log: luke/wren, marvel Who: Luke & Wren What: The morning after. (1/2) Where: Their house. When: After the memory party. Warnings/Rating: Nope.
The photography studio was quiet and empty at sunrise, and the young woman in the ripped black stockings and blanket of pale pink was glad. She was covered in blood, and even washed away the red was still heavy in places. Her throat was line of red and red, and she stared at in the bathroom mirror for a few minutes before she decided that it wasn't worth bothering with it. Dab, dab, and the water just made it run again, watery pink, and she needed a bandage. It scared her, that line on previously unmarred skin. It spoke of a permanence that terrified her. She'd been here a long, long time, and she'd done a lot of things when the hotel took her away from herself, but nothing ever stayed. Not like this. This stayed, and she bit her lip as she looked in the mirror. It was quiet, echoes and quiet, and she finally moved after her steady stance became a tired sway.
The blanket-dress was slipped over her head, and she wondered where the jeans and sweater she'd been wearing at the studio were. It made it all more real, that transfer of clothing, and she didn't like it.
She texted the sitter, and she didn't call a cab. She grabbed a scarf and jacket from the hook near the studio door, and she knew she wouldn't look any worse than a working girl who was down on her luck. She was within walking distance of the subway, and the ride to Queens was a sway, sway of the subway train, and people getting on, and people getting off.
She thought about infidelities. She thought about lies, and she thought about shards of glass. She hugged herself, and she tried to unwind truths and sanity and she just wasn't good at it. She didn't know when too bad was too bad, and she wasn't sure if she was at the point where she was doing more harm than good. She didn't want to be hurting him, but she wasn't sure, and the night had left her too raw to be able to think about it without her eyes welling up and brimming over.
Once, she'd been able to think about being alone. She could reason and logic, and she could convince herself that it was better for him. She should be able to make that argument more surely now. Better for him, better for Gus, better for Lia. But she couldn't, and she knew she wasn't objective anymore. Not when all she wanted to do was get home and bury herself in her tiny little life.
The endless subway ride was followed by an endless bus ride, and she was out of breath by the time she walked the block from the bus stop to the door of the pretty house that was theirs. She didn't go inside right away. She stood there a minute, sun just kissing her shoulders. She could feel blood trickling against her neck and onto her coat, but she wanted to just stand there for a second, just a second, and revel in the fact that she was there.
She reached for the knob, and her fingers lingered for a moment. Linger, linger, and then she drew her hand back, and she knocked instead of turning the knob.
He never, ever got lucky, but maybe just this once someone, somewhere, had taken pity on him because he ended up at home. Shirtless, shoeless, in only the pants from the night before and he figured it could've been a lot worse. The hotel could have deposited him in the street, in another door; he'd take the bathroom. It was a good option. And the funny thing was that he didn't even notice the cut had carried over. Pain was something he was so accustomed to that he didn't even feel it, and okay, so he was still covered in blood but it was probably too much to hope for that the hotel would clean him up and bring him home. He got up off the cool tile floor, and he went looking for Wren. It was instinct, naturally the first thing he did, but she wasn't in bed and she wasn't downstairs and it was in the midst of his search, panic spiking, that he felt something wet on his chest. He brought his hand to his skin and it came away covered in blood; fresh blood. He was bleeding, and his hand was all torn up too.
That was when he realized his injury had carried over. Death, getting hurt, that hadn't ever lasted like this before, and the prospect terrified him. What terrified him more was that Wren's cut had carried over, too, it must have, and hers was worse and she wasn't here.
But he tried not to panic. It didn't work, but he tried. He told himself that she'd promised she would come home. He told himself that she'd swore she wouldn't, couldn't, run away. Getting in touch with her proved fruitless so he told himself he'd wait a little, give her time, and if she didn't call or come home he'd launch a one-person manhunt and wouldn't rest until he found her. The prospect of a plan reassured him. In the meantime he cleaned himself up, washed off the blood and dug out the first aid kid. Bandaging himself up was as simple as tying his shoes by this point, and he changed into clean pants and a white undershirt once he was done. The kids were asleep, and he went downstairs to wait.
Every second seemed like an eternity, and his thoughts roamed free. He thought about the memories, about what he'd seen, repeated #43 over and over in his mind and tried not to claw the couch to shreds; he was mildly successful in that only a pillow suffered his wrath. Even knowing she hadn't cheated, he still hated it. He thought about #182, the lie, happiness that wasn't his, and he thought about Thomas even though he didn't want to, the ache that came with thoughts of him entirely different than anything else. He felt more human than animal, now. More rational. His head was clearer. But he felt raw, too, and the jealousy and anger from the night before hadn't gone away. It was there, lurking. Waiting. Worry and panic were just stronger, and they overlapped everything else. He just wanted Wren home. He just wanted to make sure she was okay, and to hell with the hotel and its sick games.
The knock on the door had him bolting off the couch, and he yanked door open within seconds. "Oh, thank God," he breathed, relief suffusing his features when he saw that it was her. She was here, she was okay, and he pulled her inside before she even had a chance to respond. The previous night was entirely forgotten, at least for a second, and he kissed her first; that was more important. But then he remembered her throat and he tugged on her hands, tug, tug, towards the stairs. Maybe he was all over the place, but he was practically shaking with relief and concern and he couldn't help himself.
"Your neck. I have to fix your neck, okay?" Then they could talk.
She heard the footfalls, fast and faster, and that made her smile a tiny bit. Hand on the knocker, and she drew it back and bounced a tiny bit as she waited for the door to open. He was hurrying, and that meant he wasn't angry. She convinced herself, as she stood there, waiting and it felt like eternity. In those few seconds, she convinced herself that the sound of his feet on the wood floor meant he was happy she hadn't disappeared, and maybe they could be okay if he still wanted her there. Maybe the night before hadn't ruined everything forever.
