text. anonymous.

[obediences]

Is there anything about yourself that you would change, if you could?

And do any of you have the ability or powers to change people's physical bodies? Like with magic, or something.

Not science.


[ Science has already let him down. Science led him here. Luther doesn't much savour the idea of another brilliant person with brilliant inventions trying to get beneath his ape-like skin, when he and his father already tried and failed.

There is something to be said for acceptance, and coming to terms with yourself and your new capabilities or lack thereof. Luther isn't there yet. And he has too many memories now, of an entire decade in the City without this albatross around his neck, this anchor around his ankle. Every time he thinks he might have readjusted to his malformed body again, this world delivers him another goddamned reminder of what he's lost: accidentally remaking his own form when dreams became real; his siblings winding up in others' bodies; waking up looking like his teenaged self, from a far simpler time. It rankles; makes it harder each time to feel comfortable again.

So. He asks the question, finally. ]


& ooc: I don't want to permanently 'fix' Luther, but if your character can do it, I would absolutely be open to a change backfiring or working temporarily! Feel free to plot ICly, or reach out OOCly to hash out some details!

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[obediences]

There's a pained flicker across his face, then a slow nod. He hadn't even had to list off all the experiences, because she'd already instantly guessed at them: the memories and twists of fate that kept digging those knives deeper with their reminders of what he'd been, what he'd lost, what he'd once been. The feywild. The memory share. The City. The body swaps. The dreams.

Luther leans forward, elbows propped against his knees and hands interlaced between them (and even that shift of position is uncomfortable; his shoulders pull at his shirt, tugging it taut across his shoulderblades, the fabric straining).

"That's kind of it, though. All those other times... we didn't control any of that. It was a surprise. We didn't even know what was causing it and it just happened, out of nowhere, uncontrollably."

And you didn't have to be a genius or a seer, to guess that things unexpectedly happening to Luther's body could still be a sore point, a raw wound.

"But if I did the research and reached out... at least that's my choice. At least I examined the options, spoke to the person who can do it, listened to what they could do, sized up their experience with their powers, decided whether or not it was worth the risk of trying. Then it would be my choice. Does that make sense?"

His blue eyes are riveted on her now, his expression cut open in a way that it rarely is, praying and hoping that she understands. His open beating heart on display. That hopeless yearning drifting unhappiness that sits beneath this skin, and which has been smothered so long.

[numberthree]

Oh.

Oh. She was wrong.

A hundred times over, she was wrong. She doesn't hate anything that she's listed and forgotten the way she hates this. The relief at her words giving birth to this. The way his face opens, and he leans in toward her, beseeching, and she knows this face.

This is the face of a hundred ideas, and a hundred perfect missions details, and a hundred things that if he just got right, just managed to do what no one on the planet was even capable of -- and their father would compliment him. Recognize him. See him. Approve of him. Respect him.

Allison hates this face. In the same way that her throat closes up sandpaper walls and the edges of her eyes suddenly feel dry and she's not even positive she can breathe looking at Luther looking at her like this. Suddenly needing her to see (how well he's planned it), to understand (why he has to), to agree (that he's allowed). And she can't.

Everything in her strangles loudly at sheer magnanimity of that truth.
Because this is the part of Luther than can be hurt most. Worst. Has been.

Because she can't stand the idea, even in her head, of the light darkening more.

Allison has to look away. She doesn't think she can lie to him. Knows she can. Doesn't want to even here. She doesn't have to like. He already knows she doesn't. He already knows exactly how she feels about it. She said that loudly in the network. When she blew in here. What she chooses she doesn't choose kindly, but out of a mirrored sort of desperation.

That doesn't look like desperation, because when she looks back her face is more set.

You will tell me before you do anything. Go anywhere. Choose whatever.
You don't get to leave me in the dark about any of this anymore.

Or so help her god. She'll never manage to do anything in a day thinking he could be anywhere else, not telling her, doing god knows what to himself, to chase a potential impossibility. Even the idea of going back to her room and leaving him in here alone, when this is what he was doing, made her feel tense.

And maybe that makes her cruel in her choice,
even if she barely feels like she's holding on to the bed. Gravity.

Promise me.

[obediences]

His endless plans and contingencies, when they're desperate and desperately optimistic like this, they always sound like if only. If only he could ace every single performance exam levied at the students, then Sir Reginald would notice. If only he could be the youngest person in space, green across the board and his flight licenses passed, then the Monocle would care. If only he could destroy every last obstacle placed in the Academy's path, then Dad would love him.

(And if only he could look like himself once more, tall and trim shoulders and normal human-sized arms and unblemished skin and the face that once plastered the magazines along hers, then maybe he could look in a mirror again. Touch Allison again.)

When Allison delivers her orders, he's still looking at her, and it doesn't even take that long before Luther nods.

Nobody else would dare. Five might snap commands for some things, for the specific realms of his expertise, for mending timelines, exerting the privilege and know-it-all-ness of being the eldest— But nobody else could hope to tie Luther down quite like this, his heart and self, his personhood, his decision-making. She's the only one. Because it's trust. It's trust and love and his best friend and the best-closest thing he has to a confidante.

"Okay," he says. "I promise."

(And even to his ears, those two words sound like an echo of the past. Numbers One and Three, their voices tinny over two cans and a single thread of string, a pinky promise and a swear.)

[numberthree]

He doesn't look away, and he doesn't balk. Doesn't, even for a second, look like he's considering how to get out of a mandate so childish she knows she'll be disgusted with herself for it later, even if she'll hold on to like it is the only thing that will let her breathe. Because of this most of all.

The way he just nods.
He just says, I promise.

She doesn't think she has any idea what she's capable of doing if someone hurt Luther. The man staring at her with such capability to hope even in the darkest, deepest hurt. Or the boy somewhere in there, still giving in to her every demand, like she asked all his allowance for a gift and not a minute-by-minute traffic report on every single step of his free will.

And he just gives it up. Which only hurts more. That he doesn't fight.
Only presses harder on that bruise under her sternum. Why didn't he tell her, then.

Words. Words are just gone. She's not even certain she'd have them if she had her voice. It's a wrinkle in her expression, set as it is. When she nods, too. She just mirrors him a little too completely without realizing it. Nods, even if her brow is knitted.

Okay.

[obediences]

Even though it's a lull in the conversation (which has felt like rough sandpaper on his skin, a heavy leaden stone in his stomach), it's not a dismissal; it's agreement. And Luther chews over that for a moment, uncertain how to fill up that silence — if they were anyone else, he should probably reach out to her. Take her hands. Something. (Once and only once did he slip, here, his lips grazing against the backs of her knuckles. Accidental muscle-memory from yet another life that hadn't, exactly, been his.)

But he can do this, at least: Luther reaches out and closes the laptop. Slides his chair away from the desk and stands up, rolling his shoulders back, as if he can shed that interminable weight. (He can't.)

"You wanna go have some dinner?" he asks.

It's not done, because it'll never be done. The subject isn't over. He'll likely go back to those conversations on the network later, those options, and she knows it — but it doesn't have to be right now, right under her nose, her attention and distress and panic burning a hole through the wall.

So instead, it's a break, a cease-fire. An apology. An until later.