A/N: Unbeta'ed but a start. There really are no long Luke-centric fics, and I really wanted something that explored his and Clary's relationship. I'm hoping more stories are written about Luke, because I think he is a fantastic character and he's not hard on the eyes.
This is an all human story, AU – Luke is not a werewolf in the story, but I just like the idea of the title. Its set in modern times, but a little backwoodsy. I hope you enjoy!
Red Riding Hood
The moon was full, hanging over the dusty sky, above the trees, lighting up the ground where Clary was on her knees. In front of her, a brick two story house, with large gothic windows overlooked her desperate display. The house was called haunted by any child who dared to travel north, a few miles out of the city, to the forests. it was called the Morgensten's by the adults.
Occasionally, the adults would add pitying adjectives or cluck their tongues. It was because a child without a mother, a mother who was said to have killed herself, was most certainly someone to pity.
Clary was hoping for pity, she was hoping for any emotion from the impassive face staring down on her. Her hair was hanging limply, wet with grime over her face and her nails were caked with dirt. She lifted a shaking hand to pull her lank hair out of her face. This is the first time she had seen outside in a week. Even the light from the moon stung her eyes.
"Please, please, I-I won't do it again." She begged with her eyes shining bright. The fate of her mother's was hers. She often thought of death, more often when trapped in a basement for a week. She thought she could walk peacefully into it, like the lady of the lake walked serenely in water.
Her heart pushed her forward, her nerves fried her inhibitions, and all she could do was beg. The man above her stared down with his lips curling in disgust.
His blonde hair was clean, perfectly coifed, longish, his eyes, a cold black – they flicked at Clary and the woods, unconcerned. He was wearing his long overcoat, with black hiking boots, shiny with the blood and dirt of his last hunt. He was, for the lack of better terms, handsome. Every expression, meant to be ugly, was small and rippled effortlessly across his face.
In his hands were chains, the weight pulled his arms low, they swung dangerously with his every movement. They were the evidence of Clary's betrayal.
Clary watched them swing. She glanced at the dark bruises on her arms, and quickly returned her attention to the metal, afraid to repeat the beginning of the week
He started towards her and Clary whimpered. "Look at you, afraid of even a slight movement." He laughed, "You thought you were brave. All I see is a coward." He twisted the chains in his hands as if he was wringing a neck. Clary shivered, her hands were raised defensively in front of her.
She had been mostly left alone when she was thrown into the basement for a week. Nothing but water, and the days she got food, it was only stale bread. He called it her reflection week or at least that was what he had called it all the times before he had taken her down there. This time he had thrown her down in the dank basement with no preamble, and left her.
"You think that I would let you go, just as you did that woman." He spat. His face had a long scar from the top of his forehead, running down his nose, all the way to his chin. It contorted along his angry countenance.
Clary trembled, moving back across the dirt floor with every step Valentine made. A week ago, she found the maid, Rebecca, in Valentine's room, chained to the bed posts, crying. The same woman who had comforted her in her tears, after her mother died, vulnerable and in pain.
Valentine has said that she had gone on vacation. The shock of seeing her, Clary barely processed unchaining her by picking the locks. In minutes she was free, and Clary had her exit at the window.
She didn't understand the repercussions until she saw her brother, with a shocked look on his face, in the doorway. At first she thought he was outraged at seeing their maid locked in their father's room. But then he spun on his foot, and ran out, her heart had sunk.
It wasn't long till Valentine had stalked in the room, cursing her. He had grabbed her by the hair, dragged her to the basement, and threw her in. She wondered if this was how her mother died.
Mother.
Clary missed her mother's warm arms around her, whispering in her ears comforting words. She could almost feel her closeness as she inched closer and closer to death.
Clary was a prisoner, just the same as Rebecca, just the same as her mother.
"You think you saved her didn't you?" He said with a raised eyebrow, Valentine's tone bordered on patronizing. He took a step forward, the chains tinkling with every step.
Clary eyebrows drew together. What could he mean by asking those questions? He always hid lies into truths and truths into lies, only to examine the reaction. Her stomach turned and she looked at the part of the wood that Rebecca had disappeared into. "I couldn't let her die." She whispered.
Valentine stopped, looked up to the sky with a long, pondering stare. "I wouldn't have killed her," he said absently, "just scared her a little from stealing from me." Valentine looked at her with cold eyes. She felt anger rise up in her; she would not let him lie like this. Twist what she did.
