I do want to help people. I always have. And I just-- I get scared that you’ll think that means you’re not enough, and you are. I want you to understand that if I do go back to the police, it doesn’t mean I don’t want this, that I don’t want permanence. You want me to be happy, but I want you to be happy, too, and maybe-- maybe I let my fear get the better of me because I didn’t know how to explain, and it’s just easier to pretend. Not better,” he added quickly, “not better. And I know, I see, that’s why it’s different. I want it to be better. I want to tell you everything always, and not worry that I’ll ruin us. Sometimes I think-- I think maybe I’m selfish, maybe it’s selfish to want a life with you and to help people, to have both. No matter what I do you’ll always, always be the most important thing in the world to me.” He dropped his hands, found her fingers with his and squeezed. “I just worry you won’t believe that.”
"I think it means you didn't notice, that you didn't want to talk to me, or you would've. I don't think you can call that a mistake, bebe. It was a choice." She rushed ahead, before he could get angry, before he could interrupt. "I know it doesn't mean that you don't love me. I know you do, I just mean about the talking," she said, and that wasn't the most eloquent explanation, but she wanted him to understand that she wasn't angry. She wasn't willing to lie to herself and say it was a mistake, but she wasn't angry. "My maman always said husbands get bored, and I wasn't working, and I didn't have anything interesting to say," she admitted. That ate at her, that she'd done this by settling into the tiny little life she wanted, without realizing the things that kept him interested, and that kept their relationship strong. She did smile a little bit when he said he'd always be hers, but it was a little sad, and it was a little wistful. "I want to be interesting to you." She motioned to her hair, her dress, and even the discarded heels. "I can look it. I know I forgot to, but I can. It's the other things I worry about, the part about saying smart things and having smart conversations with you." Luke was so smart; he'd always been so smart.
She was absolutely sure that he deserved every bit of faith she had in him, and maybe he was a little bit right about pulling each other back from bad things. He'd done that for her over, over, over, and she might be able to believe that she'd done the same for him. But that wasn't the same as not letting him do what he needed to do in order to be happy with his life. "I believe in you just the right amount, and I always have," she insisted, and she just couldn't agree with him about killing people. She tipped her head to the side, and she looked at him. "Bebe, you wouldn't ever go back to that. Even if you wanted to, even if you needed to, you would think of the kids, and you just wouldn't." Luke was an amazing dad.
She watched as he kissed her fingers, and she wanted more, but non. He still had to tell her what was wrong, who had shown up, and it was too easy to get lost in his arms. But she still liked that he was closer, and she sighed a tiny bit, relaxed a tiny bit, and they really had been apart too long. When he held his breath, she nodded encouragingly. "I mean it. You have to do what makes you happy. You were happier when you worked for the police. You'll always be heroic. It's you, Luke," and his desk job didn't sound very heroic at all. Even when he'd been killing people, it had been something born out of a need to help, to stop the bad things, and she knew that. "The Mansion made me feel like I wasn't enough. That life made me feel like I wasn't enough. When you were a cop, it wasn't like you were in a complete other life. You still felt mine." Which was silly, and she knew it was a silly, but a big team of superheroes felt so removed, and driving around in a cop car didn't. "I was really, really proud of you." It had terrified her, but she'd been so proud.
She bit her lip when he said he wasn't sure she would understand that she was most important, and she looked down at her fingers as he squeezed them. "It always felt like that before, but not since we've been here," she confessed. "It felt like I was just the place you slept."
He didn't think they were ever going to agree, not on what was and wasn't a mistake, not on her conviction that she wasn't interesting to him, and he wondered if it was even worth arguing about. They'd just go around and around in circles, and maybe the best way was to just show her that she was interesting and let time do the rest. He'd get it right this time, he would. "Mistakes are choices we make that we regret," he said. "Things we do that we shouldn't have, that we wish we hadn't. It was a mistake." He said it with enough stubborn insistence that it was clear he wasn't going to back down easily, but he did like that she said she knew he loved her. Sometimes he thought she just said things to soothe him, but he really, really hoped it was true. "Your maman was wrong," he said without thinking, and he bit down on the inside of his lip. "I just mean-- you are interesting to me, and it's not like-- like I got tired or bored of you or whatever. It wasn't that." But he didn't think he could make her understand. He ran his fingers through her hair, toying with the blonde strands, and smiled a little. "It doesn't matter what you wear, or what colour your hair is. You'll always be the most beautiful woman in the world to me," he told her. His brow furrowed when she said she worried about saying smart things, because he really didn't think he was that smart; more often than not he felt really stupid. "I think just conversations are enough. They don't have to be... smart." He tipped his head to the side. "What is a smart conversation, anyway?"