Then the door flew open, and she saw his face, and the relief there made her sob. He didn't hate her. He didn't, and it had been a real possibility She always worried about him seeing the real parts of her, the ones that weren't good. She loved that he had her on an eternal pedestal, but she feared the topple, and the night before had been the topple. There was no way to come back from that, no perfection she could aspire toward. However much she tried to pretend, and however much she tried to change herself into the type of woman he should've married, it was clear now that she wasn't that woman. She hated the clarity, and she'd feared it during the entire sway of subway cars home.
But his face, and the way he opened the door, and that relief that breathed in his chest when he spoke. She laughed when he kissed her. Cried against his lips, and she didn't even care that anything hurt. In that moment, her heart started beating again, and she'd been so scared.
He tugged, but she tugged back. Her neck didn't matter. She wasn't even thinking about the fact that he was bleeding somewhere beneath his clothing, or that someone might recognize the things he'd done from the memories. She didn't ask where the kids were. None of that, none of it, and she just threw her arms over his shoulders, winding, winding around his neck, and she held onto him so tightly that she thought she might bruise from the grip.
Nothing could ruin them forever. Maybe, one day, the hotel would realize that and stop trying, or maybe they were just destined to keep fighting and surviving against all odds. But no, he didn’t hate her, and he was so very glad that she hadn’t disappeared, that she was here, and they were both home. Counting down the hours to daylight, this was all he’d wanted. He saw her much the way she saw him: beautiful despite flaws, good despite the bad in both their pasts, and there was not one single thing that could ever change the way he looked at her. She could see beyond his blood-soaked past, and he could see beyond the things she’d done too. It was what made him feel so very lucky to have her, because he knew she could easily have turned her back on him, judged him, hated him. But she didn’t, she didn’t, and he just wanted her to understand that he couldn’t ever hate her either.
Her laughter was familiar, it was real, and even though he was worried about her throat he didn’t stand a chance once she started tugging. “Your neck,” he began, a feeble protest, but when her arms were over his shoulders, winding around his neck, and he gave up. The pressure against his chest caused a flare of pain but he didn’t care, not when she was holding on so tight. It was what he wanted, because he’d worried, too, that maybe he’d messed things up last night, that his overreaction, jealousy and anger, had dealt a blow too hard to withstand. But it was easy to believe that wasn’t true when she was so close, and his arms wound around her in an equally tight embrace, desperation in the way he clung.
“Hey.” It was a shaky whisper in her ear, but he didn’t pull away. “I’m really, really glad to see you.”
His feeble protest made her feel like the world was exactly as it had been before the hotel made them drink secrets from bottles. It was like him to worry, and it was like him to give in when she begged. They weren't words, the arms slung over his shoulders, but it was begging all the same. It was begging in the way she leaned against him, the way she held tight, and the way she tried to press every little bit of herself to him, as if she could crawl beneath his ribs if she just moved close enough. She didn't notice his wince of pain, if there was any. She only cared that he wound his arms around her and held back with the same force she did. It wasn't a polite thing, and it wasn't a maybe thing, and it wasn't something that screamed finality. She stood there, and she just listened to the things that said he was alive, with her, and real as he could be. He breathed, and she could feel his pulse, his heartbeat, and the tiny ways he moved as he clung to her. Those things made the darkness ebb from the corners of her mind, and it chased away the evil things the hotel had left behind.
It was easier, when there was him. When he was there, and when she could focus on the one emotion that made her feel alive. Everything else, the pinball bounce of emotions in her mind from the previous night, those made her feel like she wasn't normal. She knew, she did, but feeling things like other people did was so hard. And she forgot all about that with him. With him, there, clinging, she felt the same kind of love she'd tasted, and the same kind of feeling, and he made her good and better and human. He would argue she already was those things, but she wasn't, not without him. Not without the kids.
His voice was shaky, and she held tighter. It was a battle to give him enough room so that she could see his face. But she did, really quick she promised herself, and she did, and then she didn't want to stop looking. She reluctantly let go of his shoulders, and she cupped his cheeks, and she stared and stared, looking for all the things she knew, and looking for all the things she loved. "Hi," she finally said, a little smile, a little sheepish, a little unsure.
He'd held her close last night, too, but this was different. They were home, and they were both themselves, the way they should be, no glasses or bottles to play cruel tricks and show them things they didn't need to see. He could feel her heartbeat like she felt his, and he could hear it, too, just like he could hear her breathe, and he loved that every inch of her was pressed against him. He only lamented the barrier of clothing, because it kept them from being as close as they could possibly be. Her throat still worried him and he knew, he knew, he had to get her upstairs and bandage it up, but that could wait. A few more minutes, it could wait. She was here, in his arms, she was safe, and it would be okay now. He breathed her in deep, deep, that familiar scent he loved so very much, and he let out a tiny growl, pleased thing in the back of his throat.
Of course he would argue that she didn't need him to be good, to be better, to be human, but in truth he would say she did the same for him. She made him better. She made him good. Without her, he was an empty shell. Blood and death, that's what he was, but her and the kids, they made him more. They gave him hope, small as it was, that maybe one day he'd find redemption. Someday, somewhere, somehow.
When she cupped his cheeks, when she stared, he did the same. His gaze took her features in hungrily; her eyes, her hair, her face. His fingers closed around her wrists, and he couldn't not kiss her when she was this close. "Hi," he echoed, and kissed her again. "I really do need to fix your neck." He bit down on his lower lip. "Please?"
The tiny growl made her giggle. It was a stupid, stupid thing to be happy about it, but she was. There was the beginning of a smile on her lips, something that was probably too young for her, but then she'd grown up too early. A small giggle, and a smile, and she really didn't want to ever move. Her feet could get tired, and her legs could get sore, but she didn't ever want to move.
