Luther had, of course, wondered. If two years away had left her edges sanded down and her teeth blunted, a wild animal now-leashed and gone tame. Every fangless comment on a cast panel — she wasn't headlining the posters and the casts, not yet — every tightly-smiling pose for the camera, every time she had to rein in her innate violence and training, press it all down into a low corner. He'd wondered if Number Three was gone, just as surely as she'd left him and he'd abandoned her.
But there she is. He's been dangling whatever little hints he can, whatever tiny rebellions he can muster, buoyed by these conversations and this contact with a world outside, a world that doesn't march to the drum of this claustrophobic manor, and she bites and the veil comes down and she's still there.
He doesn't know if Reginald suspects yet. Luther's gotten worse about hiding it, his guard dropping. Despite the fact that he is, technically, an adult now, part of him always has hackles raised and waiting for his father to storm in on him, letter held damningly in hand like a loaded gun, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, and the Monocle will set fire to the entire stack of letters and forbid Number One from ever writing her ever again— a childish fear he still carries, about the door being slammed shut, just like when the two of them had been dragged away from the greenhouse and they had never gone back.
But he hasn't been caught; it hasn't happened yet.
And it's like the dam opens, the rest of the proper conversation spilling out: )
Dear Allison,
I wish I could go somed
I'll tell you about them, if I ever get to check it out.
And that's never stupid. It's all you knew for so long, and it's a lot of changes to get adjusted to — I can't even imagine. Like the rest of the world is all made of paper and it's all for show and appearances, rather than the reality of it, rather than what you know so well. Stunt fighting isn't the same as fighting for real. You're a winner, but you're not actually supposed to win those fights on camera. (Have you accidentally given a stuntman a black eye yet?)
Like if it were me, I'm not sure if I'd even be able to consciously miss the punch, bypass the instinct. It's that hard-wired. Somebody comes at you with a fist, you're supposed to put them in the ground, make sure they don't get up again.
I see stories in the newspaper about Diego, sometimes. Small ones, local news, nothing like the coverage we used to get — I don't think the photographers recognize the Kraken, not without the uniform, but he's still in the city and still fighting crime. At least he doesn't have to hold back his punches, I guess. I figure part of him must miss it, too, if that's what he spends his time doing.
Nobody's exactly like us, after all.
- Luther
PS: No, unfortunately. Even kings have to answer to gods.
( Another small hint, a whisper of that bitterness he's starting to carry around with him, which is starting to curdle inside him the longer he spends alone. No matter how high he can imagine himself, there's always a higher authority here for him to answer to. The rigid hierarchy of the Umbrella Academy. Reginald Hargreeves. )
no subject
Luther had, of course, wondered. If two years away had left her edges sanded down and her teeth blunted, a wild animal now-leashed and gone tame. Every fangless comment on a cast panel — she wasn't headlining the posters and the casts, not yet — every tightly-smiling pose for the camera, every time she had to rein in her innate violence and training, press it all down into a low corner. He'd wondered if Number Three was gone, just as surely as she'd left him and he'd abandoned her.
But there she is. He's been dangling whatever little hints he can, whatever tiny rebellions he can muster, buoyed by these conversations and this contact with a world outside, a world that doesn't march to the drum of this claustrophobic manor, and she bites and the veil comes down and she's still there.
He doesn't know if Reginald suspects yet. Luther's gotten worse about hiding it, his guard dropping. Despite the fact that he is, technically, an adult now, part of him always has hackles raised and waiting for his father to storm in on him, letter held damningly in hand like a loaded gun, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, and the Monocle will set fire to the entire stack of letters and forbid Number One from ever writing her ever again— a childish fear he still carries, about the door being slammed shut, just like when the two of them had been dragged away from the greenhouse and they had never gone back.
But he hasn't been caught; it hasn't happened yet.
And it's like the dam opens, the rest of the proper conversation spilling out: )
I wish I could go somedI'll tell you about them, if I ever get to check it out.
And that's never stupid. It's all you knew for so long, and it's a lot of changes to get adjusted to — I can't even imagine. Like the rest of the world is all made of paper and it's all for show and appearances, rather than the reality of it, rather than what you know so well. Stunt fighting isn't the same as fighting for real. You're a winner, but you're not actually supposed to win those fights on camera. (Have you accidentally given a stuntman a black eye yet?)
Like if it were me, I'm not sure if I'd even be able to consciously miss the punch, bypass the instinct. It's that hard-wired. Somebody comes at you with a fist, you're supposed to put them in the ground, make sure they don't get up again.
I see stories in the newspaper about Diego, sometimes. Small ones, local news, nothing like the coverage we used to get — I don't think the photographers recognize the Kraken, not without the uniform, but he's still in the city and still fighting crime. At least he doesn't have to hold back his punches, I guess. I figure part of him must miss it, too, if that's what he spends his time doing.
Nobody's exactly like us, after all.
- Luther
PS: No, unfortunately. Even kings have to answer to gods.
( Another small hint, a whisper of that bitterness he's starting to carry around with him, which is starting to curdle inside him the longer he spends alone. No matter how high he can imagine himself, there's always a higher authority here for him to answer to. The rigid hierarchy of the Umbrella Academy. Reginald Hargreeves. )