Most of the time it felt like she was the only person who believed in him, the only one who ever had, and he really did have no idea what he'd do without her. He shook his head, because he couldn't find the right words, and when he did finally settle on something his voice was a little thick, emotion and a shaky smile. "I love you." That wasn't enough either, but it was close. She thought he was stronger than he was, though, and that worried him; he'd never believed himself deserving of being a father. "I don't know if I'm that strong," he admitted, quiet. "I want to be, but I don't... I don't know if I am." And he didn't want to have to find out.
When she relaxed, he relaxed. It wasn't even something he realized, just something he did, and he slid his fingers between hers as he listened. It was an idle thing, back and forth, and he looked up when she stopped. "You are enough," he said immediately, because that was important. "And I will always be yours. Nothing can change that." But she was right, he had been happier when he was working for the police. He'd tried SHIELD, he had, but he didn't think it was for him. "The Mansion is too big," he said, finally. "So is SHIELD. They focus on big threats, but... what about the little people? What about the crime that happens every day, and those victims? Who looks out for them?" He swayed against her a little, an unconscious movement. "That's what I've been thinking about. Maybe the police are small, but I like small. It's good. The Avengers and the X-Men can save the world and fight aliens, and SHIELD can stop outside threats, but me? I think I do better on the streets. I always have." Even in Seattle, that had been true.
It killed him, that she didn't feel like she was the most important thing in his life. That was indicative of just how badly he'd messed up, and if nothing else, it was one hell of a wake up call. "Oh, Wren." Tug, tug on her fingers, and he tried to move even closer. He kissed her without thinking, quick and a whimper, because he couldn't help himself when she was right there. "You're so much more than that. I don't even have words for how much you mean to me. I-- I know it felt like it, but it was never, ever like that. I never saw you as some place to sleep. I hate that you felt like you were." He shook his head. God, he was such an idiot.
She knew her inability to just believe things frustrated him. She'd thought it would end their relationship back in New York, and even early in Las Vegas, when he'd been so, so very angry, and they'd been so very quiet. She could tell he wasn't going to back down, that he wasn't going to agree, but she didn't understand how not remembering to talk to someone could be a mistake. To her, it just meant he hadn't wanted to talk to her, and that would take time to fade, no matter how much she wanted it to fade right there, right then. He said her maman was wrong, and she didn't know if she believed that either. She always thought of Luke as the exception to the rule, something apart from all those other men her maman had told her about, and that she'd known herself throughout her life. It was his pedestal, and maybe this was a little bit of that, a little bit of that pedestal coming down, and maybe he wasn't as perfect as she'd always made him out to be in her mind. But that didn't matter, and she'd realized that over the past few months. However flawed he was, she'd love him just the same. No matter what he did, she'd love him just the same. She knew that wasn't healthy, and she didn't say it aloud. Most people wouldn't understand, but then most people didn't understand them, and that was okay. Even with things like they were now, she really, really believed that what they had was special.
He touched her hair, and she glanced over at a pale strand before looking back at him. "What do you like best?" she asked. She tried to guess; she always tried to guess. She wanted to be what he wanted, and she wanted to be what he desired. She wanted to be that thing he always needed, and she wanted him to be unable to keep from looking at her across a room. She wanted all those things, but she tried to guess, and it wasn't working much. "I know you're going to say anything. I know. But then I try to figure out what you really think, and I can't tell. If you don't like what you see, then that matters to me. If you like something more than something else, that matters too." It felt more important than being smart, because she hadn't won him by being smart, and she knew that, so she left the question about conversation unanswered, unimportant, left behind.