"You're a liar!" She shouted.
"You really should learn to hold your tongue." He took a quick, menacing step towards her. "I didn't enjoy killing her, but you left me with no choice when you freed her."
"Shut up!" She didn't care what he said; she didn't care about his lies anymore. She was just his plaything, and she refused to be played with any longer. She loved Rebecca. All the times Rebecca had taken care of her, when she nursed her wounds, her hugs and comfort. In house so cold, she was the only warmth in it for years.
"I saw her-," Clary's voice broke, her face felt hot, and her heart was beating quicker. "She got past the woods." Images of Rebecca's slight figure running quickly down the path to the woods flashed in Clary's mind.
"She's dead, dear." He dropped the chains right next to Clary's prone form. They looked like they were covered in grease. They rolled on the grass and stilled, like a snake enticing her. She shakily reached her hand out and touched them. On her fingers, she saw they were coated with blood. Clary shook her head repeatedly, gaping in disbelief.
"No!" She could barely breathe; she clenched her fist trying to stop herself from screaming. A hiccup escaped her mouth.
"Sebastian!" Valentine yelled out, and Clary's dark haired brother appeared from the back door of their house. Clary would do anything to jump up and strangle him; she glared at him with contempt. He called her a traitor, but Rebecca had loved him to, she had comforted him to. This is how he betrayed her, he killed her with Valentine.
"Yes, Dad?" Sebastian had black hair, about the same length as his father. It hung over his eyes, his lips dark red, twisted into a smile.
Rage bubbled up in her throat, and tears pricked her eyes. She grabbed the chains and with all her strength threw them towards Valentine. "I hope you both go to hell. I hope you both die!"
Valentine turned to her, his face darkened. A few quick strides, and he slapped her across the face, "You know nothing about hell. But you will, God hates traitors, conspirators, you are like Lucifer, all pride. Just like your mother." He knelt down and grabbed her by the neck, "But your mother wrote her ticket to hell when she killed herself didn't she?"
Clary could taste the metallic blood in her mouth, "You killed her." She said and spat in his face. He growled, and pushed her head to the dirt. She struggled to break free.
"I will make sure those are your last words." He whacked her head against the ground, and got up, stalking to the house. Clary was on fire with pain, her head pulsing, and her eyes disoriented.
"Take a gun from the rack and kill her." He said. He stomped up the steps, giving her a snarl, "She's a traitor. No daughter of mine."
Clary felt numb to her own death. She looked on hopelessly to her brother who, for once, looked startled. He looked like her brother, the one she remembered from childhood. The one she loved. He looked to Valentine, "Dad?"
Valentine grabbed him by the front of his shirt, "Don't question me," He growled, "Do it. Take her to the woods."
Sebastian swallowed hard and nodded. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked a chest full of guns that was lying on the porch. He picked a shotgun with a trembling hand, and then shut the case with a snap.
Sebastian approached her in a few quick steps and Clary moved back as far as she could on her feet, "Sebastian, please." His face hardened more, and he grabbed her by the arm, hauling her up.
"Come on, traitor." He looked so much like Valentine with that snarling face. She wished she could rip it off, to find the boy she knew was there. He didn't even look at her, just pulling her forward.
There was a time when she and him would run outside and play for hours. Sebastian had always been interested in hunting, and he would throw rocks at birds saying that he could knock one out of the sky. Clary remembered taunting him that he could not, secretly afraid of one of the poor birds dying.
Now she was his bird, and her very movements were like a carrot to a rabbit. She wondered if Sebastian could be like her father. Did he know that his mother was no suicide, did he know how to kill her like their father did to their mother.
His hand was so tight around her arm, she could feel the stings of newly made cuts.
They entered the dense woods, Sebastian walking quickly, still holding Clary by the arm. Clary struggled to not trip over every rock and root that came in direction with her wobbly feet.
In the hour of her death, she vaguely wondered if she could have bottle of water. Her mouth felt dry, and her throat was burning.
After about fifteen minutes, Sebastian threw her roughly to the ground. It didn't hurt the bruises, the cuts; they all just jumbled together in one large ache.
His face was impassive, staring down at her. He didn't look at her like a brother. He looked at her like a passing acquaintance, barely a flicker of recognition.