She didn't think he needed redemption. She thought the world needed to apologize for what it had done to him. She remembered him sweet and innocent and wanting to sacrifice everything to make other people safe. She remembered him young and in an alley, and she remembered him trying to make her stop hurting a man who she'd really, really wanted to see bleed at the time. She remembered his hope, so much hope, and she remembered his bashful smile. She remembered that freezer, cold and with both of them terrified, and he'd never gotten mad at her, not once.
Now, he just stared back at her, and he let her fingertips press into his cheeks as she cupped his face. She just wanted to know he was real, and that was all. She just wanted that, and his fingers closed around her wrists. She looked down, just to see if there were injuries. She remembered blood, and it was only his kiss that distracted her. She made a sound of surprise against his lips, and she was already leaning in after that echoed hi in order to kiss him again. Possible injury forgotten for just a second, that was all, just a second, and she whimpered and chased his teeth with her tongue when he bit his lower lip. It wasn't his concern that made her nod a second later. No, it was a glance at his palms, and a tug to the collar of his shirt, because she couldn't tell if he was still bleeding beneath cloth and bandage.
"Are the kids sleeping?" She knew the sitter was gone, and it was early, early yet. "We can take a shower?" she asked, and there was sheepish care in the question, and the fear that he wouldn't want to was all tangled up on her tongue.
Her giggle was unexpected but in a good way, and he smiled back at her. He didn’t care if his growling made her happy, didn’t care if it was silly, as long as she was happy and smiling and there. Safe, in his arms, that was all he cared about. He knew without her needing to say anything that she didn’t think he needed redemption, and he knew she still saw the boy he’d once been when she looked at him. For a long, long time, he hadn’t. That boy represented all that was good in him, hope and potential, and people like Thomas made him feel like that boy was dead and gone. But she made him think maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t, that maybe somewhere in him he could still be good, still be worth something. Not even Jack could inspire that kind of hope in him; she was the only one, and he loved her for it. Words could never describe just how much it meant to him.
Injuries had been forgotten. Her fingers on his cheeks, that was what mattered. The surprised noise she made when he kissed her, the way she whimpered, those things were more important and he’d never cared all that much about himself. Scars layered over scars, and he was used to fighting through injuries far worse than what he had now. His right hand was bandaged tight, fingers and thumb bare in contrast to stark white, but he’d messed up his hands before and he wasn’t worried. He healed a little quicker now, too, just a little, and he figured it he could survive being shot and stabbed and his own brutality, well, he could survive almost anything.
But her questions brought him back, and he stopped trying to chase the kiss with a whine. “Yeah, the kids are sleeping.” He brightened when she suggested a shower, a hopeful little thing, and he nodded. “Okay. I’d like that.” His cheeks went warm and he kissed her again, a quick press of lips, before tugging her towards the stairs.
He smiled, and it was just more reassurance. It, like the small growl, didn't feel like an end. It didn't feel like packed bags and get out, and she'd worried. Above everything else, above all the concerns of people seeing things that were his, hers, she worried about that. She could survive anything with him, anything at all, and she knew she should be able to stand on her own feet and face the world alone. She'd done it for the five years they were apart, and she'd done it for her entire life before him, but none of that was living. That was existing, surviving. It was dark and sad and lonely, and she knew she held onto him too tight, but she knew she wouldn't survive the alternative.
The shower was forgotten when she saw the bandage on his hand. She tugged his hand forward, the slow and watery drip along the front of her coat ignored as she turned over his hand in hers. She was a hesitant reach of fingers along his palm, and she was concerned eyes when she looked up him after he kissed and tugged, and non. Non, she shook her head. "How bad is it? I want to see. If it's bad, we have to go to the hospital," she said, and while she hadn't cared about her own injuries, it was a really, really different situation if he was the one hurt. She tugged with a little more sureness at his shirt, wanting to see if the injury beneath fabric was real and not imagined, not remembered, and there were rivulets of blood in her mind. There was fear on her skin, scared and more scared and more, and she tugged.
She tugged a little more insistently, panic, and it came rushing in like something new. All her own, and none of it belonged to anyone else. Maybe she should've expected that, for bandages to remind her of the way he hurt himself, of how much he hurt, of things she'd experienced in amber glass the night before, but she hadn't expected anything; she wasn't very good at understanding herself.
He'd stood on his own, too. Five years alone, a father who never followed and all other connections severed, and he'd done it, but it hadn't been living for him either. It was existing. Survival in its most basic form. It was a step away from death, really, maybe even worse, because at least death was an end. Curtains down, stage gone dark. Existing was just an endless expanse of nothing, hollow emptiness, and he couldn't go back to that. He knew he couldn't. Without her, there was no existing, no survival. He didn't mind that she held on too tight because he held on too tight, too; they both knew the alternative was no option at all.
Maybe he should have realized she would worry. But he was bandaged up, and he wasn't bleeding through, and the pain was tolerable. He stopped trying to tug her forward when she shook her head, and he was momentarily confused, not understanding, until she turned his hand over. The concerned look in her eyes was familiar, and his immediate instinct was to soothe, to reassure. "It's not bad, baby. It's not. I don't need a hospital. None of the glass went deep, I promise," he told her, and he flexed his fingers. "See? And if it was bad, it would bleed through. It's not. I'm okay." He said that a lot, but this time he meant it. But she started tugging on his shirt, then, and he could smell her fear, a faint scent steadily growing stronger in time with the pull of her fingers on fabric.
He could tell her stories about times that he'd been hurt much, much worse, but that wouldn't help. She was scared, and she was worried, but he wasn't the one standing there bleeding. He caught her wrists, and he shook his head. "I'll show you. It's fine. But first, you're letting me get your neck bandaged up. You're still bleeding. Please," he begged. "Please. Just come with me."
