luther "the big shy one" hargreeves | #00.01 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
obediences) wrote2019-03-28 10:51 am
obediences) wrote2019-03-28 10:51 am
Entry tags:
Everything OK?
[ Of course Luther's mind goes to worst case scenarios first: monsters, robots, werewolves. 'The shit that happened' is, well, a pretty broad umbrella. ]
[ Of course Luther's mind goes to worst case scenarios first: monsters, robots, werewolves. 'The shit that happened' is, well, a pretty broad umbrella. ]
A blink. The powers-that-be can have a sense of humour about their assignments, but at least Luther can see the validity and sense in his own job assignment, even banal as it is. This, though...
"Huh. That doesn't... really seem to fit." He can't put his finger on it, wouldn't be able to describe what sat wrong about it, but it doesn't sound right. "Is that anything like what you used to do?"
(Come to think of it, what did Askeladd do back in his home world, anyway?)
"Huh. That doesn't... really seem to fit." He can't put his finger on it, wouldn't be able to describe what sat wrong about it, but it doesn't sound right. "Is that anything like what you used to do?"
(Come to think of it, what did Askeladd do back in his home world, anyway?)
Luther's skin is so durable physically. Knives, bullets, they all bounce right off him. He's gotten so accustomed to being hardy and untouchable, even if it doesn't mean he's invincible; he barrels himself right into the line of fire, and pain is a distant afterthought if he isn't courting it. Isn't begging for it, making the other boxer in the ring slug him over and over until Luther's outsides match his insides.
But one thing he hasn't ever had to guard himself from is Allison's cutting speech, and so he doesn't have his guard up or a defense against it. Sticks and stones can't ever break his bones, but words can always hurt him. This aches in a way he's rarely felt before, like he's swallowed glass, like there's a dull panic pounding in his fingertips and his chest.
(You know, you are so goddamn big, sometimes I forget what a sensitive bastard you are.)
"I didn't want that," Luther says, frustrated and afraid, his voice finally getting louder as it frays and he can't hold back anymore. He shoots up to his feet in the middle of the living room, fists clenching and unclenching at his side. "Allison. That's not what I— Of course you exist. You matter. I fucked up. I didn't even realise. I know that's not a defense, it's not a good excuse, but I didn't even know I was doing it. If I'd known, or known that it mattered to you like this, I wouldn't have."
A hyper-compartmentalisation so specific that he hadn't even known he was doing it at the time.
But one thing he hasn't ever had to guard himself from is Allison's cutting speech, and so he doesn't have his guard up or a defense against it. Sticks and stones can't ever break his bones, but words can always hurt him. This aches in a way he's rarely felt before, like he's swallowed glass, like there's a dull panic pounding in his fingertips and his chest.
(You know, you are so goddamn big, sometimes I forget what a sensitive bastard you are.)
"I didn't want that," Luther says, frustrated and afraid, his voice finally getting louder as it frays and he can't hold back anymore. He shoots up to his feet in the middle of the living room, fists clenching and unclenching at his side. "Allison. That's not what I— Of course you exist. You matter. I fucked up. I didn't even realise. I know that's not a defense, it's not a good excuse, but I didn't even know I was doing it. If I'd known, or known that it mattered to you like this, I wouldn't have."
A hyper-compartmentalisation so specific that he hadn't even known he was doing it at the time.
You're not irrelevent.
You're never irrelevant.
You exist. You matter.
Funny. How none of it feels real. How desperately she wants it to be. (How deeply, coldly, intimately familiar, and worn-in that oily spreading feeling of disbelief shattering through it all is.) How much angrier than makes her. At herself. At him. She hates that clawing, digging, disgusting desperation that wants to blot out the rest of this for that. To look away. That wants him to produce some good enough excuse. Except that's what they are. Excuse. Like he just said.
Like hers. Just like hers.
Every reason she gave herself.
Ray. Klaus. Vanya. Even Luther.
Luther swings himself up, making her have to go from looking down at him on the couch to havnig to look up at his now towering form, and if anything, Allison's expression only hardens a little, sharpens, shoulders holding, eyes narrowing. But at least he's on his feet. Her jaw feels like steel, and there's an itch in her muscles that's familiar even if it's seldom given into. Not here. Not Dallas. Not Hollywood. Not for over a decade. Not at him. Never at him.
