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Chapter Sixteen

Luke

Coming home at the end of a long day was always a special feeling, but tonight, it carried a deeper solace that eased the ache in Luke’s chest. Stepping into the controlled chaos of the Gendry home was always an experience. Their beautiful disaster was a work in progress, just like every single person who found a home under its roof. The familiar scents of sawdust and paint greeted Luke as he stepped through the door, the lull of quiet conversation easing the ominous silence that the lack of electricity had blanketed the city under. No persistent hum of power, no television playing in the background, no music filtering through the half-finished walls from elsewhere in the house. It was an odd but wholesome comfort, the flicker of candles illuminating his path as he went in search of his family.

Dad was missing, of course. Luke sighed at the reminder as he rounded the corner to find his brothers gathered in the kitchen. Lance had taken over in his absence. The gas stove top was full of pots and pans, presumably filled to the brim with ingredients he needed to cook off before they went bad without refrigeration. The canning jars lining the far counter were waiting for whatever delicious concoctions he was busy making. Luke guessed by the aromas that soup and tomato sauce would become staples of their shared dinners over the next few days. Lance was keeping himself busy chopping something by the glow of a pillar candle. Liam and Leon laughed over something as they conspired over the pots on the stove.

“Heya. Taz make it home?” Luke dropped his bag on the corner of the large banquet table and poached a carrot from the pile Lance had already cut into long, thin strips.

“That he did, Lu-Lu. Tommy dropped him about an hour ago. Nice boy, that Tommy is.” Leon held up a wooden spoon in silent invitation, grinning like a Cheshire Cat as he flicked his eyes once toward Lance, suspiciously rosy around the ears at the mention of Tommy. Luke rolled his eyes as he eagerly stepped forward to sample the offering—minestrone. He hummed his pleasure with a nod.

“Delicious. When's dinner?” Luke backpedaled toward the entryway, lingering on the threshold for a brief moment.

“Eh, thirty or so. You've got time, bro. He's upstairs.” Liam gave a knowing grin before turning back to the bubbling creations.

“Perfect. We’ll be here.” With a little knock on the frame, he slipped back into the hall and moved straight toward the stairs. He wouldn't be truly at ease until he had eyes on his troubled lover.

They'd had a rough few weeks. Taz wasn't doing well, but there was only so much Luke could push. Lord knows, the man had been pushed beyond the brink too many times in his short life, and he couldn't stop Theo’s words from running through his head every time he pondered how to best support his struggling boyfriend. “I dated him four times longer than you have, have known him even longer than that…” At the time, he had been filled with annoyance but even he had to admit to himself that the statements were true. They hadn't even been dating for a full year, and that short time had been scarred by the fact that the man’s own father had conspired with a crackhead to kill him in a house fire to collect the life insurance policy none of them knew he had taken out on Taz. Hell, they were still dealing with lawyers, police, and half a dozen collections agencies trying to unravel the shit show of Taz’ life. No wonder he was struggling.

Their bedroom was dark as Luke crept through the open door, the flimsy light of the moon doing little to illuminate the interior. For a brief second, Luke wondered if maybe Taz had fallen asleep, but the glow of a phone screen coming to life flooded his face with its eerie blue light before disappearing again. He knew without asking what he was checking for. It was the same burner phone he'd kept with him at all times for the last six months. The burner that everyone in their group had the number for. The burner he kept obsessively checking for word from Theo, from Connor, from anyone. Even knowing the cell towers were unreliable at best and completely useless at worst, he checked the phone in a desperate attempt to maintain control in an out of control situation.

“You should be resting, baby.”

“You should be realistic.” Taz’ quip held no bite whatsoever.

Luke crossed the carpeted floor and carefully sat beside Taz’ huddled body where he lay curled on the edge of the bed. Brody’s tail thumped softly against the mattress as he huffed a greeting before nuzzling his head deeper into Taz’ waist. He smiled at the display. Brody, the alleged veteran's support dog, was more of an emotional support for his Scrappy black cat than he’d ever been for Luke. He wasn't even a little bit mad about it either.

“You okay?” Luke settled a palm on Taz’ hip, gently squeezing before letting the weight remain there.

“Yeah. No. I don't know.” Taz clicked the phone on and off again before exhaling. “You?”

Luke thought about the question for a long time. Between work, Theo, Elias, Connor, and Taz, he really wasn't okay. Deciding to lead by example, he answered honestly. “No.”

The phone went briefly airborne, landing on the mattress behind Taz with a quiet thump as he scrambled into a seated position. “I'm sorry.”

“Hey, hold on… no. Why're you apologizing?” Luke turned to better face his partner. The insecurity playing over his features was evident even in the low light. He also noted the subconscious way Taz reached to scratch at the fresh marks his stress had left on the skin hidden beneath the long sleeves of the sweatshirt that had once belonged to Luke.

“I didn’t… I thought about it, but I didn't…” His voice hitched slightly as he squirmed before shifting onto his knees. “I didn't hurt myself.”