She didn't recognize the confusion in his eyes. She was too busy staring at the bandage, tugging at his shirt, and it was only the flexing of his fingers that made her feel a tiny bit better. If he could move his fingers like that, then it had to mean he would be okay, right? But she was still worried, even when blood didn't soak red through the bandage. She knew he was going to try to make her calm, so she wasn't surprised at his words. He always did that; he always made her think the world was safe and good, that nothing was bad, and she loved him so much for it.
He caught her wrists, and she stopped, and she looked up at him. Her grey eyes were wide with concern, and she almost tugged free, but didn't want to hurt his hand. So she let him hold her there, his fingers around her wrists, and she listened. "You'll show me," she repeated. It wasn't a question, and it sounded a little like a command. She needed to know, and she didn't care how bad it actually was beneath the bandages; it was better to know. "If you don't, I'll just wait until you're asleep and pull the bandages off," she said honestly. She didn't mind telling him, because it was true.
He begged, then, and she was helpless to resist the way his voice sounded when he pleaded. She wondered if he knew, if he understood that he could make her do absolutely anything at all when he sounded like that. He could ask her to walk on shards, and she would. She would do anything, and she nodded a tiny bit, just a little.
She drew back, and she used his grip on her wrists to lead him up the stairs. Quiet, and footfalls, and she didn't say even one more word until they were in their bedroom, white on white and she loved the cool still of the room. She tugged herself free, and she closed the door, and she slipped off the bloody coat to reveal that pink dress that was coated with blood, his and hers, and the stockings that were nearly useless now. "Let me see," she said; he'd promised.
All he wanted was for her to listen to him, and if it calmed her down even just a little then he'd count that a victory. He was more worried about her, but then he always was, and she was always more worried about him and they were both equally stubborn. But maybe that was a good thing, that they cared so much about each other. It made up for the lack of regard they had for themselves, he thought. He nodded when she said he'd show her, and he knew she wasn't asking. He knew it was a command. But he still nodded, because he knew better. "I have no doubt whatsoever that you would," he told her, fond, when she said that she'd just take his bandages off while he slept. She would, and they both knew it. He kind of loved that she would, too.
Maybe, on some level, he knew that she couldn't say no when he begged. But he'd never use it against her, never ask her to do anything she didn't want to do. Anything he begged for, pleaded for, was in her best interests; he'd beg her not to leave, beg her to let him patch her up, but that was about it. She didn't care enough about herself to do it, so it was up to him to care for her. He smiled when she nodded, and because she agreed he let her lead him up the stairs. Quiet, quiet, and he tried to smell how much blood there was as they walked.
Once they were in the bedroom, door closed and her coat discarded, he started towards her, beginning to insist that she let him take a look at her throat. But then she told him to let her see, and he realized she was going to keep pushing until he agreed. He huffed, frustrated. "Fine. But then you're letting me bandage your neck, okay? Promise." He gave her a look that said he wasn't going to take no for an answer anyway, just in case, and pulled off his shirt. The bandage on his chest wasn't bloodstained either, and there was only the tiniest hint of red beneath white. He peeled away the adhesive tape, revealing an ugly red cut just below his collarbone, and then he unwound the bandage from his hand. More red, where the glass had gone in, but no rush of blood, nothing that hadn't begun to dry.
"See?" Just like he'd told her.
When he said he didn't doubt that she'd uncover his bandages as he slept, she smiled. It was a real smile, and it chased some of the worry along with it. It wasn't even that he was joking with her, and it wasn't that he sounded fond. It wasn't even that the entire terrible scenario she'd played over and over in her mind, a scenario where he told her he was leaving, wasn't going to happen. It was that he knew, and he didn't sound like he minded, and she was so wound up with worry.
She didn't think he would ever use anything against her. It worried her as much as it thrilled her. Thrilled, because he was hers, and he would never hurt her, and she trusted him with every bit of everything that she was. Worried, because she would always think she was bad for him. That would never, ever change, and she worried about going too far, about corrupting him too much. She worried, and she knew he'd let her. He wouldn't stop her, not for his own good, and she wasn't very good at knowing where the normal lines lived. Life was a canvas without guidelines for her, and she didn't really understand what was okay, versus what wasn't. She knew that doctors had terms for that, and she knew none of them were good, and that didn't make her feel any better at all.
But then they were in the room, and he huffed that frustrated huff. She smiled, but then he began pulling off the shirt, and the smile slipped away as she took a concerned step forward. Closer and closer, until she was right there, and she watched him peel away the bandage that revealed the wound just below his collarbone. She bit her lip, and she touched careful fingers around the edge, where the skin was cool and not red, and then she looked at this hand. She did the same there, fingers touching, and her hand turning his over and over again. She pulled his fingers in carefully, and she watched his face to see when he winced.
He brightened when she smiled. That was all it took, really, to wash away everything else, and he even forgot to panic for a moment or two. It was just her and him and she was smiling, which meant she was happy, and he'd never think she was bad for him, not ever. He didn't care about lines. With them, there were no lines. He'd never stop her because he'd never want to, because she could never, ever corrupt him. He wanted what she wanted, and he trusted her implicitly. She couldn't go too far, because too far didn't exist in their world. And maybe, someday, he'd get her to believe that.
When it came to pain, he'd learned a long time ago how to hide it. Pain was weakness, weakness was vulnerability, and you couldn't ever let your enemies see you vulnerable. But she wasn't an enemy, and he trusted her; still, he didn't want her to worry. He let her touch, and he didn't flinch. It was instinct, keeping still, and he didn't even really mean to. Even when she got to his hand, he gave no outward sign of pain. The only indication that certain spots or movements, when she pulled his fingers in, hurt was a tightening of his jaw. He waited, waited, and then he couldn't wait anymore.
"I'm fine." He tried to tug his hand back. "Let me take care of you. There's a first aid kit in the bathroom. Please?" Maybe she didn't care if she was bleeding all over the place, but he did.
