numberthree | Mask or Menace ☂ IC Phone Post

[ Okay.

That is a completely different question, Luther Hargreeves.

One Allison has to look away from and back at, and away from and back at. It doesn't unseat her, but it trounces her earlier confusion with a guilty knot attached to too many points in her stomach. The way that earlier question was suddenly the worst.

That answer was obvious, too. And still he asked it. Even though she hadn't a clue how he knew it. She hadn't said it to anyone. To him. She hadn't told him last week. She hadn't even realized, but she shifted the screen to her profile, her personal information. Flat block letters, familiar and wrong all at once:

Allison Hargreeves.

Like a final knell to a bell that kept finding a way to ring the last of it out.
It still feels so much like a too deep betrayal she can't undo. ]

I didn't realize that went through today.

[ Coward. But she need a second.

It's not like she lied and said they needed her back in front of a camera now, and they could follow up on this later. ]

Yeah, I just happened to notice when checking my messages earlier.

[ He's patient in letting this unfold, just like he would've been if they'd had this conversation roll out in-person. Giving her that space and that second. ]

[ Of course, he'd noticed. All of them are going to notice. She knew that would happen. It was inevitable. But she'd hope she'd notice it first. Maybe even that it would have come with some annoying pop-up notification or something. Whatever. She's dithering. Avoiding. What she can't. What she already did. Which leaves her with two choices, but that's a lie. Because she already knows which way this goes. Just not how to do it. ]

I didn't tell you when my anniversary was.

[ She didn't tell Klaus, or Vanya either. She didn't tell anyone, because it would have just brought her right back around to the book still sitting on their kitchen table, meaning everything it should and shouldn't. She'd thought about it enough, even with Klaus and Vanya, when she'd let herself believe there was any way to save face too late.

Everything slid so quickly out of her hands.
But she hadn't tried to stop it.

(And neither had he.) ]

[ Luther winces, looking down at his communicator. And of course he wouldn't have been able to slip that one past her, either, without her noticing or wondering how he'd come across this information. They're both too observant for things like this. Lapses like this. ]

Ray told me. When I met him the first time.

[ It's still so hard to incorporate that into her mind as an image.
Ray Chestnut and Luther Hargreeves in the same space.

Luther standing outside their house, having come to find her, and finding Ray, instead.
(The two of them, briefly, in the same kitchen, before Luther backed out and left her to her goodbye.) ]

He definitely didn't mention that when he said he met you.

[ He was, if anything, a little too politely angry at that point, and his words were far more true to the point than he could ever have guessed. So clearly she hadn't even needed him to say Luther's name for her. But she'd thought he'd made those assumptions in far less time. She didn't know how those things combined. But that they had. That he knew. That those numbers were swirling in that head of his, felt like Luther had a finger on something she didn't want to look at. Didn't want him to being looking at. The timeline of too much, too quickly, too easily put together. ]

Edited 2020-08-31 04:24 (UTC)

[ He can't tell if that's a good or a bad thing, and his skin crawls upon imagining it, trying to picture that conversation. What message did the guy pass on to Allison, in the end. Ray, talking about him. What did he say. Had Luther successfully hidden his reaction and smoothed it over into some kind of polite, cheerful neutrality? Luther honestly can't tell; those whole minutes in the Chestnut kitchen had kind of blurred into one single screaming blank void that he can't remember too well.

(He hadn't hidden it well. Not one bit.) ]

Guess not.

Question still stands, though.

[ Of course, it does, and of course, he means well. Allison closes her eyes for a second, before opening them right back up and starting to type the thing she should have four or five minutes ago. ]

That is very ~~nice~~ kind of you to offer, but it already passed.

[ She stares at it, before she can send it. It feels entirely like admitting to having lied. Except she hadn't. Or had she. In avoiding mentioning it. In planning to be busy a whole day away, like it was normal, while knowing it wasn't. How many things, important and inconsequential, had she wrestled from him, demanding he choose her, tell her, everything, and she did this. But she can't take it back. Can't undo it. And it would have felt even more wrong to have Luther with her during that day, worrying about her, taking care of her.

Ray'd already too clearly shown her how much of Luther was twined into their marriage,
The least she could do for Ray's memory, if not him, was one day that was just his.

Still she pushes a breath out her lips and pressed send. ]

Edited 2020-08-31 04:57 (UTC)

[ Recordscratch. Needle jumping in the groove. ]

Wait, what

Like, the day itself already happened? Here?

