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.

Comments

[numberthree]

"Not unless you did something to deserve it," comes back quippy and immediate.

She knows neither of them is serious, but this feels a lot like one of those late-stage games. When The Plan™️ was already entirely made, but there was still some waiting, and it inevitably led to dreams of what might be and how would we and what would we—like one of their father's million mission puzzles to figure out how to survive. Except it was about the real world and none of their dusty history and military stratagem books to fall back on—only their imagination.

(Hers.)

"Hhhhmmmmm." Allison draws out the sound, making it comical more than the seriousness her face is affecting as she gives him a once over from head to toe. Once. Twice. Quick, clean, economical sweeps of her gaze, and still, what she thinks most is that he's too handsome, and too All-American Golden Boy clean cut. (It's unfair. It always has been.) There were fashion designers who would drop a year's worth of projects to be the name stitched on his collars. Right this second. In the middle of the night.

"The suit can stay. It's a good cut. But I'd definitely have two or three others for you to try." She ponders upward. "Jeans, definitely. Short-sleeve shirts, fitted but not too fitted. Black or a mix of different ones in earthy tones. For something softer, maybe sweaters. A grey or a washed-out blue to pick out the color of your eyes."

Sunglasses hanging off the bottom of a row of open buttons.
A nice, crisp silver watch. It paints itself too quickly.

And she thinks that she's always been thinking about it without trying to focus on it. Always been comparing anyone she was across a stage with, set or gala, with what Luther would look like in that place. In those shoes. With that smile for her. The way they all tried, and failed, to match up. To even come close. Of course, she has.

Of course. She always has.

Because all she had was settling for what she was allowed.

[obediences]

It’s such a banal, everyday picture for anyone else in the world to paint — jeans! — but for these two, for him, it has the tint of impossible fantasy to it. Luther’s never looked quite so casual or at-ease as that mental image depicts. Some interviewers occasionally asked about a more casual look for their broadcast, to make him more affable and approachable, and the Monocle had slammed the door shut on that possibility: the Academy was formal, the Academy was stiff and buttoned-up and almost Victorian, the Academy couldn’t reflect poorly on Hargreeves Enterprises. (And then there was Luther: Reginald’s most successful experiment, his biggest failure, obeying the rules to a tee.)

“If the acting thing ever falls through,” he says after a moment, “you could be a stylist.”

Beat, then, quickly, “Not that it’s gonna fall through. I mean it’s obviously going really well! It’s gonna be fine.”

Oh god.

It’s always so comfortable with Allison until it’s not: until he accidentally steps into something awkward, some breach of etiquette, gigantic foot stuffed in mouth. Luther sighs.

The universe could take pity on him and have them turn the corner and spot her apartment building any minute now—

[numberthree]

The universe is, in fact, kind to Luther in this way.

Even as Allison half-rolls her eyes, Luther stumbles into sputtering about, implying she might not make it. It touches down, smarts a here-and-then-gone mark, errently wondering if he finds her choices as stupid as their father does. Beneath what she could be accomplishing day in and day out as The Rumor and not a real person with her own wants and dreams.

But Luther is tripping on himself,
and Luther wouldn't be subtle if he did believe it.

The only subtle bones in Number One's body exist behind the mask.
Luther, under take off the mask when you talk to me is floundering uncertainties.
Always trying to figure out what to make of anything not defined by their father's opinion.

It's endearing as it is a little too obviously still present, that still so very sheltered part of him, untouched, unchanged, unlearned, or broken by this beautiful, but also ruthless, real world outside the gates of the Academy. Allison fixes him with a raise of eyebrows and the slant of her mouth:

"Mmmh. You want to dig that hole any deeper before I let you into my place?"