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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[obediences]

“He doesn’t hate us,” is his automatic unthinking kneejerk response, as hardwired as Mom’s parroted words might have been. Luther’s been trained too well, has swallowed the party line too neatly, is too capable of reciting it when called upon.

This time, when he avoids looking at Allison’s derisive expression, it’s because he knows how much they diverge on this particular point. His mouth thins, however, struggling to think of the next words to fill in the gap. If Reginald Hargreeves doesn’t hate his children, then what does he feel for them? He certainly doesn’t love them. He’s likely only fleetingly proud of them, and never says so if he is. Like being only begrudgingly satisfied with a dog that performed an adequate (and merely adequate) trick. Luther’s been chasing his own tail for years for that very validation, and even he knows it.

So in the end, he finally settles for the carefully neutral: “He’s hard on us. There’s a difference.”

[numberthree]

Allison frowns at both the words and the turtled response. Mouth thinned, head bowed, gaze still focused on where he painted her nails. It's not because he won't bite back at it— if she were Diego, Luther would have crossed a whole room for the implication of half as much in twice as many words—he's choosing not to. There's tension in the line of his shoulders and jaw. She regrets saying it. She doesn't.

She hates their father. But Luther doesn't.
But he doesn't ask—or order—her to pretend the same.

That's where it should stop, right? With the spoiled, arrogant, selfish thought that she's just special. That she has a blank check to say whatever she wants and Luther, well, he just let her—and that's not entirely wrong (Luther is the one who hunkers down through her actual storms of fury, even follows her to that attic room if she storms away first, waits her out, without forcing her to stop before all the poison is outside of her, too). But it's not just that.

Allison's gaze is still chasing the edge of his brow, the press of his mouth. And something bigger than her just feels sad. Because she's not sure he does disagree. Hate would be a too strong word in Luther's mouth of classics, poetry, and long-dead warmongers. But he's not blind. And she thinks he sees more of it the older they get. The more he can't earn any more gratitude or pride for being unwavering than someone like Klaus for doing nothing.

The best he gets is not being insulted for ineptitude;
there are no laurel crowns for unwavering victory.
(Not inside the Academy doors, at least.)

"Right. And somehow, that translates to bigger bedrooms making us weak."