[ It's been unfairly, incorrectly easy for Luther to forget that his brother is actually a fifty-eight-year-old man. The boy's body looks right for what Luther remembered, so part of him always half-accepts on some level that Number Five is thirteen. And yet... he's realising now, like a bucket of cold water flung in his face, always too late and too slow on the uptake— that Five must be undergoing a similar disorientation. The face that he sees in the mirror is his face but it isn't his face. Familiar worn lines gone, no need to shave anymore, something robbed from him. The size all off, suddenly small and short, and besides that: underestimated by others. Luther had gotten a glimpse of that experience a few weeks ago and it had been irritating enough, although Luther's not stuck with it permanently.
But Five is even better at hiding it; doesn't let on if this does bother him.
Some things, Number One, he says, and even through text, Luther can hear that voice like it's hauling him out of his seat, forcing his spine straight, standing to attention. A touch of Reginald in that imperiousness; they'd been similar in that, too. ]
I didn't know.
What did they offer you in exchange for it? Stand down and let the apocalypse happen?
no subject
But Five is even better at hiding it; doesn't let on if this does bother him.
Some things, Number One, he says, and even through text, Luther can hear that voice like it's hauling him out of his seat, forcing his spine straight, standing to attention. A touch of Reginald in that imperiousness; they'd been similar in that, too. ]
I didn't know.
What did they offer you in exchange for it? Stand down and let the apocalypse happen?