When he brightened, it was like all the good things ever, all smooshed together, and for that split second she thought everything would be okay. Really, really okay, and she didn't even have a tiny bit of doubt. It didn't last, but she'd never felt that at all early in their relationship. Not until after the wedding, and maybe it was silly to put a lot of faith in a ring, but she did. She'd needed that tether, that something that made it feel like this couldn't slip through her fingers at any moment. It was maybe a little naive, which was silly too, because she'd seen too, too much of the world be naive. But that moment, that moment was okay, and good, and it faded too fast, but it left something a little bit more sure in its wake.
She wasn't sure she trusted that he didn't flinch. She pressed her lips together, and she looked for some sign that things were really bad, and that he was just hiding it from her. And there, there. His jaw tightened, and she was about to insist they change their clothes and go to the ER. She'd already begun to shift her weight backward, one foot back in anticipation of retreat, and then he tried to tug his hand back. She teetered, back or forth, and he said he wanted to take care of her, and she melted.
Her maman had been warm and loving, soft touches and songs in French. She reacted really, really well to that kind of affection, and it was even harder to resist when it was coming from him. Maybe it would be okay. If he started bleeding again, she would see. She would see, and she would make him stop, and she would insist they go to the ER. It was really selfish, because she wanted to stay home with him. She'd missed home so much the entire night before, and she didn't want to leave now. So, she let that sway her, and she nodded a little bit. "Okay," she finally said. "I'll let you."
All he really wanted was for her to be sure, for her to not doubt, and it seemed a goal he would always, always be striving for. But that didn't mean he was going to give up, and even a second of surety was better than nothing in his opinion. He didn't realize she was about to insist that they go to the ER, and he would have dug in his heels and refused if she'd gotten that far. He wouldn't go for himself. For her, maybe, but not him, it had been a long time since he'd willingly gone to a hospital and he wasn't going to go through all that for a little scratch. The argument he was anticipating was trying to convince her to let him take care of her, and his last resort would have been just flat-out dragging her into the bathroom and not accepting no.
But then she nodded, and she agreed, and his relief was a tangible thing. Tension was gone, and he exhaled gratefully. "Okay. Good." Since he figured her inspection was over, he re-wrapped the bandages hastily and tugged her into the bathroom. Towels were still strewn about on the floor from his own impromptu first aid session, the kit still open on the sink. "Sit." He turned on the wafer, let it run until it was warm, and turned back to her. "Please."
She hadn't really realized how worked up he was until that tangible relief. She felt bad, but not too much. She would always worry about him first, and there was really no way to convince her that it should be any other way. He never thought of himself first. He put himself at the end of a long list of people. Her, the kids, his father, his friends, and even the dog. So, no, she wasn't going to ever let him get away with it, because she always, always put him first, and she thought maybe it evened things out just a teensy tiny bit. She loved him for it, for how loving he was, but she knew that being that selfless left scars, years and years, and the scars were still there, and she was just trying to avoid him from getting any new ones.
But she'd failed this time. He'd gotten hurt, and it was her fault. That memory, and she'd forgotten all about the man in the hotel bar. He wasn't important, and all talking to him did was make her homesick for what she'd had once with Luke, and it had ended up doing this. Leaving lines on Luke's body, and she still remembered him holding that shard of glass. It hadn't looked like him, but it was him, and the bandages were proof, and the grief on that staircase was something she wouldn't ever forget.
That made her go quiet and without argument into the bathroom, the fact that she'd done this to him, and she slipped off the bloodstained pink dress and ruined stockings as he ran the water. Sit, he said, and she sat on the lip of the tub and tipped her head back, and she was making it really, really easy now. The shard-slice at her neck was just a sluggishly bleeding thing, not deep enough to be dangerous, but deep enough to leave a line of remembering in its wake. She pressed her toes against one of his discarded towels, and she bit back the apology that immediate rose, unbidden, to her lips.
He didn't know how to put himself first. Even if he'd wanted to, he just wasn't capable of that kind of selfishness. It had hurt him more than once, his tendency to sacrifice his own well being for the people he cared about, but it was just part of who he was even if he didn't see it. He didn't think he was a good person, but he was selfless more often than not. And Wren, she came before everyone; he didn't even need to think about who was more important between the two of them. As much as he loved her stubbornness, as much as he loved that she was one of the only people who put him first, he was relieved that she'd finally agreed. He wouldn't be able to relax until he was sure that she was okay. And while she blamed herself for his hurt, blamed her memory for the bandages, he was blaming himself for the wound on her throat too. If he hadn't overreacted, if he hadn't been so angry, if he hadn't picked up that shard of glass... so many ifs, and it was only his worry for her that outweighed his lingering guilt.
When he said sit, she sat, and he noticed that she was making it easy for him. But he didn't want to complain, didn't want to question it, at least not until he had her bandaged up. He wet a washcloth under the water and wiped away the blood first, fingers on her jaw as he worked. His attention was mostly on the task at hand, and his gaze only wandered a little, here and there, but he was too worried to let himself be distracted. "This is going to sting," he warned, after the area was clean and dry, to prepare her for the alcohol wipes to sterilize; he'd learned about infection the hard way. And then it was easy, the gauze bandage taped in place and he tested it a couple times to make sure it was secure. He felt a little better, then, less like he was going to dissolve into panicked hysterics.
"There." It was quiet, relieved, and he sat next to her on the edge of the tub. He reached for her hand, slid his fingers through hers, and squeezed. "Hey," he said, with a small smile.
