It's not just. Because part of it is, then, too. She's at no lack for being vain, and in their own way, they'd all been vain, preening little monsters, mugging for the cameras since before they even knew what that meant. In a way, she hates that, too, because it might be all she has left to her, and even that is a thin, poor shadow its predecessor.
She even hates that's it's hard to stay mad. When he finally says some of those things. That he hasn't adjusted to in at least half a decade. It would be easier to stay mad. Mad is always easier for her to hold on to. She always knew how to point it. Use it. Abuse it. It was a weapon all it's own. But weapons are for hurting people, and even if she does want to hurt him.
She doesn't. She knows she doesn't. Even more than that. She never wants to hurt Luther. She hates the idea it's been this bad.
That he didn't tell her. That she just didn't know. That she could apparently pick him out without a name or a face or a voice, but she could look at him every morning and every night and just not know. That he wasn't always okay with it. Sure. But not that it was this bad.
Why didn't you tell me?
If it was this bad. Bad enough for -- whatever. People. Powers. Taking any risk at all that it might not even work out. Why didn't you tell me?
She doesn't even know (even when she writes, and deletes a line swearing and referencing their Father) if she means at all about this. If it's not just stupidly and sheerly transparent. Why wasn't it her? Why hadn't he called the first time, and why did she have to find it out, again and newly, this way? In the middle of a conversation, she would have thought was impossible twenty minutes ago.
It's selfish. That's selfish. It's not about her. None of this is. But he'd already seen her worst, and she'd come to him when it hit a year. Without Claire. When she couldn't bear to do that entirely alone anymore. Even just hold it.
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She even hates that's it's hard to stay mad. When he finally says some of those things. That he hasn't adjusted to in at least half a decade. It would be easier to stay mad. Mad is always easier for her to hold on to. She always knew how to point it. Use it. Abuse it. It was a weapon all it's own. But weapons are for hurting people, and even if she does want to hurt him.
She doesn't. She knows she doesn't. Even more than that.
She never wants to hurt Luther. She hates the idea it's been this bad.
That he didn't tell her. That she just didn't know. That she could apparently pick him out without a name or a face or a voice, but she could look at him every morning and every night and just not know. That he wasn't always okay with it. Sure. But not that it was this bad.
Why didn't you tell me?
If it was this bad. Bad enough for -- whatever. People. Powers. Taking any risk at all that it might not even work out. Why didn't you tell me?
She doesn't even know (even when she writes, and deletes a line swearing and referencing their Father) if she means at all about this. If it's not just stupidly and sheerly transparent. Why wasn't it her? Why hadn't he called the first time, and why did she have to find it out, again and newly, this way? In the middle of a conversation, she would have thought was impossible twenty minutes ago.
It's selfish. That's selfish. It's not about her. None of this is. But he'd already seen her worst, and she'd come to him when it hit a year. Without Claire. When she couldn't bear to do that entirely alone anymore. Even just hold it.
Just like Luther had finally hit, apparently.
Why wasn't it her. What was so wrong with her.