He was strong. No matter what he thought, he was; she believed in that. She believed he was good, and she always would, and that was unshakeable. His fingers slid between hers, and she echoed the movement, reassurance in the slide of skin against skin, and it was always easier when they were touching each other, at least for her. She smiled a little bit when he started talking about little victims, because she'd always known that was what mattered to him, and it just took him a little longer to understand it maybe. The sway made her almost press a kiss to his jaw, and the almost-movement was obvious. "I want to kiss you," she said plainly, because she did, but she also knew they'd stop talking. Years ago, they wouldn't stop talking just because their hands were all over each other, but now they did, and she wasn't sure she could rewind, turn back that clock. She put her fingers to his lips, and she leaned back the slightest bit, just in case. "I want you to do what you need to do in order to be happy. That's what this is all about. None of it matters, this house, nothing, if you aren't happy." Maybe being a hero didn't matter to other people like it did to him, maybe it wasn't precisely normal, but she loved him for caring, and she loved him for wanting to help; she always had.
The tug to her fingers made her look up, and the kiss surprised her. Maybe it shouldn't have, but it did. She kissed him back, a sigh to chase his whimper, and then she shook her head when he did. "Non. Don't, please, don't. I don't want you to feel bad. I just want to make it better. I don't know what went wrong. I just want you to tell me what went wrong," she said, and this time she kissed him, quick, and she drew back from the press of lips before she could get lost in the kiss.
He was glad she didn't argue. Some things they just didn't agree on, some things they saw differently, and maybe that was okay. To him, not talking to her had been a mistake. It was him taking her, their relationship, for granted, assuming that she just knew. He'd gotten too comfortable, maybe, and that wasn't okay. She doubted, and she worried, and he needed to make sure he did everything he could to show her--not just tell--that she mattered, that he thought she was perfect no matter what. And maybe it was a good thing, that he didn't know she thought her maman was right. Even though he knew he wasn't perfect he kind of liked that she thought he was, and irrational as it might have been he didn't want to lose that. But then again, realistically, nobody was perfect. And he didn't need the world to understand them; he'd never needed that. What other people thought of them and their relationship just didn't matter.
When she asked what he liked best, he was about to say exactly what she'd expected: anything. Brown or blonde or whatever else, it really didn't matter, and he didn't understand why she thought it did. "I always like what I see," he told her. "You've always been beautiful. You always will be." But maybe she just wanted him to... pick one? He wasn't sure. And he worried that what he said might be misconstrued, and then she'd think he didn't like looking at her if she didn't dress a certain way, or have a certain hair colour. "I mean, I guess... I guess your natural colour was nice, but that doesn't mean I don't think you look gorgeous right now. You do. You're very, very distracting," he added, unable to keep back a smile, and his gaze lowered before he looked back up at her face. "What do you like best?" Because he thought that mattered more, and he noticed that she didn't answer his question about smart conversation. "Hey." He tugged on her fingers. "You know I'm not just with you for your looks, right?" He hadn't thought to worry about that until just then, but now he was.
Her fingers against his, her admission that she wanted to kiss him, it all made it really hard to keep still. "I want to kiss you, too," he said, and he leaned forward, only stopped by her fingers on his lips. It made him laugh, that she knew him well enough to know she'd have to stop him, and he kissed her fingers before settling back a little. "I think it'll make me happy, going back to that," he said thoughtfully, and he hesitated. "But you know you make me happy, too. Right?" Repetition, maybe, but he wanted to be sure. "And I want you to be happy just as much as you want me to be. Your happiness matters to me." He wasn't good with being selfish, he just wasn't, and he didn't think it should be all about him.
He didn't want to answer. He just wanted to keep kissing her, to make her understand that she was his world, and he pressed his lips to her jaw when she pulled back from the kiss. "I assumed, I think," he began, the words muffled against her skin. "I just assumed you knew. I got caught up in trying to find something, like I had in Vegas with the police, and I assumed you'd know my feelings hadn't changed. I don't know." He nudged her chin up, trailed kisses down her throat, words in between. "I can't live without you. You're my everything, my soulmate, and it will be better, I promise. I promise."
She could tell from the expression on his face that he was going to say precisely what she wanted him not to say: anything. She thought she was going to have to ask again, and she thought she was going to have to push. He said he always liked what he saw, and she made a little sound of displeasure, of no. It was sweet, so sweet, but she was drowning in insecurity and she needed something tangible to hang onto. Then he said, he spoke, and she relaxed a tiny bit. Someone else might've hated the answer he gave, might've thought it meant he didn't love, didn't want, didn't need. But she just laughed a quiet little laugh, something drowning in relief. Because it was an answer, and it was a preference, and she needed that. Maybe it was just another way in which she was strange, but she liked knowing what she needed to do in order to make him like her best. Maybe it was dangerous, putting so much importance on the physical, but all she felt was relief, and she almost didn't hear him ask her what she liked best, because her ears were ringing with silent appreciation. "Dark," she finally said, and that took a few seconds, and it took a little bit of thinking. Dark, which was the same as natural, and it wasn't bleach and salons and effort and not-her.