"You don't have to do this Sebastian, please." She pleaded. Her whole body was tense and her hands rose protectively in front of her. She felt like she was talking to someone else entirely.
Sebastian took the safety off the gun. Clary noted that his hands were shaking, he fumbled to straighten the gun, and aim. Clary dropped her arms, staring it down, tears dropping to the forest floor.
"You're dead to me Clary." Sebastian said his voice steady. Clary tensed, readying to be killed, taking long deep breaths.
"But, your blood will not be on my hands." Sebastian muttered. Clary froze, her eyes widened and suddenly there was a loud bang. The shot made her ears ring, and she fell on her butt. She trembled from the rush of adrenaline.
Sebastian glared at her, "Go, and don't ever return."
Clary shook herself from shock and stumbled up. She started running as fast as she could and as far as she could get. The trees were so close together that they practically covered the moon, everything was so dark.
She ran till her lungs burned, till her lips were so chapped they bled. She ran through the path around the mountain, past the lake where she remembered reading with her mother, past the cave where Sebastian and she had their secret clubhouse.
She ran through the open fields where she killed her first deer and cried. That was when her father forced her to eat only deer for several weeks, and slapped her across the face when she so much shed a tear about it.
She ran till she could no longer see familiar landmarks, the moon was lower in the sky, and sun began to peek out into the horizon. The woods had gone on for miles, she stumbled and fell over a dip in a hill for the hundredth time, but this time she didn't get up.
He didn't kill her with a gun, but she would die here anyways. Then maybe her death would still save someone. If father knew that Sebastian let her live, he would be in a world of pain.
She licked her lips, wishing she had anything, food or water. She breathed heavily wishing she had gathered more water from the lake. She was too exhausted to search for any more. The wet grass was soft and soothing against the cuts on her knees.
She rubbed her eyes and curled into a fetal position, her hair falling over her face. Slowly, her eyes crept closed, bringing her into a deep, exhausted sleep.
Suddenly, there was a large crack, Clary jolted awake at the sound and realized that it was thunder. It started to rain; the droplets were cold, chilling her. She cupped her hands and they filled with water. She drank as much as she could, as quickly as she could. She ignored her shivering hands and overwhelming headache.
After her thirst was sated, she looked to the clouds. The sun was hidden by them but it was obvious to her that she had been asleep for at least a few hours. Her whole body was muddy from lying in the ditch during the rain.
Even in her exhaustion, she knew she needed to keep moving, to find cover. She willed herself up and shook the mud from her clothes. She peered out to the north, contemplating the direction.
Then she heard the sound of sticks breaking, and she whirled around. She quickly scanned the ground and grabbed the first rock she could find. It was fist sized, and she held it up with an anxious gaze into the woods.
Out of the heavily wooded area came a man, wearing a flannel shirt and tattered pair of jeans. His hair was floppy and black, curling over the edges of his ears. He had a beard that hid the grim line of his mouth. He was eyeing her with wariness, and she was backing quickly away, tightening her hold on the rock. He was tall, well built, and most likely in his mid to late thirties.
Did her father send him to kill her? Her eyes flitted around the open, hilly valley to the broken, unbeaten paths in every direction.
She glanced at him, he had stopped approaching her. He brought his hands slowly up, his eyes examining her carefully, "Hey, I'm not going to hurt you."
Clary scoffed, did this work on every girl he was sent to kill?
"Stay away from me." Her voice was raspy from unuse.
"You're bleeding." He said matter-of-factly, looking first at her legs, then at her arms, and then narrowing his gaze at the rock.
She brought her other arm up, and hugged her torso, "I'll kill you!"
The man frowned, "Put the rock down, you need medical attention." He took a step forward and she sharply pulled back and threw the rock as hard as she could. It whizzed towards him and he quickly side stepped, yelling out in surprise.
Realizing she missed, she dropped to the floor in an attempt to find another stone. After a second, she found her hands meeting the smooth leather toes of a pair of brown boots. Her head jerked up to see the man standing there, relaxed with his thumbs linked into his pockets, but with an annoyed expression on his face.
"Nice throw, but you've got bad aim." Clary was reminded of her brother yelling out, "Missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me." She remembered fake retching and then chasing after him. She shook her head; it hurt to think about him.