[ There's the initial kneejerk how could I have missed it, but he tries to forcibly push that thought aside a moment later. She's one of the world's greatest actresses, so naturally she'd be able to ghost past it and hide her emotions about it if she wanted to. She'd hidden Claire's anniversary from the rest of their family. Of course she could.

He doesn't have any right to this corner of her life; he doesn't actually expect or assume to have been filled in when it passed.

But still. It's. A surprise. He hadn't noticed at all. ]

[ Allison winces at the fast return. She can picture his face too clearly, undisguised winded surprise, trying to stack up facts, consider days, being logical as though his face at the time wouldn't be at all, still trying to even hold the idea, and it suddenly feels like she's far too visible, in a way too public spot, even here on the edges, unneeded for a while. Like he's too close, even half a city away. He is. Because somehow he's still there inside of her. ]

Yes.

A little while ago now.

[ Now he almost wants to type out an "um" in there. Just to have something to break up the staccato flatness of text, which never feels like it's enough. (Part of why even the mental network had always been inadequate; was never, ever a complete substitute for being able to hear her actual voice.) ]

I'm sorry. I had no idea. That must have been rough. Are you alright?

[ Allison stares at Luther's instant apology like it's a foreign language. Except it's not. It's not entirely even surprising. From one shade of concern, straight into the other. Taking all the responsibility for missing it somehow on himself, like there wasn't only one way he didn't know. Still asking the same question, just from the opposite direction.

It just makes her want to put her head in hands even harder.
It's almost worst than Luther being hurt, or annoyed.

If he could care just a little less -- ]

I don't think there's a way for anyone to answer yes to that question without sounding heartless.

You're talking to me, Allison. You know it's alright to not be alright.

[ A misunderstanding.
He thinks she's talking about answering yes purely to save face and not show weakness; the stiff upper lip, in falsely pretending she is okay after all.
Assuming she's pretending. Hiding that wound. ]

[ There's the minutest of something like a flinch at the first words. Not her body, or even her whole face. Caught in the flicker of maybe only her eyelashes and reflexive tighter edges of the far corners of her mouth. Because she's not ever not aware and she knows that. Doesn't need it pointed out. But, also, because he's wrong. She knows it without have to see him here. He means well. He means well. She knows he means well.

But he doesn't know. Get it. He refuses to see her as anything but better than she is somehow, and this is no different. It's not like she hadn't tried to explain. Back in Dallas. But. She hadn't even told him about the day. Before. During. After. If she hadn't done that, how was she even supposed to navigate answering that question?

That obviously she wasn't fine. She did miss Ray. But she was better than she should be, leagues above better than she'd been these few weeks into arriving here last time, and the things that weren't fine weren't the things they should be. They were the things that made her an even worse person. Again, and not again, in this brand new way she found herself capable of even more so.

What is she even supposed to say?

What can she say that doesn't lead back to Luther himself?
That she chose to tank her own marriage by never giving it a chance?

That isn't, even if it hurts, even if she misses him, she wouldn't change that? ]

I know.

Edited 2020-08-31 16:17 (UTC)

Okay. Just making sure.

[ And then he finally doesn't push, doesn't nag: letting the subject dip a little, letting her go like removing a hook from a fish's jaw and setting it back into the water. (Still, forever, not getting it. Thinking it means that this topic is instead something he shouldn't touch, something untouchable and inviolable and too big to address — despite the fact that they'd already talked about Claire, which is even bigger. So many times.)

Although it is, a bit, still like the way he patiently waits her out in-person, too. The text window's there, ready and waiting. If she ever wants to pour more words into it. In her own time. ]

[ Okay, he says. Just making sure, he says. Like it's anything so simple. Checked a box. Made sure she knew he was there. Available. Willing. Meant to do whatever she needed, again, this time for her marriage, too.

She should care so much more about whether Ray is hurting, whether Ray actually did break down after she walked out, whether he & the group are weathering the storm of what she did at the diner, at their publicized association with a communist terrorist, and not about how she suddenly, devastatingly, wishes she could see Luther's face. It would be her undoing, and she knows it. But it's four words, and she doesn't know. Doesn't want it to seem like a slap in the face.

(How hypocritical, too.

When her words above it are even shorter than that.
~~When she just threw away someone's entire life.~~)

Christ, she's a mess. ]

I did this.

I shouldn't get to be not alright.

[ Someone with more experience in interpersonal relationships might have this more everyday comparison to make: even in an actual breakup, even if you're the one who did the dumping, you might still find yourself mourning the loss and wistfully missing what you once had. He doesn't really have that frame of reference to go off, though.