He tugged on her fingers again, and she looked up, and she blinked when he asked if she knew he wasn't only with her for her looks. "I know," she said, and she did. "I know, but I still want you to want me," she admitted, and her maman would've said that was a bad move. Spreading her uncertainties out like a feast before him, that was a bad move, but she did it anyway. "You didn't always think I was pretty. I don't want you to forget."
The kiss he pressed to her fingers made her smile, and she nodded when he asked if she knew that she made him happy. She did know. Maybe it only made sense in her head, but she didn't think he wanted to go away, and she didn't think he wanted to be with anyone else. She knew he loved her, and maybe she just thought he didn't enjoy her as much as he did once, and they'd always been unhealthily obsessed with one another. Maybe this was normal, and she really, really didn't know. When he pressed his lips to her jaw, she sighed, and she swayed, and she whimpered, and she always wanted him so much after they were apart. But she didn't let herself do anything more, and she didn't let him get any closer. Still, she tipped her head back for the kisses along her throat, and she drank in his words through her skin, and she wanted to believe him so much. She wanted things to go back, to be like they had been, and she wanted to believe it could happen. "I promise," she echoed, an unthinking repetition of his words, and her voice drew her out of the reverie, pulled her back.
She made a sound of complaint in the back of her throat as she forced herself to scoot away, up two steps, and distance between them. "You need to tell me who came. If we keep doing that, I'll forget."
Her laugh confused him. He really didn't get it, didn't understand why she needed an answer, but it seemed like him giving one (sort of) was a good thing. Part of him still worried that she'd think he didn't want her as much now because of her hair, and he didn't like that she thought she had to change herself for him, but he managed to bite back further assurances that he liked her just the way she was-- no matter what that might be. "Okay," he ventured, tentative, when she said she liked dark best. "It's not bad? You're not upset?" Which maybe didn't make any sense; he hoped she understood. She didn't look it, and he couldn't smell anything that would indicate as much, but he wanted to make sure anyway.
He smiled, fond, when she said she wanted him to want her. "You've always been pretty. No, beautiful. I never thought you were ugly," he teased. But he was beginning to understand that, maybe, him saying he liked her natural colour best gave her something tangible, certainty that he'd like what he saw when he looked at her even though he already did. "I want you," he added, and that was lower, more heated, not just a general assurance but wrapped up in how close they were and how hard it was to keep focused.
It was enough just then, her nod of agreement that she knew she made him happy, and the way she reacted to his lips against her jaw made him forget everything else. He forgot Thomas, forgot telling her; all that mattered was the way her skin tasted, his mouth on her throat and lower. Her echo of his promise elicited a pleased sound, and his fingers had just begun to slide under the hem of her dress when she moved away. He whined in protest even though he knew she was right, and he stretched to nuzzle against her ankle with a sigh. Seconds ticked by before he looked up at her, and he decided to just come right out with it. "Thomas," he told her, and he'd taken hold of her leg without even realizing it, wanting that tether, that connection. "Thomas showed up. He's here."
She shook her head when he asked if she was upset. The pale hair, it was just a way of hiding, something from the years after Gus was born, something to make her not be the girl she'd been in Seattle. "Non. I want to do whatever you think is prettiest," she admitted, and she didn't bother hiding that at all. It was an indication that she was feeling a little bit better, the fact that she smiled when he said she'd never thought she was ugly. "You just didn't see me," she said, but it didn't hurt to remember that time anymore. "I don't want you to not see me again. That's what happens with husbands after a while," she said, the voice of streets, the voice of her maman, things learned and never unlearned. No matter how much she wanted to leave all that behind, her past and everything that came with it, it was still inside of her, and she didn't even realize that it skewed things sometimes. But he said he wanted her, and his voice was low, and his voice was warm, and she believed him.