No. Lie. But only one of them.
Only one of them got to be mad the last time.
When there was a place to have, be a last time.
The last thing she wants is nothing. (But she feels reduced to nothing, too.)
"Great." It's almost, but not quite the same as seconds back. Even shorter, sharper. Thrown across the space. "You're sorry. You didn't mean it. You just never considered it. Does that fix it? Do you think it makes it better? I just, what? Forget it now? And it doesn't matter? Even though nothing has changed, except you got caught?"
You're never irrelevant.
You exist. You matter.
Funny. How none of it feels real. How desperately she wants it to be. (How deeply, coldly, intimately familiar, and worn-in that oily spreading feeling of disbelief shattering through it all is.) How much angrier than makes her. At herself. At him. She hates that clawing, digging, disgusting desperation that wants to blot out the rest of this for that. To look away. That wants him to produce some good enough excuse. Except that's what they are. Excuse. Like he just said.
Like hers. Just like hers.
Every reason she gave herself.
Ray. Klaus. Vanya. Even Luther.
Luther swings himself up, making her have to go from looking down at him on the couch to havnig to look up at his now towering form, and if anything, Allison's expression only hardens a little, sharpens, shoulders holding, eyes narrowing. But at least he's on his feet. Her jaw feels like steel, and there's an itch in her muscles that's familiar even if it's seldom given into. Not here. Not Dallas. Not Hollywood. Not for over a decade. Not at him. Never at him.
No. Lie. But only one of them.
Only one of them got to be mad the last time.
When there was a place to have, be a last time.
What do you want from me?But she had nothing. She had two and a half years of nothing.
Nothing.
The last thing she wants is nothing. (But she feels reduced to nothing, too.)
"Great." It's almost, but not quite the same as seconds back. Even shorter, sharper. Thrown across the space. "You're sorry. You didn't mean it. You just never considered it. Does that fix it? Do you think it makes it better? I just, what? Forget it now? And it doesn't matter? Even though nothing has changed, except you got caught?"
"'Got caught'," he repeats in disbelief. Got caught? Like he was purposefully sneaking around behind her back? Like he was cheating on her? It's unthinkable.
"I wasn't trying to hide anything."
Maybe it's a relief that he doesn't have anything like Diego's empathy or Klaus' telepathy, to not feel— whatever it is that's bowling her over. To feel it any more than he already is, the sympathetic bruising ache and panic that he feels just looking at her, just hearing it, just hearing that sharpness in Allison's voice and knowing that she's furious at him and he's still struggling to follow why.
So he almost wishes for it, now. Those powers. To understand her better. Because this feels like it's slipping away from him, the thread of the conversation furiously unravelling and he can't hold it in place.
But the same boy who could unconsciously exclude Vanya from everything in the family, because she wasn't the Academy, was the same one who could unconsciously exclude his friends from his family and his family from his friends. The two groups weren't the same, and so weren't supposed to line up. Until now, like a bucket of cold water being thrown in his face.
"It doesn't fix it or make it better. But I want to fix it. I'll— look, I'll tell you whatever you want to know. I can try to open up more."
She's only person he'd fall all over himself to promise these things to; to try to be better for; to communicate better for, which isn't exactly a Hargreeves strength.
"I wasn't trying to hide anything."
Maybe it's a relief that he doesn't have anything like Diego's empathy or Klaus' telepathy, to not feel— whatever it is that's bowling her over. To feel it any more than he already is, the sympathetic bruising ache and panic that he feels just looking at her, just hearing it, just hearing that sharpness in Allison's voice and knowing that she's furious at him and he's still struggling to follow why.
So he almost wishes for it, now. Those powers. To understand her better. Because this feels like it's slipping away from him, the thread of the conversation furiously unravelling and he can't hold it in place.
But the same boy who could unconsciously exclude Vanya from everything in the family, because she wasn't the Academy, was the same one who could unconsciously exclude his friends from his family and his family from his friends. The two groups weren't the same, and so weren't supposed to line up. Until now, like a bucket of cold water being thrown in his face.