“That's good. But you don't need to apologize, baby. Even if you had, I understand. I'm not mad. I'm not upset.” Luke reached out to cup Taz’ cheek, the faint stubble of his facial hair skating over his palm as Taz leaned into the touch like a cat.

“You'd be disappointed, which is worse. Don't fucking lie to me.”

“Not disappointed. Worried, helpless but eager to help, yes. But never disappointed.” Luke leaned forward to press a kiss to Taz’ forehead. “I love you.”

A quiet breath escaped his lips before he chased more contact, peppering tiny kisses over Luke’s jaw before bringing his lips closer to his ear to whisper. “I love you. You said you aren't okay? Can I help?”

“No. It's nothing you did and not something that can be helped.” Luke let his palms shift over Taz body to pull him close, an embrace despite their odd positioning on the edge of the bed. “I’m considering talking to someone.”

“Like… a shrink?”

Luke’s laugh was a breathy huff of air. “Yeah, baby. If that's what you want to call it.”

“You think it’ll help?” Taz nuzzled even closer, suddenly desperate for the physical affection he’d been refusing for days.

“I do. Is that something you'd like to explore too?”

He froze in place, his breath growing noticeably shallower and quicker. “I don't know.”

“You don't have to decide now. I'd just like you to think about it.” Luke reveled in their closeness, running his palms gently up and down the sweep of Taz’ back. He’d missed this. He needed it.

“Decisions are hard.”

“Mhmm. That's why I'm here to help, baby boy.”

“Yeah, whatever.” His attitude was quick to flare and equally quick to evaporate with another quiet breath. “Thanks.”

Eager to bask in the quiet comfort of his lover’s presence, Luke wound his arms tighter around the wiry body until a sharp nudge at his lower back broke the serenity. Another nudge followed by a plaintive whine had them both chuckling as they turned their heads toward the source of the interruption. Beady eyes reflected the meager light, and a wave of dog breath hit them like a hot cloud as Brody’s tongue fell from the side of his mouth. His goofy dog grin and quiet panting meant one thing.

“Our fur baby needs his walkie?” Taz’ ooey gooey singsong was music to Luke’s soul as Taz disentangled himself from their embrace to scruff the hair around Brody’s head. “Brody baby needs walkies?”

“Yeah, yeah. I'm on it.” Luke pushed to his feet with a chuckle. “Save me a plate. Dinner’s in fifteen or so, by now.”

“Or,” Taz countered, his gaze lifting to seek out Luke’s in the dim darkness of their sanctuary. “You could hurry and eat with us.”

“Wilco, Sarge.” With a mock salute, Luke grabbed the leash off the dresser and whistled to the dog. “Back in ten, you can time me.”

“L-Luke?” The hesitation in his wavering words had Luke drawing up short at the door. Taz hurried to his feet and stood before him with a tentative press of his palms to Luke’s chest. He knew without knowing that Taz was checking for the shoulder holster beneath Luke’s suit coat. “Be careful?”

“Always, baby.” Luke stole a quick kiss and took off at a jog. He didn't actually expect Taz to time his departure, but he also wouldn't be surprised if he did. Regardless, he intended to make the venture a quick one. If only because he was really not looking forward to pushing his luck on the streets of Anacostia in the midst of a power outage with no end in sight.

Even after being out of the service for as long as he had been, Luke still struggled to leave the battlefield behind. The old training he would never forget always came back the second he stepped through the door every day, and the intensity of it was exacerbated by the lack of power casting impenetrable shadows over the familiar landscape of the neighborhood. Despite the darkness, the streets were not empty, ramping up Luke’s hypervigilance to the point of overwhelm. He ran through the risk assessment like it were second nature as he kept the leash close and his stance confident.

A heavy metallic aroma lanced through the night air, the scents of the city looming like a heavy cloud with the coming of nightfall. Warm asphalt. The smell of smoke on the breeze. Rotting refuse somewhere nearby. The street was quiet, but not silent. Shuttered businesses drew curious lurkers, opportunists ready to pounce on perceived weakness. Others sat hunched on stoops and steps, not eager to return to the stifling closeness of apartment buildings with inadequate ventilation. Still others moved like wraiths in and out of the shadows, stalking or searching for anything. Brody let out a small, rumbling huff as his hackles rose and his shoulder pressed against Luke’s thigh.

Despite his outwardly relaxed stance, Luke was dancing a tightrope of awareness. The instincts curated by the Marine Corps were back in action as his keen eyes clocked every movement, every potential pinch point, each exit, route, and step in an effort to remain ready for anything and everything that might cross his routine route. It was that vigilance that had him noticing something that didn't sit quite right in the base of his gut.