She really, really hated sliding back, away from those fingers that had begun to inch beneath the hem of her dress. He nuzzled her ankle, and her fingers found his hair, and she walked her fingertips through it. He was beautiful, and she wondered if he knew yet how much. One day, she worried, he would understand, and maybe she wouldn't be enough anymore. She was worrying when he looked up, and she knew before he said anything at all that she wasn't going to like whatever it was that he had to tell her. Maybe part of her knew, even before he said the name. There were goosebumps on her arms, and she looked down at him, and she noticed the grip on her leg, even if he didn't.
She hated Thomas. She hated Thomas so much. She hated him, and she was so glad Luke was holding onto her, because she just wanted to find the older man and scream until his ears bled. Her anger was a thing on her skin, and it was written all over her expression, and maybe she was a little more dangerous now that she'd killed people and walked away unscathed. "You talked to him?" Wait, no, he said that already, and she tried to catch up, to think past the anger. "What happened?" She was worried. She was so, so very worried.
Maybe it should worry him, that she wanted so badly to please him, to make him find her physically appealing, but he knew he'd never abuse that like some men would and that made it a little better. He'd never demand that she do this or that, never make her feel like she wasn't pretty enough because of a hair colour. "I always think you're beautiful, but your natural colour is... more you, I guess. You don't have to go blonde to get my attention." It was a hesitant thing, since he was still worried about her taking the things he said the wrong way, but it was a little true that he liked her real color more. He'd fallen in love with her, not the blonde she hid behind. "I was an idiot," he said, a sheepish laugh when he thought of the oblivious teenager he'd been before he realized what was right in front of him. But he thought she was wrong, because he didn't think he could ever go back to seeing her the way he had before he'd fallen for her no matter how bad things got. He shook his head. "Some husbands, maybe, but not all. Not me."
His eyes half-closed in pleasure when her fingers found his hair, and wanted more, more of the caress that made him want to purr even though he still found it so embarrassing. He'd never think he was beautiful, never think he was anything but ugly, twisted, and it was really only her that kept the self-hatred at bay.
He could smell her anger. It surprised him a little, because even though he knew she didn't like Thomas he hadn't realized she hated him this much. But he understood why, and he hated him too; the only difference was that he loved him just as much, maybe more, and he couldn't help it. That made him weak, made his anger fail. "I talked to him," he agreed, scooting up a step to rest his chin on her knee. "He-- well, I guess it started with Amanda. She just kind of appeared at my desk so, you know, I called Max to pick her up, and then we were in the office and suddenly Thomas was just... there." He paused. "I guess he's involved in something dangerous, but he wouldn't tell us what. I just know he's high up in whatever it is and he's been here for years. Don't worry, though," he said, looking up at her. "We don't have much of a connection, and it's not like anyone who'd say anything knows. Amanda's at more risk, I think, but as long as they keep her relation to him a secret it'll be okay." Maybe he should have been more worried, but this wasn't Seattle. As far as anyone was concerned his parents were dead and he'd never been adopted, never spent years as a vigilante, never committed murder and gotten away with it. On paper, he was nothing to Thomas Brandon. Not that he thought reality was much different.
"Mousy librarian," she said of the cinnamon hair that had turned darker as she got older. She was teary, but they weren't bad tears, and she was pretty sure he was used to her crying by now. When they were young, he'd thought tears meant he'd done something wrong. But now he didn't, not very much, and there was a tiny, tremulous smile that accompanied the words. The smile went a little bit wider when he called his young self an idiot, and there was a quiet laugh that went along with the smile, and she really wanted to believe that he'd never be the kind of mari her maman warned her about, and that he'd never be the kind of husband that had hired her and told her how tired he was of his wife. She wanted him to be what he said he was, but it scared her too, because she'd been raised to believe no one was ever like that. But it was him, and he wasn't like that; she knew that. She ran her fingers through his hair, and she bent at the waist and rubbed her cheek against it, her body bowed over his, and she wanted everything to be okay again, she needed everything to be okay again.
But Thomas, Thomas made her angry enough to momentarily forget all the things that had gone wrong for months, and it was only the motion of him scooting up to rest his chin on her knee that kept her there, still. She listened. She wanted to interrupt, but she didn't. She listened, and she tried to find what was behind his words. She knew what Thomas had done to him, and she knew how much Thomas had ruined his life. The anger wasn't all for the older man, either. She'd trusted, when she left New York, that Thomas would take care of him, would make sure he had a better life without her in it. Thomas hadn't done that at all, and she was really, really angry about that.