"It doesn't fix it or make it better. But I want to fix it. I'll— look, I'll tell you whatever you want to know. I can try to open up more."
She's only person he'd fall all over himself to promise these things to; to try to be better for; to communicate better for, which isn't exactly a Hargreeves strength.
"I don't want that!" It comes out so much louder and faster than even parsing his words into a thought first, and somehow even she distantly realizes that feels weird even through it. Discordant. Like a shoe that somehow doesn't fit right either, even when it's absolutely her, too. She hasn't been able to react this fast in months. Over a year.
But Allison doesn't back down. It's not what she was built for.
"I don't want--" He hands raise like quotation marks, her second hand finally coming off the strap of her bag again. "--'whatever you want, Allison.' I don't want to force you to tell me all these things if you don't want to, or wouldn't ever even think of it, or actively don't even want me to know what you're doing or why or with who."
Promise me, she'd demanded. Stupid. Childish.
So unaware. Of everything. Except that she'd regret it.
Letting her hurt, anger, fear, arrogance force his hand.
She won't do it again now.
She wasn't supposed to have to.
It wasn't supposed to be like that, or like this. It was supposed to be like three nights ago. Before she stayed too long. Before he fell asleep. Back when it was unexpected laughter echoing through the house, and then they were curled up next to each other on his bed in the dark, just talking, whispering in the dark. Too old to forget they weren't thirteen anymore, and letting it happen anyway. Safe enough to say the truth, no matter how dark or raw that truth might be. It was supposed to be that.
But it wasn't. "Just stop, Luther."
"Just-" There's an angry shrug, shaking her head. "-figure out whatever it is you want or don't want." But that's not enough, is it? There's too much emphasis like she has to be clear adding, "With me." Which sounds so goddamn childish, too, but she's tired of assuming. Tired of trusting blindly in something that obviously isn't anything she thought it already was. "That's not on me to tell you."
A second after, barely, "I have things to put away."
Allison turned away from the living, heading toward her room.
But Allison doesn't back down. It's not what she was built for.
"I don't want--" He hands raise like quotation marks, her second hand finally coming off the strap of her bag again. "--'whatever you want, Allison.' I don't want to force you to tell me all these things if you don't want to, or wouldn't ever even think of it, or actively don't even want me to know what you're doing or why or with who."
Promise me, she'd demanded. Stupid. Childish.
So unaware. Of everything. Except that she'd regret it.
Letting her hurt, anger, fear, arrogance force his hand.
She won't do it again now.
She wasn't supposed to have to.
It wasn't supposed to be like that, or like this. It was supposed to be like three nights ago. Before she stayed too long. Before he fell asleep. Back when it was unexpected laughter echoing through the house, and then they were curled up next to each other on his bed in the dark, just talking, whispering in the dark. Too old to forget they weren't thirteen anymore, and letting it happen anyway. Safe enough to say the truth, no matter how dark or raw that truth might be. It was supposed to be that.
But it wasn't. "Just stop, Luther."
"Just-" There's an angry shrug, shaking her head. "-figure out whatever it is you want or don't want." But that's not enough, is it? There's too much emphasis like she has to be clear adding, "With me." Which sounds so goddamn childish, too, but she's tired of assuming. Tired of trusting blindly in something that obviously isn't anything she thought it already was. "That's not on me to tell you."
A second after, barely, "I have things to put away."
Allison turned away from the living, heading toward her room.
Edited 2020-11-11 18:53 (UTC)
Luther could easily have reached out and snagged Allison's arm and kept her here, stopped her from leaving, but she was too volatile and he was nowhere near eager to prolong this—
Well. This fight. He had to admit it, it was a fight. An argument that he still wasn't entirely sure where it had come from or how it had so unexpectedly slammed into both of them, leaving him reeling.
Whatever it is you want or don't want. With me.
The answer was, in fact, so easy. So incredibly easy that he could have automatically blurted it out to her back, her shoulder as it turned away from him — you, I want you, everything about you, in any way you'll have me — but the words died on his tongue. In the end, he was left alone, standing in the center of the living room and watching helplessly as she marched up the stairs to her bedroom, and as he heard the distant slam of a door.