She was quiet, quiet and still, still. She let him do what he would, and she didn't interrupt. She tipped her head how he wanted, and she didn't make even the tiniest noise when it stung. She was good at staying still when things hurt. It was a lesson learned small and never forgotten, and she didn't even think about it. Like everything else about her that was numb, she just thought it was normal, and she didn't feel at all. Had she been thinking, she might've hissed, something to pretend she was like everyone else. But it was him, and she didn't think about doing things like that for his benefit anymore. Early, when they were young, she tried, but she'd forgotten somewhere along the line. He saw more of her than she liked, but she didn't even realize, and that was probably really, really good.
When he sat beside her, she turned and looked at him. She really wanted a shower, but maybe it wasn't good with bandages, and his hand hurt; she'd seen the way his jaw tightened. So she looked a little longer, fingers slipping against his, and it felt more real that way than if she kept them still. Squeeze and slide, and then she reached for the robe behind the door and covered up. "It's not comfortable for you here," she said, and that made it clear that she'd given up the idea of a shower. Later, when it was just her, and she didn't care if her own bandage got wet. But he was warm, and he was clean, and he was dry, and she didn't want to take that from him.
She stood, fingers still wound with his, and now it was her turn to tug. "We can sit in the bedroom and talk?" she offered, unsure.
He didn't notice that she didn't hiss or flinch in pain like most people would. He didn't notice because he didn't care about normal or about what everyone else did, and he just didn't think she was strange or odd for not feeling things. She was who she was, and he loved her, and that was that. He looked at her, and she looked at him, and for a few moments there was just quiet and her fingers sliding against his. It seemed okay, warm silence and touch, but then she reached for the robe and told him it wasn't comfortable for him here, and he didn't understand. He frowned, puzzled. Had he done something, said something? His gaze followed her as she stood, tugging on him instead of him tugging on her, and he cocked his head to the side.
"I thought you wanted to take a shower." He tugged a little on her fingers, and he didn't stand just yet. "Unless you want to talk first?" Maybe she thought he didn't want to. He tugged a little more insistently, and he got to his feet, fingers finding purchase in the robe and pulling on that instead. "We can do both. Shower and talk," he said, and he couldn't help smiling; he wasn't sure he'd be able to focus on words, but he could try. Warm water would be nice, and if he had to replace their bandages, oh well. They were home. They were safe. It'd be okay.
He tugged on her fingers, and she was expecting him to go. He didn't argue with her often, not about tiny things, and she stood, head tipped to the side and an unspoken worry on her lips. Her gaze dropped, bandage to bandage, and then it lifted to his face. "You'll get wet," she said, and the worry about his injuries made her tongue thick. "You just got dried up," she said, and she motioned to the towels. "It was selfish to ask, and the edge of the tub isn't very comfortable for you to sit on," and worry was fading into a different kind of worry, uncertainty about this, about everything, and it was just hitting her now.
Yes, too, they needed to talk, and she knew that. She knew better than to think they could ignore anything from the night before, and she was the one who usually harped on him about communication. She wanted words, needed words, but these particular words she feared. She bit her lip, head still cocked to the side and the robe loose around her curved body. "I guess I just want to do whatever you want to do," she finally said, and she knew he hated it when she did that, but she needed it right then. He was hurt, and it was because of her, and all she wanted was to magically understand what he wanted, what he needed, so she could give it to him.
She knew he would question, because he always did when he thought she was being too selfless, and she took one step forward and pressed fingertips to his lips. She was standing between his spread thighs, her robe pale cream, and her skin flush with pink from the night before. "Don't say non, okay? Just tell me what you need? Not me, not this time. I want to know what you want," and maybe that would help chase away the guilt that was slowly climbing to a crescendo in her belly.
Head cocked to the side, he finally realized that her worry about his injuries, combined with what was very likely guilt, leftovers from the night before, was what made her uncertain. "I don't care about getting wet," he told her. "It wasn't selfish to ask, and I don't mind sitting on the edge of the tub, Wren. I'm fine, okay?" But he knew words alone wouldn't be enough. He could say he was fine until he went hoarse, and she still wouldn't believe him. She'd still worry. He waited for her to tell him what she wanted, to agree or disagree. Waited, waited, but instead she said she wanted what he wanted and he was never good at this when she turned it around on him. He always wanted to say the right thing, but he wanted to be honest, too, and she didn't always trust that they could be one and the same.
He started to protest, to say that he wanted what she wanted, but then her fingers were against his lips in anticipation of his words. He huffed against her fingers, but he didn't argue, at least not right away. He listened, and he kissed her fingertips before tugging her hand away. He knew what he wanted. She was close, and her skin was flushed, and it was tempting to forget words and just coax her into the shower. But they had to talk, he knew they did, and what he really wanted before anything else was to soothe her doubts, reassure her, and make sure she knew that he still wanted her. That things were okay, that last night hadn't ruined everything.
"Usually I'd tell you I want what you want," he said, a sheepish smile and understanding of himself. "But, okay." He tugged her closer. "I want to talk. I need you to know that last night didn't change anything." He swayed forward, into her, a little and kissed her. "And then I want a shower."
She knew he would tell her he was okay. She knew, because he always did that. He always tried to figure out what she wanted and turn it around in his head, and then he tried to give it to her. Always, and without fail, and it was something she loved about him. A life lived without anyone putting her first, and he always tried to. He was right that she'd still worry, no matter what he said, and no matter how many times he said it, because she knew him too well. She knew the man he was, and she knew that man to be selfless, even if he forgot that he was sometimes.
She expected him to protest. She expected him to say he would do whatever she wanted. She expected these things. She expected them like she expected sunrise and sunset, and like she expected Lia's spoon to go clattering to the floor, and like she expected Gus to drag his mattress into his sister's room when it rained too hard. He kissed her fingertips, and she expected that too. She knew people wouldn't understand the bruises in their relationship, but those were saved for moments when they were both breathing hard and pupils dilated. Now, she expected kisses to her fingers, and she expected soft and reassuring.