She wasn't surprised the hotel had dragged Thomas here, and she wasn't surprised to hear he was involved in dangerous things. Once, that would've worried her a lot, but not so much anymore. Silver had begun to dull the fear of outside things causing them harm, and then Max, and then Jack, and now she just accepted that everything out there was dangerous, and maybe none of it was as dangerous as the hotel itself, aliens and hallucinations and parties no one wanted to attend. She shook her head when he was done talking, and her fingers slipped below his chin. She forced him to look up at her with a tiny bit of pressure. "I want to know how you feel." He hadn't said anything about that. It had all been facts, and she didn't need facts. She wanted to know what it was doing to him. "We can take care of ourselves," she added, reassuringly, and that was something she really meant.
Once, her tears would have made him panic. He'd have immediately thought it was his fault, that he'd done something wrong, but nowadays he was pretty good at figuring out the difference between happy tears and sad ones. Her smile helped, too, and he wished they could stay like that forever, her body bent over his and her cheek pressed against his hair. "My mousy librarian," he corrected. His fingers closed around her wrist, just for a moment, and he was so very determined to make things okay again. And this time it would stick, it had to. He'd prove that he wasn't like the men her mother warned her about; he was a murderer, yeah, but he wasn't that kind of man. He'd never cheat, never wander, never get tired of her. His father never had, and for all his faults he didn't think Thomas was that kind of man either; he had good examples to follow in that regard.
He didn't know if Thomas had really understood just how deeply Wren's abandonment had hurt him. He didn't know, because he hadn't asked; they'd talked but he still didn't have the answers he wanted. It was easier to hate, to be angry, when he wasn't face to face with the older man; when he was, he lost his resolve. He let her force his chin up, didn't fight the pressure of her fingers, and her question made him forget about telling her that Thomas had the ability to call the dead. It scared him, that, and he was still trying not to think about it.
"I feel..." He trailed off, trying to get a hold of his thoughts to put them into words. It was hard, and he smiled when she said they could take care of themselves; he nodded a little in agreement. But he couldn't avoid the topic, couldn't stick to facts and leave it at that. He knew she wouldn't let him anyway. "I never really thought he'd show up here," he admitted. "I mean, I guess maybe I should have realized it could happen, but he was always... out there. Even in Vegas, there was distance. It-- it went okay, us talking, but we didn't really talk about anything. So much happened between us, and we never-- maybe I should just let it go, but I can't. I can't," he repeated. "And I hate that I can't be angry at him when I want to be. I always imagined confronting him one day, asking him why, but when he's right in front of me-- I'm that kid again, the one who wants his approval so badly. I feel guilty, and I think maybe it was my fault, what happened, maybe I wasn't good enough, and I-- I hate it. I gave him everything, I did anything he asked, and-- he never said he was proud, not ever." He looked up at her, almost pleadingly. "I wasn't always bad."
The smile she gave him when he said she was his mousy librarian was sweet, young, trusting, and she didn't trust anyone, not really, no one but him. She loved Evie, and she liked Lin and Saint and Jack, but she didn't really trust them, not really. His fingers on her wrist felt like promise, weight, sturdy and steady, and like maybe they could turn back the clock and make things okay again. She had a hard time forgetting things that hurt, and maybe that was just because very few things did. He was really the only person who could hurt her, and she wondered if he understood that. She didn't expect him to, and she knew she didn't reason like other people did. It was a good thing that she didn't know he was thinking of himself as a murderer, because he would never be that in her eyes. Even knowing what he'd done, she would never call him a murderer. He'd helped people, and maybe he'd gone a little bit too far, but it hadn't been for bad reasons, and intent mattered more than anything else to her.
He was right that she wouldn't let him just rattle off facts. She barely needed the facts. She mostly only needed to know how he felt, how Thomas being here made him feel, how bad things were. Thomas had always been such a bad spot for Luke. Even before New York, even in Seattle, Luke had constantly bent himself in a thousand different ways to please Thomas Brandon, and he'd been hurt every single time. Wren remembered way, way back, when she and Luke were just friends, and it had been the same thing then. Luke had gotten kidnapped and hurt so badly, and it had just been to get at Thomas' money, and she'd never forgiven the man from that point on. She didn't care what had happened to herself in that cold Seattle freezer, but she cared about Luke, and she cared about all the scars he carried from the other man, scars that weren't visible on the skin.