Well. This fight. He had to admit it, it was a fight. An argument that he still wasn't entirely sure where it had come from or how it had so unexpectedly slammed into both of them, leaving him reeling.
Whatever it is you want or don't want. With me.
The answer was, in fact, so easy. So incredibly easy that he could have automatically blurted it out to her back, her shoulder as it turned away from him — you, I want you, everything about you, in any way you'll have me — but the words died on his tongue. In the end, he was left alone, standing in the center of the living room and watching helplessly as she marched up the stairs to her bedroom, and as he heard the distant slam of a door.
Yeah, fine. Just...
Okay, so this guy was at the park I run at, you know, they've got that duck pond down the way. He's feeding the ducks. And then this asshole goose came up and snatched the guy's wallet from him.
I chased a goose today, Luther.
What have you been doing?
Okay, so this guy was at the park I run at, you know, they've got that duck pond down the way. He's feeding the ducks. And then this asshole goose came up and snatched the guy's wallet from him.
I chased a goose today, Luther.
What have you been doing?
Were they killer geese? Sentient, or with laser eyes?
Stop being Number One and be my brother and realize this is fucking hilarious.
Luther.
I chased a fucking goose for a wallet.
Luther.
I chased a fucking goose for a wallet.
It's part of it, Diego. If it was a killer goose, I was about to be impressed and proud of your commitment to public safety and protecting people from the natural hazards of this world.
Otherwise: this is the stupidest thing I've ever heard.
Did you catch it?
Otherwise: this is the stupidest thing I've ever heard.
Did you catch it?
I’ll be sure to ask next time.
It started to take off so I just kinda trajectory-threw the bird back over to the guy?
Weirdest fucking morning of my entire life, I swear to god.
It started to take off so I just kinda trajectory-threw the bird back over to the guy?
Weirdest fucking morning of my entire life, I swear to god.
I was about to revoke your Team Zero card if you'd told me you'd been bested by a literal, non-superpowered, non-killer goose.
You don’t get to revoke anything in Team Zero.
We're all still in the team no matter how much of a fuckup we are. Something like that?
Something like that. [Because, really? Team Zero was just another way to call each other family, but "family" never quite fit for them, did it? So this. It would work. It was working. It meant more, somehow.] |
Edited (typossss) 2020-11-15 05:05 (UTC)
So. Did you at least get thanked by this other person for your goose Samaritan act?
[ Luther is very, very proud of his pun. ]
[ Luther is very, very proud of his pun. ]
Oh, God, you're an idiot.
[AKA: He hates that he almost laughed at that pun. Goddammit, Luther.]
But... yeah.
He was grateful about it.
[AKA: He hates that he almost laughed at that pun. Goddammit, Luther.]
But... yeah.
He was grateful about it.
New friend?
[ It's an earnest question, actually, and not as teasing as when Luther had ribbed him about Derek. They've both lost enough burgeoning friends here. They could do with more. ]
[ It's an earnest question, actually, and not as teasing as when Luther had ribbed him about Derek. They've both lost enough burgeoning friends here. They could do with more. ]
Eh...I dunno. Maybe?
[He really isn't sure. It wasn't a bad meeting, exactly? He's just not sure...if it'll be a cause for more, yet, either.]
I miss Derek.
I didn't even know to miss him, before, but now I'm here and I do and it sucks.
[This is why he stayed alone all the time, back home. It was easier than dealing with losing people, in whatever way he might do so.]
[He really isn't sure. It wasn't a bad meeting, exactly? He's just not sure...if it'll be a cause for more, yet, either.]
I miss Derek.
I didn't even know to miss him, before, but now I'm here and I do and it sucks.
[This is why he stayed alone all the time, back home. It was easier than dealing with losing people, in whatever way he might do so.]
Yeah. I get you.
I miss Shaun.
[ He didn't want to admit it, but Diego did it first, so... ]
I miss Shaun.
[ He didn't want to admit it, but Diego did it first, so... ]
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