for numberthree.

[obediences]

And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.

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[numberthree]

[ It's whatever déjà vu is in reverse. Luther's sudden yelp of outlandish surprise and — her well beyond those gates, and those cloistered high halls, understanding of it now as — primly horrified lack of his knowledge how to even process it except running the opposite direction. But she can see it. A hundred, a million times over. How when he was young, his neck used to go pink, and the tips of his ears, eyes wide, when some girl left a kiss print or a spray of perfume, or even more outlandishly, with only the boys ever had to deal with, someone sent a pair of their underthings.

She'd always hated that for the stupidest of obvious reasons.
But it'd only made her baited teasing that much sharper.
Her disdain. Her rejection of those idiot people.

There's a burr in it, but it's further away.

Isn't it?

(Except she'd never consider doing for Bea, would she? Not even now?
Not even just because they'd be the worst match on the planet.
Or that Luther's never coming out of that walled tower.

Which just made her an idiot still. Too.) ]

It's cute that you think you get a vote when Bea and her machinations are concerned.

[obediences]

[ It's all pretty much a joke and probably extremely unlikely, but part of his brain is already spinning the variables and crunching the likelihood of this (horrifying) option. With a lightning bolt of memory, Luther's rmeembering the organised, arranged dates which he had been forced on, courtesy The Monocle: barters and favours and appearances, a mayor's daughter here, a businessman mogul's niece there. Connections which needed fostering. PR wheels which needed greasing. The girls had mostly known what they'd been getting into — they knew it was all an act for the cameras — but they'd always been surprised, too, by how well-behaved he was and the liberties the superhero didn't take. He'd been polite and not handsy, to their startled relief.

The prospect of Allison setting him up with someone, though, is terrifying and wrong for so many other reasons. ]

Tell her I'll sign whatever she wants. But I'm not, um, the other thing.

[numberthree]

[ She knows better than to find this cute, to let herself slip, slip, slip into these old shoes, but so much of her doesn't want to resist. Wants that nostalgic ease, the moment suspension of reality, to a time when she used to have a best friend, another person so close they might as well have been part of her. That's ached and been empty so very long.

It's s stupid game to play, but when has she ever done well at resisting what she wants.
It feels. Good. And she wants to let it be. At least until they hang up.

Which only makes her words cant more teasing.
Every option an exit to alarm him. ]

Maybe 'whatever she wants' is a little bolder than you want to sign on for, too.
The next thing you know you'll be signing very personal body parts she's getting tattooed over.

[obediences]

[ Luther's strangled noise is a little more restrained this time, because he's on the back foot defensive and a little more prepared for that goading nudge. She loves messing with him, shattering that composure like a wrecking ball going through the wall. Allison is one of the only people who can do it to him so reliably. ]

I still remember the very first time that happened at a media event. It used to be signing slips of paper, then it was print runs of the comics, then we got older and it was Sharpies and cleavage. I never said yes to those requests. It was just too awkward.

[ Like the Academy were pop stars with screaming fans, rather than soldiers. The Monocle had fostered the reputation, encouraged it, and a few of the children had hungered for it: the fame, the attention, the perceived power. (Although it wasn't real power, of course. They were commodities.) ]

Have you heard from any of the others lately? We could foist Diego on her, maybe. I've heard women are supposed to like the whole 'dark and brooding' thing he's going for.

[numberthree]

"Please." Allison's scoff is a light thing compared to the poison-laced snap everyone growing up with her knows it could so easily be. "She deserves better than that."

Maybe not...Luther. But definitely not Diego.

"Maybe you should write her letters and let her down gently," is teasing, though Allison can feel the way even the joke makes her ribcage feel too tense, too tight. The idea of Luther squirreled away, privately engaged in closed conversations, having in-jokes with someone else. She's twelve, thirteen, fourteen; not even wanting to share him with Diego, with their Father. Greedy and wanting as only The Rumor could be, having gotten her way in so many things for so long. And this one was all the sweeter because she'd never forced him to pick her. Not once.

(Not even the one time he didn't pick her at all. Forever. The end.)

"But, who knows, maybe that would lead to handwriting analysis and shrine building."

"Maybe it's best to just never come back, and hope she finds a suitable replacement obsession. It'll probably only take 4-5 business—" She is snappy and fast, and it's light, even if a little more forced, while she tries to frown at her own emotions. But she snaps the end with a flick, too, making it more outlandish. "—months."