She examined the man's long legs, even in the baggy flannel; she could see the defined muscles of his arms. She couldn't out run him, she couldn't even scratch him.
She wondered why he wasn't killing her, and she feared that he might torture her, that he might do worse things. She pulled back, knowing there are worse fates than death.
Clary's breath rose sharp and quick into her chest.
"Hey, hey calm down." The man quickly took a step back, his eyes alarmed. A lock of black hair dropped in front of his eyes and he pushed it away, "I just saw you from my cabin over there." He pointed out to a brown speck of a house over the rolling hills, surrounded by the trees. "I thought you might want some place to dry off."
Her lungs started to burn, and her feet felt numb. As the rain drenched her clothes further, she curled her knees closer to herself, trying to breathe. This was the worst time to have a panic attack; she now couldn't feel her hands from the lack of oxygen. She screwed her eyes shut trying to control her breathing.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, and she tensed. Her fingers gripped tighter on herself. She glanced up and saw pity, openly on the stranger's face. Would he let her go, just as Sebastian did? She buried her head into her arms again.
"Please, leave me alone." She pleaded, muffled through her arms. Clary could pull a tough act most of the time, but the mixture of exhaustion and shame bowled over any shred of dignity.
"Breathe, you need to breathe." She heard him huff with frustration, "Before you faint." He took slow steady breaths, and she copied him. She stretched her fingers, seeing the color return to them.
She shivered, and her eyes peaked out from her folded arms. The man was as soaked as her, but he wasn't covered in mud. He was kneeling by her, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. With Valentine, there were always layers to his expression, confusion could be seen, but under that was manipulative smiles, and under that a slow burning anger.
With this man, everything was plain on his face. His unwavering focus on her was unsettling and she wanted nothing more than to pull away from his grip.
"I'm ok." Her voice sounded small, even to herself – it was shaking with barely suppressed emotion.
She heard him shift around her, and she could feel him right beside her. He was so close, that only one movement, he could snap her neck. The warmth of his body was almost a tease to her cold, shivering one. She stiffened, feeling herself unconsciously lean away from him.
"Now, I'm going to be straight with you." His voice rumbled against her. It bordered on a stern tone, "I'm not leaving you here." Clary jumped a bit at this, bringing her head up – her red hair sticking to her face.
"I was just leaving." Clary replied.
"You have some bad cuts there and a nasty bump on your head." He looked out suspiciously in the woods, "I reckon whoever did this is still out there." He looked at her, as if daring her to lie. She nearly rolled her eyes. Of course, he knew all this stuff. He was going to kill her.
Clary was silent.
He shook his head, "I've seen enough people die. I don't want to add a kid drowning a few hundred feet from my house to that list." His eyes were dark, and guarded – for a moment he seem stuck in another time, a deep set frown on his face
"I'm fifteen." That was all she could say, because even in her hypothermic state, she wasn't going to let herself be called a kid. Children were seen and not heard, and all decisions were taken from their hands. The thought of that scared her.
The man looked puzzled, "Well, sure – you look it, I guess." Clary pursed her lips, "I'm not a kid."
Again, her voice was still small and shaky, but the steely resolve flashed in her eyes.
He chuckled, "Well, you're just the age for a damsel in distress – right princess?"
Clary scrunched up her nose in disgust; he talked to her like she was five. At that moment, she was overcome with a fit of sneezing; she brought her arm to her nose and wiped it across. She paused looking at the man, staring as she wiped her nose on her sleeve. She dropped her arm, sniffing miserably.
"I can take care of myself." Finally, her voice sounded stronger, she stared at him, silent and unmovable.
The man just frowned, "I don't doubt that." He didn't move, and Clary felt her jaw clench, annoyed at his presence. She just needed to get to the woods; she could find a cave and be fine. She didn't need anyone's help, especially a paid killer.
"Well." He sighed, "Go on then, I won't hold you here. I'd like you off my property." He said firmly while getting up. He brushed the excess mud off his pants.
Clary's mouth dropped open. She was a little startled at the change of plans. She was gearing up for a long argument, even force. He looked at her expectantly, as if to say "Why are you still here?"
Clary felt a little anxious to have to get up so soon, without any food in her body and only a couple hours of sleep, she really just wanted to lie in this field a little longer. Even in the freezing rain, it still seemed like a viable option.