And she wasn't sure about anything. Standing there, in that robe, she realized it. But she smiled when he gave her that sheepish little grin, and his confession made her slip her fingers along the side of his neck and into the hair at his nape, fingers against his skin, and she loved him so, so very much. He tugged, and there was no resistance to her. She went, and she didn't stop until there was no room between them. He swayed, and he kissed her, and she nodded as she kissed him back.
There was a tiny and triumphant smile on her lips when she drew back from him. "You actually said what you wanted," she whispered, pleased and smile, and now it was her turn to kiss him. But okay, he wanted to talk, and so they would talk. She considered scooting back to the counter, space, and they could think better that way. But she didn't want to, and she just slipped her fingers from his hair, and that was all she did. A little bit of space, and her hands clasped quiet behind her back to keep from touching him. "Everything changes things always," she said, a contradiction to his words, unsure and very quiet.
She knew him better than anyone, better than Max or Thomas or even Jack, and he loved that. He loved that there was nothing he had to hide from her. He loved that he didn't have to pretend, because she thought he was good no matter what, she didn't look at his past and his scars and hate him. She understood when no one else did, when he didn't even understand himself half the time. And he liked to think that maybe it went both ways, that he knew her, too, that he looked at her and saw what she was, not what everyone else assumed. He put her first, and she put him first, and they understood that bruises and soft kisses could belong to the same relationship and mean love despite what other people might think.
He loved the feel of her fingers against his skin, sliding along his neck and into his hair. Little touches like this, quiet intimacy, were underrated, and it was hard to remember why he'd wanted to talk when she moved closer. He smiled when she did, another sheepish thing, and he whimpered a little when she kissed him. "I did," he admitted, of telling her what he wanted. "This time," he added. teasing, and letting her pull her fingers away was reluctance. He was bad at focusing when he could touch her, he knew that, but then they were together it was so hard to not. But he tried, he did. He didn't reach for her hands, didn't reach to tug them back around, though his fingers didn't lose purchase in her robe. "Not the important things," he said, a response to her contradiction. "Not the things that matter." He could sense her uncertainty, and it was an ache beneath his ribs. He hesitated, and then he decided to just sit down right there, on the floor, back against the tub and he tugged on her robe for her to join him. Talking would be easier sitting.
"I know who you are. I know what you are. I've always, always seen the real you, and nothing I saw last night changes that," he told her. "You don't see yourself like you really are. It's okay. I don't see who I really am either. But you do." He smiled, a small thing. "I know you'd never cheat on me. I was-- I was angry, and jealous, and I wasn't thinking straight. I wasn't thinking at all. If I had been, I would've known you wouldn't ever go with him, or anyone else." He bit down on his lip. "I love you. I love you so, so much. I don't want you talking to other men, and I know people might think that's crazy possessive, but I just-- I want to be all you need. And guys like that, they don't look at you and see you," he insisted, heat and a growl.
He teased, and the nervous fluttering of dread wings in her belly lessened. She looked at his face again. He was him, and she didn't think she'd ever look her fill. She'd always been a little too obsessed, a little too prone to staring, and she knew it could get creepy after a while. She tried to keep it moderate. She tried really, really hard, but she couldn't stop from staring now, and she didn't even try so very hard. He didn't reach for her, and she clutched her fingers more tightly behind her back so she didn't give into weakness and reach for him again. She rocked a tiny bit on bare feet, but that was all, and she looked down at the fingers that held tight to her robe, because it was proof he was still touching her in some tangential and small way.
He moved, and she wasn't expecting it. She watched him sit on the bathroom floor, towels everywhere, and she was wide eyes, grey confusion, and then he tugged on her robe, and she didn't question. Okay, if he wanted to talk there, then they would talk there. She would do anything he wanted, needed, desired, and so she sat, not contradicting anything he'd said, not yet.
He was words and words, things said, and she wanted to stop him from the very first. She wanted to press her fingers to his lips and explain that non, non, he didn't know her, not really, and she didn't know what he'd seen, but she couldn't believe he knew what she really was. He wouldn't be sitting there if he did. He wouldn't let her near the kids if he did. Her thoughts would've kept racing along that tangent if he hadn't said she saw him how he really was. That, that implied that maybe he'd listened, and that maybe he believed she was right, that he was good, and that he was beautiful, and that he was wonderful. It slowed her thoughts down, and she listened.
She twisted her fingers in her lap, twist, twist, and she leaned forward at the waist when his voice picked up heat and growl. "I like it when you're jealous," she admitted quietly. "I love when you're jealous, but I would never, ever sleep with someone else to feel good. Sleeping with other people doesn't feel good to me. Just with you, and I would never with someone else, not ever," she said, and that was the difference between getting paid and him, but she wasn't sure if he could understand, and maybe it was better if he couldn't. She thought it was healthy that maybe he couldn't understand.
He didn't mind that she stared. Maybe, once, when he was young and naive he hadn't understood, but he did now. He understood obsession. He understood wanting to stare and stare and still having it never be enough, he understood wanting all of her, always, and still wanting more even after that. He didn't want her to try. He didn't need her to try to not be herself, to not be who she was. He loved that she was obsessive, loved that she clung too tight and all the things that made her her. It made them them, too, and he loved that they weren't like other people. He loved their exclusivity, and that would never change. Her confusion made him smile, a fond thing, but it brightened when she sat and didn't argue. It meant she wanted to be close to him, and that was a sign that maybe it was okay, maybe he really hadn't ruined things.
She always argued that he didn't really know her. He argued the same. But maybe, maybe they were both wrong. Maybe they both focused too much on the bad, but that wasn't who they really were. It was part of them, but not the part that mattered. He smiled when she admitted that she liked when he was jealous, and he leaned forward a little, too, to match her movement. "I know you wouldn't. But I was just so angry that he talked to you like that, that he thought he had a chance." He growled, deeper this time. "And I was jealous. You're mine," and that was just how his mind worked. He thought, maybe, he understood a little. He knew that sex with other people, what she'd done before, wasn't the same as what they did now. It wasn't always easy to remember, and the thought of other men made him crazy with jealousy, but he tried.
