Allison's braver than he is, always has been: ready to storm across the room like she's besieging the battlements. His heart skips a beat as he notices her trying to make her way towards him. But then she's waylaid; he watches her get diverted, like a ferocious wayward rip current is dragging her away, through this ocean of people and conversation and sparkling lights and the flutter of camera flashes. Voices blurring into an indistinguishable wall of noise. It's a dizzying array, all the more jarring compared to the quiet, silent hours and days and weeks he spends back at the Hargreeves manor. A dog on the leash, tied up in the yard before he's trotted out like so much pageantry, a kennel show. (Best in breed. Look at his height, the length and turn of his calf, that strong jaw, how obedient he is to commands.)
Luther wants to tear himself away and go to her side now that she's back, but there's still the obligatory hoops to jump through. The governor's here, unexpectedly, recognising him, thanking him profusely for... something, he'd done something last year and he can't even remember what, the missions all blur together in a haze of violence and blood without the other members of the Academy to break up the monotony. Luther pretends he knows, says it was nothing, it was a pleasure, he'd do it any day. Have they had any trouble with any other villains lately. Oh, a weather manipulator? And they ruined the perfect weather of Los Angeles? What a shame. Ha, ha.
This world is paper-thin, like he'd said in those letters. You could rip it apart. They're all just going through the motions, dolls arranged just so, following some kind of arcane social rules and procedures that he hasn't quite mastered — he lives in a world that is always watching and where everyone knows his name and everyone always wants something and he is constantly judged on how useful he can be, how handsome, how marketable, and there really aren't that many differences between Hollywood or their past life at all, is there.
The movement in the room has shifted; the doors have opened, the public are getting their own looks at the exhibit. It frees up the space a little, means there's more room to walk (more room to get over to her), except that Allison seems to be absorbed in conversation with someone who Looks Important. Just like how Luther, himself, is trapped. Moments like this, he wishes he could be nameless, faceless, anonymous. He wishes both of them could be. Then the world wouldn't want and demand so much of them, drinking it all up until there's so little left over for them.
He finishes his drink. His superhuman metabolism runs fast, doesn't really let him get drunk easily, but there've been enough drinks slammed back now that he's starting to feel the buzz, a distant slight looseness in his limbs. Careful, Number One, an inner voice reminds him, and the voice sounds like his father. It always sounds like his father. Be mindful of your strength. Inebriation affects your coordination. Don't break the goddamn exhibit before it's even opened.
The thing is, he does want to step through those doors and go see what the museum has to offer. That whole wing is right up Luther's alley; he'd actually been pretty excited about the idea of checking it out, before spotting her. But as long as Allison stays in this room, then he's anchored in this room making small-talk, trying to smile through a face that's gone rigid. The smile flutters, keeps wanting to turn into a worried frown.
But then there's someone else at his elbow, asking him a question he actually wants to answer. And Luther turns with surprise, a tilt of his head as he recognises the Canadian astronaut, and his demeanour instantly changes, the insincere glint fading. Instead, sounding respectful, admiring: "Oh, jeez, it's an honour to meet you. Seriously. Yeah, space is still in the cards. I'm still certified, yes. I've been training on the new Hargreeves Enterprises shuttle, it's been based on the Endeavour design—"
And for the first time, he lets himself fall back into the conversation, and in letting it have more of his attention rather than just a tiny pittance, a shred, 5% of his focus. This time Luther actually looks at the other man, free hand gesturing enthusiastically, paying attention to the questions and their answers, finds himself asking how well he knew St. Zero, and how sorry he still is for the loss.
It is, at least, a way of making the minutes go by faster.
no subject
Luther wants to tear himself away and go to her side now that she's back, but there's still the obligatory hoops to jump through. The governor's here, unexpectedly, recognising him, thanking him profusely for... something, he'd done something last year and he can't even remember what, the missions all blur together in a haze of violence and blood without the other members of the Academy to break up the monotony. Luther pretends he knows, says it was nothing, it was a pleasure, he'd do it any day. Have they had any trouble with any other villains lately. Oh, a weather manipulator? And they ruined the perfect weather of Los Angeles? What a shame. Ha, ha.
This world is paper-thin, like he'd said in those letters. You could rip it apart. They're all just going through the motions, dolls arranged just so, following some kind of arcane social rules and procedures that he hasn't quite mastered — he lives in a world that is always watching and where everyone knows his name and everyone always wants something and he is constantly judged on how useful he can be, how handsome, how marketable, and there really aren't that many differences between Hollywood or their past life at all, is there.
The movement in the room has shifted; the doors have opened, the public are getting their own looks at the exhibit. It frees up the space a little, means there's more room to walk (more room to get over to her), except that Allison seems to be absorbed in conversation with someone who Looks Important. Just like how Luther, himself, is trapped. Moments like this, he wishes he could be nameless, faceless, anonymous. He wishes both of them could be. Then the world wouldn't want and demand so much of them, drinking it all up until there's so little left over for them.
He finishes his drink. His superhuman metabolism runs fast, doesn't really let him get drunk easily, but there've been enough drinks slammed back now that he's starting to feel the buzz, a distant slight looseness in his limbs. Careful, Number One, an inner voice reminds him, and the voice sounds like his father. It always sounds like his father. Be mindful of your strength. Inebriation affects your coordination. Don't break the goddamn exhibit before it's even opened.
The thing is, he does want to step through those doors and go see what the museum has to offer. That whole wing is right up Luther's alley; he'd actually been pretty excited about the idea of checking it out, before spotting her. But as long as Allison stays in this room, then he's anchored in this room making small-talk, trying to smile through a face that's gone rigid. The smile flutters, keeps wanting to turn into a worried frown.
But then there's someone else at his elbow, asking him a question he actually wants to answer. And Luther turns with surprise, a tilt of his head as he recognises the Canadian astronaut, and his demeanour instantly changes, the insincere glint fading. Instead, sounding respectful, admiring: "Oh, jeez, it's an honour to meet you. Seriously. Yeah, space is still in the cards. I'm still certified, yes. I've been training on the new Hargreeves Enterprises shuttle, it's been based on the Endeavour design—"
And for the first time, he lets himself fall back into the conversation, and in letting it have more of his attention rather than just a tiny pittance, a shred, 5% of his focus. This time Luther actually looks at the other man, free hand gesturing enthusiastically, paying attention to the questions and their answers, finds himself asking how well he knew St. Zero, and how sorry he still is for the loss.
It is, at least, a way of making the minutes go by faster.