She reluctantly uncurled, her feet and hands tingling uncomfortably from being held so tightly together.
She got up slowly, but even then the landscape swayed wobbly from left to right, she stumbled to get her balance and took a shaky breath. She paused, closing her eyes tightly, willing the steady thrum of her headache away.
"Are you just going to stand there?" He said harshly, his voice completely changed – a thin layer of derision lacing his words.
"I'm leaving!" She said, frustrated at her wobbling legs and this man's impatience. She lifted her chin up, her red hair hanging from her head like a drenched match. She took another step, again stumbling but still keeping up. "Just go back to your damn cabin."
"So you can sleep in my fields like a vagrant." He snorted, "I don't need some thief, stealing my crops."
Clary was startled by this. She actually looked, really looked at the field to see several lines of crops. Alf-Alfa, Corn stalks, and what look like lines of tomato vines were spread out across the acres of land. Her stomach grumbled and now she really wished he would leave, so that she could do the very thing he worried about.
She pushed herself to take another step, a sharp pain shot up her leg and she bent over, rubbing her hand over her leg.
"This is you taking care of yourself? Are you even able to walk?" He bit out. She cursed him under her breath.
Clary looked at him, his hands folded over his chest and his face tight and angry. She lifted her body straight, ignoring the hammering aches all over her body, and resolutely took a few steps. Her feet then treacherously gave way and she fell to her knees. She took heaving breaths, she couldn't even walk away – she was going to die.
"Come on." She heard the man say, and she felt him grab her by the arms and haul her to her feet. "Let's get out of this rain."
"No." She pushed weakly against him, but his hand stayed firmly around her arm, as he practically dragged her a few feet forward. "Stop!" She said louder, digging her heels into the dirt.
He pinched his lips together. "You can argue with me about this in the house."
Clary's eye flickered to the house, and she knew if he wasn't going to kill her out in the public, he was most definitely going to kill her there.
He dragged her a few more steps, and Clary dropped her weight like a toddler not wanting to leave a candy store. The man grunted at the sudden change of weight and let go of her.
He looked down, with narrowed eyes, "You're really going to do this? Do you have any sense of self-preservation?" He asked with a thunderous expression on his face.
Clary didn't say anything as she tried to keep control of her breathing. Her legs began to shoot hot pain more frequently up her thighs.
"You're just a child; you shouldn't be here by yourself. And you obviously keep yourself from getting hurt."
Regardless of her aches, she kicked mud in his direction "fuck you!" If he thought she was going down without a fight, he was wrong.
"Did you run away?" He spat out, "Selfish girl, probably worrying your parents' sick!"
Her mother flashed in her mind, the beautiful woman who was always there. Always wearing bruises on her pale skin like a badge of honor. She would read to Clary every night about princesses who escaped evil hands to find love. And her heart ached to be held by her mother again, to see the creased face filled with concern and love at every one of Clary's problems.
Her heart ached for Rebecca, the strong woman who stayed with Clary, even when her mother died. It ached for her brother, who turned to his father for recognition and left his sister to die. It ached for herself, because she wasn't strong enough.
A sob suddenly escaped her throat, bubbling up to an uncontrolled hiccup of a cry and suddenly she couldn't stop. Tears started pouring down her reddened face, and she heaved with smothered wails. "M-Mom" Was all she could say. She wanted to yell for her mom to come, to take her with her.
The man swore his face tense and his mouth drawn downwards at the sobbing girl. Panic was flickering over his face. He roughly rubbed her on the back, but he was met with more tears.
He grabbed her under her legs and back, lifted and carried her close to his chest, "Come on, let's get you inside and we'll find your mom." She just started crying harder, and he shook his head, "I'm not cut out for this shit." She bounced with his brisk steps towards his house.
For once she didn't care if she was going to die in that house, because then maybe she could be with her mom and she would find peace. Even with her hot, bitter crying, she shivered in the cold rain and the man pulled her tighter against himself.
They reached his house in a matter of minutes, he shifted her slightly as her turned the knob to the front door and he kicked it open.
Clary's sobs had died down to little gasps of breath, her eyes still producing copious amounts of tears. They entered the wooden cabin, to a room that only could be described as cozy. There was a brick fireplace with two rocking chairs and a sofa surrounding it. It was currently lit, emanating a delicious warmth. The room had a huge red rug covering the floor, and bookcases lined the walls. There was a notable absence of a TV.
