narrative: crazies go home. Who: Luke (with an appearance by Wren) What: Half of the Silent Hill quartet go home. Where: Marvel. When: Following the great escape. Warnings/Rating: Just some mental instability, as you do.
Luke didn't know where Jack was. He didn't know where Evie was. He should have known. Normally, he would have. At the very least he'd have worried, but here, now, he didn't. They were somewhere. They were out. That was good enough, because he had a limited capacity for thought just then and his focus was on Wren, on safe, and home was safe. He remembered home. He knew home.
And so, home was where he went.
Into the Marvel door and it was dark, dark, middle of the night when taking a cab would have made sense but Luke wasn't entirely sure that dead men weren't behind the wheel. He wasn't entirely sure there weren't dead men everywhere, in cars and on sidewalks and he decided to walk instead, no cabs, because what if they took him and Wren to her? Back, no, he wasn't going back. His abilities returned and he could see just fine in the dark, he could hear and smell (blood, so much blood, burnt flesh and cinders) and he'd be just fine. He would protect Wren. Wren, who was quiet, who said nothing, who went where he led without protest. But he didn't question it.
They walked.
Bloodstained and filthy, their appearance was enough in the alleys and down the quiet sidewalks to ward off any passerbys along the way. How long it took, Luke had no idea; there was no concept of time. He just knew, eventually, that they reached home, and home was good. Home was safe. The dead couldn't follow them inside. She couldn't, either. He still had his front door key, amazingly; that and his gun were the only items he brought back with him. And the house was so, so quiet, lights off, and Luke was afraid to believe that all of this was real because what if it wasn't? What if it was just a dream, this and the kids something he'd just made up. What if. What if. No kids, no, but when he flipped on the lights Finch appeared, and he blink, blink, blinked at the dog before he smiled. Familiarity. Years and years of living in motels, of walking through the door just like this, covered in blood, to be greeted by the one friend who hadn't abandoned him. The puppy was somewhere, too, but he focused on Finch, on his dog. He scratched behind his ears when he came close enough, and Luke glanced over his shoulder before taking the dog's muzzle in one hand and looking at him sternly.
"If you see her, and she tries to get in, kill her."
Finch knew kill. Good boy. Satisfied, Luke closed (and locked) the door behind him and led Wren to the stairs, up, up, instructing Finch to follow. He was on autopilot, tunnel vision, his focus entirely on taking care of his wife. Empty bedrooms, quiet, and the kids were with Max. Yes, he remembered that. Max was safe and safe was good; home was safe, too. He thought it was and if he was right then they could come back, couldn't they? Maybe tomorrow. But just then all he wanted was to get Wren cleaned up before the sirens started up again. Unless there were no sirens, here. Maybe? He wasn't sure. It was hard to be sure all the time. Hard to remember. But there was a bathroom, and a shower, and she remained still and quiet as he stripped her off the now-bloody white dress and turned on the water, cleaned her skin and washed her hair, murmuring to her all the while. Words that made no sense but, still, words. Water off, towels, and he did the best he could with what he had; he bandaged up her hands, gauze on the scratches on her back and belly, and whatever other injuries he came across. Fine, fine, she'd be fine. He was no doctor but she'd be just fine. Into the bedroom he led her, dressed her in a nice nightgown and tucked her into bed, a kiss and an I love you and still, still, no response.
But it was okay. Inside, she was safe. Nothing could hurt her here.
Luke made Finch sit by the bed, stay, while he went back to the bathroom. This time he ran the water hot, scalding, washing off the blood and dirt and he only got out when the steam reminded him of fog and it became hard to breathe. But, unlike he had with Wren, he didn't touch the first aid kit. No, he was fine. Just fine. He got dressed, sweatpants and socks and layer over layer, zipped up to his chin, for warmth as much as for protection.
Then, downstairs. He threw out their dirty clothes and went around checking every door, every window, making sure they were locked, locked, locked. Nothing could get in, nothing, and he turned on every single light before heading back upstairs to do the same thing. Windows, and he kept the doors shut; all but one. Their bedroom door he left open, and he kept the light off because shhh, shhh, Wren needed rest. He was tired, too, oh he was fucking exhausted but he couldn't sleep. He wouldn't. Not again. Not again. Not again.
He sat, gun in his lap and Finch curled up beside him, right in the bedroom doorway. Quiet, quiet, no sirens and no monsters but Luke forced his eyes to stay open anyway.