But. And yet. He knows. He knows, intimately and exactly how that feels. A teenaged Allison with her duffel bag packed and staring at him with her face splintering open as she realised what he was saying, the backpedal he'd fallen into, the betrayal he'd done. "I can't. I have a responsibility here," and Luther shooting himself in the foot and falling on his own goddamned sword and letting her walk out those doors alone. He did that. He did that, caused that, was responsible for that, and was still not alright after. ]

That's not how feelings work, though.

[ More things he shouldn't be able to say so easily. Like it's so obvious a child would know it, and not so fraught the concept is more akin to sticking bamboo slivers under her fingernails and willing herself withstanding the pain without crying, just to try and prove she could again. ]

Well, they should.

[ It's a retort turned into text when she doesn't know what she should be. She's none of them. She's all of them. She chose this ending before it began, and she was right, so she should be fine, vindicated. She used someone, who loved her as unconditionally as their sanity could master, and then she took that, too, and so she should feel like shit, heartless.

This was why she hadn't wanted to talk about it. Wasn't it.
Because it's a catch-22, wherein she's damned on both sides of the line.
Where she deserves to be both, and neither, and should be vilified for all of it. ]

[ Despite the seriousness of the subject at hand, he can't help it: that small, subtle tug at the corner of his mouth. Through text, he can't tell if she really meant for it to come out as darkly funny like it did, like the stomping of a foot or stubborn childish pique. And so, tentative, like stepping out onto a sheet of ice and unsure if it'll hold his weight, but Luther tries for that touch of dry humour anyway: ]

I'll file a complaint about it with the powers-that-be. Maybe kick Diego's ass into training his empath abilities better so he can turn that part off.

Edited 2020-08-31 18:40 (UTC)

[ She hates that her brow furrows at the first part.
She hates that the edge of her mouth twitches by the end.

She hates most that she doesn't hate it at all.
And that's part of why, too, isn't it?
He makes it feel bearable.

Her.

He makes her feel bearable.
Even when she doesn't deserve it.
When she's being ludicrous.

(And that's why, too, isn't it.
Every night and never.) ]

Good.

Except I don't know about letting Diego anywhere near my head.

Yeah, me either. Guess who's doing it anyway, though.

[ Because there's really no alternative: for a power like that, you need someone else around to use it, and Luther's dead-set on helping his siblings train. So Luther puts up with it, and having Diego camp out in his head.

It's all irrelevant to the actual topic at hand, though. Approaching this subject askance, skirting away from the real heart of it, finding a way to lightly joke about it. It's a familiar coping mechanism. ]

Better you than me.

I already got as close to his head as I need to at that dinner.

[ Punching him in the face, while still sipping her island drink.

Did she mean that? Not really. No more than Diego didn't pause in the barn to says 'well, everyone except Allison.' Loved him. No more than she'd stopped herself from suddenly shouting out his name, across everyone, the moment she saw him down the hallway from where her new entry briefing was. His hand on her shoulder and his on her arm, trading updates and building a battle plan like they were simpatico in one singular.

But it's easy enough to fall into without it actually being anything more than normal. Her and Diego. Sharp edges forever rubbing. Forcing him to say hello. Punching him for his comment. Mocking him while half under a tractor.

Pausing in the strange snap of where it leaned from last.
She sends another before Luther can reply.]

He asked me for advice. About Lila.

What kind of advice?

[ He has a fair idea, but has to ask it anyway to be certain. ]

[ Is that a serious question, Luther Hargreeves?

How very few things in the world would she or Diego come to each other over?
There were warmer spots in the north pole than chances she would talk to him about the same. ]

I don't know. The 'I one-up-ed everyone in the running and was the first of us to sleep with the daughter of an evil time empire, and now she's here, and hating people doesn't go as well as just wanting to and that's my forte so just tell me what to do now' kind?

Edited 2020-08-31 21:28 (UTC)

I mean. I wasn't intending to sleep with the daughter of an evil time empire. Not sure there was actually a running to run in.

[ Har, har. ]

Does he think there's a chance she's still a threat?

[ Is it easier to lean into this, to imply in a better shade of ludicrous? When she can't actually stop herself from laughing at that response. Or the knowledge that's not even a thing she could consider he would try for. ]

Fine. We can make it an everyone but you running for next time. And who knows. I haven't seen her. But she didn't try to kill him, so I'm taking that as a 'maybe not entirely' until there's anything more telling. He's probably not the best judge of that right now.

Edited 2020-08-31 21:48 (UTC)

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