To the left, there lay a kitchen – the appliances tightly packed together. An old black stove, an off-white refrigerator, and one table with four mismatched chairs. To the right was a hallway with 4 doors, all painted white, all closed. It looked normal, not a single torture trap in sight.
He set her gently on one of the wooden rocking chairs. She saw her tracks of dripping water and mud all over the carpet. He followed her gaze and waved his hands, "It's fine." He looked at her anxiously, and she wiped her eyes, starting to feel like she was calming down.
She felt a calm acceptance for what was to come, or maybe she just was tired. Her arms relaxed around her torso, and she stared into the crackling fire.
He left her in the room, disappearing in the hallway. Her breathing quieted, and her tears abated. The warmth of the fire seeping under her clothes, and warming her, she realized that her teeth were still chattering. A small tremor was running all over her body. She looked quizzically at her shaking hands, she didn't feel cold.
"You should take of your shoes." Clary looked up to him, startled at his sudden entrance.
"Sorry." She muttered, still feeling guilty about ruining his rug. She unlaced her sneakers, and pulled them off her feet. He took them out of her hands and set them on the tile of the kitchen.
"I got some old clothes that might fit." He pointed towards the t-shirt and small sweat pants in the other rocking chair. It sat there along with a towel, "They were my sister's." The sound of the word "were" was soft, and hesitant. Clary felt something akin to hope.
"I-um," Clary was having a hard time thinking straight, "Thanks." She answered lamely.
"Can you walk alright?" He peered at her and she noticed that he was now wearing glasses, which changed the shape of his face completely. It softened his eyes and his eyebrows framed them without making him look angry. The dark circles under his eyes almost looked like bruises on his face, he looked world weary. Strangely, he looked gentle and bookish.
She shakily got up, and picked up the clothes, taking care to not dirty them with mud and rain water. The man led her to the hallway and opened the first door on the left. There was a small room, a cramped space with a bathtub, sink and toilet shoved in there.
"Go ahead and clean up." He said, before turning and leaving her alone.
"Thank you, sir." She called out to him, he turned to her, "It's Luke." He corrected and then left her as he headed towards the kitchen.
She closed and locked the door. She rested her new set of clothes on the counter and quickly undressed, her old clothes falling into a wet pile on the floor.
She hopped into the showering and felt the dirt and blood from the forest and the week she spent in the basement wash away. She felt the stings of the water on her cuts, and the soap made them burn. Her body shivered with pleasure at the change in temperature. She felt warm, and comfy.
The water started to turn lukewarm and she realized that she must have been in the shower for a while. She turned the faucets off and exited. Drying herself off, she glanced in the steam filled mirror and wiped it away.
Her blurred face came into focus, and the angry bruise on her cheek matched the ones on her arms and torso.
Looking away, more from her memories and not her appearance, she fumbled to put the clothes on. She had to draw the drawstring of the sweatpants all the way and tie them tightly around her waist. The T-shirt was several sizes too big, and one end hung slightly off her shoulder. Her petite stature was more noticeable in the oversized clothes.
She noticed her cuts seeping blood on her clothes and bit her lip nervously. She grabbed some tissue, and worked to clot the cuts on her legs. They were shallow, and new, most likely from her stumbles. The cuts from her father looked dark and possibly needed to be cleaned, but they weren't bleeding.
There was a knock on the door; she turned her head towards it.
"Are you okay in there?" Luke's muffled voice beat through.
"Uh, yeah." She answered, pulling the pant legs down, quickly combing her fingers through her hair and bringing it all to one side of her shoulder.
She opened the door and looked up at him. He tensed, scrutinizing her and she noticed that he was staring intently at her cheek, at her bruise. She looked down, blushing.
"We need to look at those cuts." He raised a clear plastic case with a red cross on it, a first aid kit. Clary opened her mouth in protest but Luke shook his head, "Sit on the toilet."
She sat down on the closed toilet, and Luke knelt down, placing the case on the floor. He snapped it opened, and took out the rubbing alcohol and some cotton swabs. He set them down a carefully and fingered the blood stains on the pants.
"Sorry." Clary mumbled.
"It'll wash." He said gruffly, not looking her in the eye. He rolled up her pant legs, and exhaled loudly.