He’d lived in this region and walked these streets often enough to have a running tally of who did and didn't belong. The older couple on the nearest stoop belonged. The pack of teens casing the corner store belonged. The trio of young men causing a ruckus on the farthest corner with a tire iron and an old trash can out of sheer boredom belonged. The man in voluminous rags leaning heavily against the apartment building Taz had used as a hideaway? He didn't belong. Nevertheless, Luke kept to his predictable path and tried to keep his feet squarely planted in the civilian world despite every internal alarm screaming that this anomaly was a threat and he needed to remain combat ready.

His adrenaline and emotions influenced Brody, trained to be aware of every biochemical shift and heightened biometric in Luke’s body. The dog leaned heavier into Luke’s thigh with each step and the intermittent whines of concern shifted into a more insistent series of huffing, puffing, anxious yawning, and even the occasional quiet bark. Luke continued on, refusing to let the ghosts of his past influence the reality of the present. They weren't actually sweeping an urban landscape in a Middle Eastern country. They were simply going for a walk in their own neighborhood. If he told himself that enough, it'd be true.

By the time they were headed back toward home, cruising the opposite side of the street, Luke’s grip on the leash was punishing. His knuckles ached for how hard he gripped the strip of leather. He had to consciously force himself to take a deeper breath as he surveyed the path ahead and caught the sharp-eyed stare of the Rag Man, still casually leaning against the corner of the building like moss clinging to the old, moldering brickwork. Too clear-eyed to be an addict like his subtle, rhythmic head bob would fool most people into thinking. Each step closer toward the individual had Luke cataloguing more details and incongruities.

Whoever he was, he was good. He kept eye contact to a minimum despite scrutinizing Luke in the same way Luke scrutinized him. He was good, but not great. By the time he was only a few steps away, Luke had a list of all the things that didn't sit right, as well as the man’s physical attributes. Five-eleven, maybe six feet. Lean, but muscular. Tawny brown skin, short curly hair that was likely dark brown, if not completely black. The disguise was either poorly executed because it was done in a rush, or he wasn't as skilled in subterfuge as Luke had originally guessed. He’d made three critical errors—his black combat boots and tactical pants were clean and in good condition beneath the tattered rags tied around his waist, his hair and skin were flawless and spoke of good health from what he could see beneath the shapeless hood of his too-big poncho, and the idiot had used tactical black paint to make himself look dirty, the greasy, waterproof base shining a little too much in the limited light provided by the moon.

He predicted the movements before they happened, so he was ready to respond as the man stepped away from the building to block Luke’s path. He catalogued every shift of limb and muscle to learn more. Knowledge was key in potentially dangerous encounters. He planned to have as much intel as possible. The man’s left arm stuck out a bit more than the right—pistol in a shoulder holster, he guessed. There was a bulge at his right ankle and it had a nearly imperceptible effect on his gait–gun or knife strapped to the instep. Luke’s eyes did a swift sweep of the immediate surroundings and identified potential cover, just in case.

“What a handsome beastie. Real pretty-pretty.” The stranger affected a casual stance before sinking into a crouch with his hand extended. Brody’s teeth flashed white for a brief moment as he rumbled low in his chest.

“Yep.” Luke stepped to the left, but the outstretched hand moved quicker, grabbing the leash close to where it was clipped to the collar. “You have one second to release my dog before—”

“Before you shoot me with the Glock under your left arm or slap me with the bracelets you got on your right hip? Mon frère, that's not a way to make friends.” The man slowly stood, running his fingers up the leash to refasten his grip right below Luke’s hand. “Relax, soldier. I ain't here to cause no trouble. No trouble.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Intense, dark eyes surveyed Luke’s face, a bright smile flashing over the man’s features with a wink. “Just a ghost looking for a new haunt.”

“Well, time to move along.” Luke slipped his fingers from the leash while reaching his free hand to unclip the restraint from Brody’s collar. “Home, boy.”

Brody took off, jubilant to have the chance to run off leash. Luke followed the dog’s path, calculating each step of his path and listening for every sound that might indicate a change in circumstances. If the man had wanted him dead, he’d had ample opportunity already. He wasn't a betting man, but Luke felt confident in his odds as he continued toward home.

“Mais, frère,” the man called in a lyrical sing-song voice. “We both know you and your Rainbow Brigade are bang in the middle of a shit storm. Thought it was time I introduced myself before things got even worse.”

Luke paused for just a fraction of a moment before continuing his stride. He desperately wanted to be back home, surrounded by his family and, yes, the damn arsenal they maintained in the two-family townhouse. He stepped off the corner just as another call broke through the cloying quietude of the street.

“Tell your friends I'll be in touch, mon ami.”

Luke spared a glance over his shoulder to find the man sauntering in the opposite direction, his stride precise and not even an ounce of effort put into masking the militaristic nature of his posture. Strangest of all, though, was what happened next—the man pulled something from his back pocket and brought it to his lips. Moments later, the bluesy wail of a harmonica infused the street with music, a stark incongruity amidst the darkness and fear. Long after he disappeared from view around a corner, the lingering notes remained, lancing through the humid air like a ghost from the bayou inhabiting the shadows of Anacostia.