He was talking, and she touched his cheeks, and her fingers dragged along his cheekbones, soothing, until they climbed up into his hair and pet there, nails and fingers through brown strands. She did that until he said he felt guilty, and that maybe it was his fault, and then she stopped and scooted down a step, closer, and she cupped his cheeks. "Non. You didn't do anything wrong," she said, holding him there, not letting him look away from her. "You tried to do everything he wanted. You were the best son anyone could hope for. Whatever problems he has, they're about him. They aren't about you, Luke. If he's changed, if he's worth still talking to, then you tell him how he made you feel, and you tell him if you want him in your life now, or if you don't. But you aren't bad." Her voice went emphatic, fierce. "You're a good man. You put yourself through college, and you help people, and you're a great dad, and you don't have anything, anything to feel bad about."
The way she smiled at him made him believe that things really would be okay, that they could go back to the way things had been before. He beamed back at her, and he really did intend to make sure things were different this time around. She trusted him, and he trusted her, and no one else could compare. Not Jack, not Max. In a lot of ways they existed in their own little world separate from everyone else and he didn't mind it at all. Sometimes he forgot that exclusivity meant that they could hurt each other in ways no one else could, but he thought it counted for something that it was never intentional. No matter what, neither of them would ever knowingly hurt each other. And he knew by now that she didn't see him as a murderer; he knew he was lucky, knew a lot of women would leave their husbands over something like that. Most wouldn't understand. But she did, and he loved her for it, even if he didn't think he was a good person.
Maybe Thomas's influence on his life stretched back farther than he realized, but he was blind to a lot of the older man's faults. Or, he had been; he saw more now. Something inside him had snapped all those years ago and he'd never been able to fully put himself back together. Her touching him while he talked helped, kept him grounded in a way nothing else could. And then she was cupping his cheeks and held him there, which was a good thing since he had a tendency to avoid eye contact when he didn't agree with what she said about him. He looked at her, trying to believe what she said, trying, but it was hard when he was so used to blaming himself for just about everything.
"I don't know if he's changed." That seemed easier to focus on. "He's... different, but I don't-- he has a journal. I don't know if he'll be in touch. To make sure nothing's wrong, maybe." He took hold of her wrists, holding on while he spoke. "And I don't know how to tell him how I feel. I've never been good at that," he said, frustrated at his own inability to confront Thomas about anything. He smiled a little, a shaky thing, because her faith in him never, ever wavered no matter what. But he was so, so sure that Thomas didn't see what she did, that he never had, and that hurt. "I wasn't enough for him." It was a sad truth, but it was a truth all the same. "Whether it was his problems or mine, Wren, I just wasn't." He took a deep, shaky breath. "I don't want to care. I don't need his approval anymore."
It some residual, youthful naivete, maybe, that made her want things to be okay without intention, without work, without either of them having to remember to do things, or to fight for things. Maybe that was just a result of growing up the way she had, no fairy tales and only distant understanding of how other people lived and did things. Homes seen through front windows and children with pink lunchboxes, and none of those lives had been hers. But she loved him, and she wanted him, and she clung too tight, and she needed too much. She thought he was the same, and maybe he was, and maybe things had just gotten lost along the way. Since the hotel had put them here, things had been up in the air, and she knew that. Scary as it was, she was willing to trust this one last time, just this once, because the alternative wasn't anywhere she wanted to be. She'd thought about it and thought about it during their time apart, and all those offers she'd always made in Las Vegas, to leave, to share, she couldn't make those now. She knew herself, and she knew she couldn't. She could say the words, but she would never be able to follow through.
She didn't like that Thomas was here, didn't like that he was on the journals, didn't like anything at all that involved the older man that had always been judgemental and selfish when Luke was young. But he was here now, and all she could do was try to make it okay, try to make it better. She shook her head when Luke said he hadn't been enough for Thomas. "He wasn't enough. It wasn't you. It's something in him, something sad and lonely in him. Something that makes him cruel. It was never, ever you. Never you, Luke," She ran her fingers over his cheeks, and they were close, close now, no steps between them and crowded on the stairs. "You don't need his approval, and he's a fucking idiot if he doesn't give it to you," she finally added. Wren never, ever cursed, but this seemed like a really, really good time to make an exception. She kissed the corner of his mouth, kissed his cheek, kissed his jaw. "You're amazing, and you're wonderful, and the kids and I love you, and you've come so far in your life, and you're a good, good man. Thomas Brandon can never, ever take any of that away from you."