He dumped a liberal amount of alcohol on the swab, and then looked her in the eye. "This is going to hurt." He tilted his head, "What's your name."
"Clary."
"Okay, Clary, close your eyes if you need to." A crease formed between his eyebrows. He gently wiped at the cuts and they burned. Clary jerked her leg but he held it still, tightly.
It took ten minutes for him to clean all the cuts on both her arms and legs. After he finished bandaging her legs and arms, she felt like a mummy. Clary looked at the bandages critically, "You didn't need to bandage the whole leg."
"Most people say thank you." He grumbled, snapping the case shut and then putting it in the cabinet under the sink.
Clary blushed, "Thank you."
He eyed her, "So you do have manners. Here I thought you were raised by monkeys in the forest."
He held his hands out, and Clary grabbed it, pushing herself up to a standing position. He looked at the bruise on her face again, still appearing bothered by it.
"Did you fall?" He asked. "It look like you took a nosedive down a cliff."
She hesitated by licking her lips, and looked up. "Yeah." She said softly, happy to be provided with an out for an explanation. Her reply did not have the desired effect as his frown deepened on his face.
"I made some sandwiches." He changed the subject, walking down the hallway to the kitchen.
Clary nodded, and followed after him, the kitchen was brightly painted, yellow and had a large window. It probably was brighter on sunny days, but right now droplets raced down the panes.
Everything felt brighter and happier than any place at her home, and Luke had already did more for her in one day than her Dad did her whole life. He seemed normal, but Clary wasn't about to trust that feeling.
A large plate of sandwiches, with different types of meat, cut into triangles sat on the table.
"Sit down and eat." He ordered and Clary found herself immediately dropping in the closest seat. She regarded the sandwiches suspiciously, they could be poisoned. After a few moments, Luke sighed.
"Are you going to eat one?"
"I'm not that hungry." She lied. Her stomach then decided to growl at that moment. She glanced guiltily at Luke
"Suit yourself." Luke grabbed one of the roast beef triangles and took a bite.
Clary licked her lips, watching anxiously as he swallowed it whole. How bad could it be?
Hunger being her driving force, she shakily grabbed one with the same kind of meat. Better safe than sorry, she thought to herself.
She nibbled at the edge of one of the sandwiches, and her hunger pangs suddenly became more pronounced. With that, she took a large bite, devouring the whole sandwich in less than a minute. She grabbed another. She felt like there really was nothing that tasted this good as she chomped it down.
She began to stuff her face with a impressive vigor, working to consume as much as she could. She looked to Luke seeing that he was staring at her and she paused.
"When was the last time you ate?" He asked apprehensively.
She chewed for a second, and swallowed, suddenly feeling like a pig. She had already eaten six sandwiches and her stomach started to ache. She bit back on the nausea. She knew that she had rushed herself a bit too much.
"A while." She finally answered
A look flashed across Luke's face that she really could not decipher. She leaned back for a moment, enjoying the feeling of being clean, warm and fed. It had been weeks since she had all three. Her eyes felt distinctly heavy, and she looked at the grains of the wooden table with half lidded eyes.
She began to battle with herself to stay awake. There was something about the warmness of the room. This man was dangerous but her body didn't seem to agree, it was more relaxed then she was with her father.
She shook her head, trying to break away from the fogginess in her eyes.
"You can sleep in the guest room." She heard Luke's chair pushed back and him nudge her. She blinked, again shaking her head, "I'm ok." She answered.
"I'm starting to think you don't know what 'ok' means." Luke pointed out; she looked up at him, his eye crinkling at the corners.
She stayed seated, resolutely silent. He sighed, "I don't really want to carry you again. Just do this one thing without arguments, alright?" He asked.
Clary looked at him, taller, stronger – and wondered why he even bothered asking. She pulled herself up, and trudged to the hallway. Luke walked past her and opened the door to the spare bedroom. The walls were light blue; the furniture was made of an old, worn white wood. The bed looked inviting warm, with its light blue and white flowery comforter. It was decidedly feminine for someone who appeared all rough and tumble.
She heard the door close and looked to see Luke gone from the room. Thankfully, she didn't hear a lock engage, so she presumably was not trapped. She crawled into the bed, slipping under the covers. Before she knew it she was a sleep.