She's always been far better at this part. The secret behind Luther's ability to keep it together in front of the cameras, back in the day, was that none of it had been an act; he had been that beamingly pleased to strut in front of the news corps, practically glowing with pride, enthusiastic in describing how their missions had gone, how pleased he was to be of service, how the Academy was fulfilling their sworn duty, how glad he was to fight alongside his teammates. It was PR-practiced, but none of it was a lie.
So by sheer necessity, Luther had gotten a little better at his poker face, over the last couple years, as the questions from the reporters subtly changed — Space, when was the last time you spoke to your brothers? is The Rumor ever returning to active duty? what really happened? why did the Academy dissolve? — and, for the first time, he'd had to lie. They're retiring to entertain other career pursuits. We all parted ways amicably. The Academy is as strong as ever. It had seemed like they'd been keeping a pretty good lid on it all, too, spinning that particular angle for the dissolution.
(Until Vanya's book will come out, a few years from now, and smash that illusion to smithereens.)
He's still mired in those thoughts and trying to get his expression under control while Allison effortlessly picks up the thread of the conversation. "Joe," the kid declares, practically bouncing on his heels in excitement as he digs out a Moleskine notebook and a pen, hands it over to her first. He's only, what, four years younger than them or so? But the difference feels like a lifetime.
When it's Luther's turn, he feels the soft, supple leather of the cover, and the feeling of pages well-paged. "I have one just like this," he says, tapping the notebook with the pen as he closes it again, tucks it shut with the worn elastic. "I keep all my field notes in it. Great choice."
To Joe, my biggest fan! When you take a chance on yourself, you're believing in all of your unlimited potential. — Space
And then his scrawled signature at the bottom. Luther Hargreeves. He had practiced that one so many times, getting it just right, intent on it not appearing childish or blocky. (It had some unconscious similarities with Reginald's signature, in fact: the jagged lines when he crossed the t and curled the g.)
"What do you recommend from here, Joe?" Luther continues with a nod towards the menu, and the charm's back like a bright lightbulb snapping on. The secret, again: It's not an act. He is, genuinely, curious.
"The caramel salt lick," the boy says, grinning. "I get it every time. Some of the other flavours are too weird for me, but that one's great."
"Maybe I'll try it. Thanks for the tip."
It's not quite a dismissal, but he's hoping it can, maybe, work as one.
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So by sheer necessity, Luther had gotten a little better at his poker face, over the last couple years, as the questions from the reporters subtly changed — Space, when was the last time you spoke to your brothers? is The Rumor ever returning to active duty? what really happened? why did the Academy dissolve? — and, for the first time, he'd had to lie. They're retiring to entertain other career pursuits. We all parted ways amicably. The Academy is as strong as ever. It had seemed like they'd been keeping a pretty good lid on it all, too, spinning that particular angle for the dissolution.
(Until Vanya's book will come out, a few years from now, and smash that illusion to smithereens.)
He's still mired in those thoughts and trying to get his expression under control while Allison effortlessly picks up the thread of the conversation. "Joe," the kid declares, practically bouncing on his heels in excitement as he digs out a Moleskine notebook and a pen, hands it over to her first. He's only, what, four years younger than them or so? But the difference feels like a lifetime.
When it's Luther's turn, he feels the soft, supple leather of the cover, and the feeling of pages well-paged. "I have one just like this," he says, tapping the notebook with the pen as he closes it again, tucks it shut with the worn elastic. "I keep all my field notes in it. Great choice."
And then his scrawled signature at the bottom. Luther Hargreeves. He had practiced that one so many times, getting it just right, intent on it not appearing childish or blocky. (It had some unconscious similarities with Reginald's signature, in fact: the jagged lines when he crossed the t and curled the g.)
"What do you recommend from here, Joe?" Luther continues with a nod towards the menu, and the charm's back like a bright lightbulb snapping on. The secret, again: It's not an act. He is, genuinely, curious.
"The caramel salt lick," the boy says, grinning. "I get it every time. Some of the other flavours are too weird for me, but that one's great."
"Maybe I'll try it. Thanks for the tip."
It's not quite a dismissal, but he's hoping it can, maybe, work as one.