"I didn't lie." Words that followed quiet, and he wasn't sure if he should bring it up, but maybe that was better than letting it fester. "About-- about Brielle, I mean, about being happy that she came back. I wasn't. What you saw, when I left her-- that was real," he explained, afraid that she wouldn't believe him.
Nothing would ever, ever be enough, not when it came to them. It didn't scare her at all, but she did worry that he would realize it wasn't normal. That he'd tell someone, and they'd tell him that it sounded like she was crazy, and she wouldn't even be able to argue that it wasn't true, because it kind of was mostly. She didn't know he already knew, and she didn't understand that he was okay with all this dysfunction. She thought he believed this was normal, and he'd been so, so innocent. She'd corrupted him in that cold locker of their youth, and so many sometimes she thought he was still that innocent boy. It was that belief that looked back at him in wide eyes of worried grey. And she sat at his feet, and she didn't argue at all, not even a little bit.
She let him talk, and he said more than he usually did. She realized that he really, really did want to talk. No pretending this hadn't happened, and no hiding in sex and bruises and holding on too tight. She tipped her head, and she crossed her legs, and she listened to him talk about his anger with a lingering smile over her proclaimed jealousy. He wasn't angry, she realized, and that didn't make much sense to her. But she bit her lip, and she tried to be still and quiet. She tried to listen, because he wasn't stammering or avoiding words, and she thought she owed it to him to try to understand. But then he said she was his, and she scooted a little bit closer, and she rested just the tips of her fingers on his knee. Just that tiny bit of contact, just that, and a little whisper of, "I am," that was barely an interruption. She was supposed to stay, still and apart, but she just wanted to kiss him when he growled. She looked at his mouth, and her upper body swayed a tiny bit toward him, but she forced herself not to follow through, even though she wanted to. "I was sad. I was really sad, and I thought you didn't like me anymore. I know that sounds really young and naive, but like and love aren't the same thing, and I want you to like me and love me, and I thought you didn't. I really wasn't sure you wanted me either, not like before. I shouldn't have talked to him as long as I did," she admitted.
Brielle's name silenced her. Quiet, quiet, and entirely still, and her gaze dropped to her lap and the fingers on his knee trembled.
He hadn't been that innocent boy in a long, long time, and he didn't realize that she still thought he was. Normal wasn't a word he cared about, no more than he cared about what other people thought. The rest of the world didn't matter. She could never, ever corrupt him, and nothing was ever too much when it came to them. He didn't need normal. All he needed was them, and screw labels or convention. They were who they were, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
The temptation to pretend all of this was still there, but avoiding talking had never gone well for them before. It always meant things built and built, words unspoken, and he didn't want that to happen again. No, this time he did want to talk. He wanted to make sure they were both on the same page. Her listening was new, too, because he was so used to her interrupting whenever he tried to say what he wanted to say. But she was quiet, and she listened, and it was easier to talk that way. He couldn't help but smile when she agreed that she was his, a whisper and a hint of contact. It helped, that agreement, but he noticed the little things these days and he noticed the way she looked at his mouth, her sway forward. Noticing meant he was distracted, but then she started talking and that helped keep him focused. He brushed his fingers against hers, a small touch, and he kept up the movement almost unthinkingly as he listened. "But you didn't go with him," he said; that was what he clung to. "And it was my fault you were sad. I'm supposed to make sure you know that I like you, that I love you, that I'll always want you. I didn't." He looked down. It was so, so easy to sink into self loathing and blame, but he was trying to focus on making things better instead.
But then she went quiet and still, and he looked up. He slid his fingers between hers, squeezed, and tugged her closer. "Hey. Look at me." His voice was quiet, but no less firm for it. "I missed you every single day we were apart. There wasn't ever a time when I didn't think of you. And when I found you again-- I was hurt and angry, but it was like coming back to life. I had a reason to live again," he said. "I didn't miss her. I wasn't happy she was back. She never made me feel anything. What she felt is hers, and it doesn't matter. She doesn't matter." He tugged on her fingers again. "I've never loved anyone but you. I died when I lost you, and I'm only alive now because you're with me."
Brush, brush went his fingers, and she knew a tiny little touch wasn't supposed to right the world and make it steady again, and yet it did just that. "I would never go with him," she promised, and maybe if she said it enough she'd believe that he believed it. "I wouldn't ever go with him, and I wouldn't ever go with anyone. I know that what I did before we met, and after, in Seattle and in Vegas, I know that makes it easy for you to think that I would, and I understand you thinking-" She paused, and she bit her lip a moment. "I understand you thinking what you said on the stairs. I was upset, and I didn't react well to you saying it, but I understand. You weren't wrong to say it, okay? I can't expect you not to think things, and I can't make my past go away. It's a normal conclusion, and I'm sorry I got so upset, and I'm sorry you hurt yourself, and I'm just so sorry." She cut herself off there, abruptly, because she went from apology to groveling, because she knew she was really close, and she knew he'd just feel like he needed to start reassuring her if she crossed that line that she couldn't see very well. She didn't want him to reassure her; she just wanted to apologize.
He squeezed her fingers, and he tugged, and she looked up when he asked her to. She knew he'd missed her. She knew that. She'd seen, and she knew, and she knew what happened in the years between New York and Vegas. She knew his scars, and she knew the trail of dead people in his wake. She knew that he hated what he'd become, and that he still had trouble accepting that all that goodness inside him was there at all. She knew, and she knew Brielle had made that better, and if she thought about that too long then it was easy to understand. Easy to explain why they'd lied to her, and she tugged on his fingers a little bit. "Are you still angry?" she asked, and the question was small.