She realized, sitting there, that maybe this house was good in ways that had nothing to do with her desires or needs. Being with the kids again would be good for Luke, she thought, and a house to be proud of, that would be good too, especially now that Thomas was here.
Life wasn't a fairy tale, but that was okay. Even the best relationships needed work, took commitment and effort to last, but that was okay, too, and he knew they could do it. They loved each other, needed each other, and they both held on too tight for letting go to ever be an option. Their lives had just been thrown into chaos when the hotel brought them here and they'd never had a chance to recover, never had a chance to find their footing. But now they did, and it would be okay. He'd talk to Sharon, and he'd apply to the NYPD, and days and nights spent at the Mansion would be behind him. They had a real house now, a home, and they could bring the kids back to start their lives here. They'd do it the right way this time, and he was so, so sure it would work. He didn't want to share, and he didn't want her to leave.
Anyone else, saying the things she was saying, wouldn't have been able to get through to him. But she was different, and he wanted to believe her. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was Thomas, maybe he'd always wanted something that the older man just couldn't give. And that wasn't Thomas's fault, it wasn't, but maybe he didn't deserve what he'd gone through even though he'd done horrible, horrible things. Because he hadn't always, and he'd gone through hell for Thomas before ever killing anyone. Even after, the first time hadn't been intentional. An accident, in over his head, and he'd taken off hoping that the older man would follow, that he'd notice, that he'd care. After Wren left him, he'd needed that, and not getting it broke something inside him. She never, ever swore, and so the curse on her tongue made him laugh, a surprised sound, and her kisses made him whimper. Part of him felt like he should argue but he didn't want to, didn't want to ruin this, and his hands slid down to her hips, fingers pressing in and taking hold through the fabric of her dress.
"He can't take any of that away from me," he repeated, a hopeful echo. "It's mine. You, the kids, this... it's all mine, and he had nothing to do with it." Because that was true. He'd gotten this far without Thomas or his money, and maybe he didn't have to be ashamed or guilty anymore. Easier said than done but it was easier to be strong when she was with him. If Thomas wanted to be in his life, if he wanted to see his grandkids, then he'd have to accept him for who he was-- not who he wanted him to be. He looked up at her, his heart in his eyes, and then he kissed her, kissed her like he'd wanted to since he'd seen her outside, need and want all wrapped up in how much he'd missed her.
She wanted to believe everything could be okay, and she wanted to believe that Thomas showing up wasn't going to ruin everything. She hardly ever worried about losing Luke anymore, but she was worried now, and Thomas coming before things were better worried her a lot. Things had built and built and built, and now wasn't a really good time to pile stress on, but she wasn't sure if either of them were really calm enough to remember that things were stressful, not always, not when they were upset. Luke had a temper, and she wasn't very functional sometimes, and it could be hard. But maybe it would be easier now, in the house. Maybe it would be more like Las Vegas, and she tried to focus on that, instead of focusing on Thomas.
If she thought about Thomas too long, she would start going down that rabbit hole of guilt, of blaming herself for what Luke's life had become while she was away. She'd beat herself up over choices that she couldn't ever take back, no matter what she did, and no matter how she tried. She'd hurt Luke, and she'd hurt Gus. Her intentions had been good, and she'd been scared, but that didn't change that she'd hurt them both very much.
So she tried not to think, and he echoed her words, and he kissed her, and she did the easy thing. She ignored everything else, and she stopped trying to convince him with sounds. She kissed him instead, and she moved closer until she was practically on his lap, hips and softness and urging him back against the wall, hungry kisses and the scent of burnt feathers on her skin. She whimpered, and she pressed her fingers to his cheeks, and she'd missed him so much. "I forget," she said, against his lips and more breath than sound. "I forget what this feels like, and then I remember, and I wonder how I could ever stay away," she admitted. She didn't know what it was like for him. He struck her as the kind of man that never, ever forgot, and that realization made her smile against his jaw, a line of kisses following a quiet little sigh of contentment.
She pulled back, reluctance, reluctance, but she didn't want to hurry him, she didn't. "He can't take anything away from you, not ever," she repeated, finally, against his throat, a kiss there as she caught her breath.