Mask or Menace ☂ IC Phone Post

[numberthree]

INBOX Voice | Text | Call | Video | Surprise Me A flat computer automated voice comes on and states in monotone: "This is the voicemail box for Allison Hargreeves. Leave a message at the beep."

Luther

Diego

Klaus

Five

Ben

Vanya

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[numberthree]

[ Frustration brews itself as seconds pass and he doesn't send anything back. As phantom fingers try to pluck at the tense flutter of muscles at her jaw, the breath coming in and out of her nose and chest too heavy laden with patience she doesn't have, the curl of her shoulders, at whether that was too much, or whether it's barely even a cent of the fullness of what she's been dying to say -- scream -- since she lost the ability to say anything at all.

Since he stopped listening.

Impatient energy gaining traction with annoyance at the tiny device. At the want to shake something. It. Him. At just not even having the faintest clue what he's doing drives it to a higher key entirely. What he's doing. Whether he's answering. Whether it matters. Says it. Thinks it at least. A backhand slide. Even when she knows it does. Even when that too clear voice in her head, slides cold fingers into it, questions just how much actually though.

The way the answer, when it comes, would be almost too easy. Just for a second. I wasn't thinking clearly. Just for a second, Klaus is standing there, again, with the bowling lanes behind him. His mouth moving too fast. Just for a second, before her shoulders tense and she shakes her head at the darkness, its own half-flinch, whole-denial, like that can dispell the hooks in it.

Some things even she's not stupid enough to say.


But without it -- and what it left to hook around an ankle, unused but refusing its drowning back -- words felt almost even further away than they did when she hadn't had any at her fingertips to start with. When all of it could have been summed up in a look at him, but he isn't there to look at, and she isn't even certain she'd want to be if he could be, only that it's a brand new level of annoying, of wordlessness, that she can't either. ]

[obediences]

[ On the other end, he stews, too, knowing this would've been so much easier-and-harder if they'd been facing each other down in person. Easier, because he'd be able to see her expression, intuit so much more from this silence than he's able to. And yet, so much harder because he probably would've said the absolute worst possible thing. Isn't entirely sure he hasn't, already.

And so Luther waits for a response. Watches the little considering icon appear, then disappear, and so knows that she's at least there and thinking. Just not responding.

God. A stalemate.

But because he's blunt, Number One is, and not above asking the basic questions— ]


You still there?

[numberthree]

[ The longer the seconds drag, the less she knows what to say, and the worse of it is anything she'd just say as the first flare of her anger fades back a touch, or even what she might say as an aside, snide or annoyed or exasperated. It gets gummed up. Having to actually write it. It's not the same as speaking. As her mouth just opening and words falling wherever they might. It's not the same at all. It reminds her too much of her therapists' office. Makes her have to actually think of her words.

Which just makes it frustrating beyond belief.
Because then she does. Have to think of them. Order. Direction. Everything.

He's not wrong, but he's not right either, and none of it is as simple as it's no one's fault. There is, he isn't wrong about one piece, so much. So much happened. So much went wrong. Didn't stop going wrong right up to the end. Hasn't stopped going wrong since they woke up here. Right now. In this place. Missing one of their number again.


She has to blink when the question appears, snapping her from the snarl of her own thoughts, frustration soaked through still trying to find the right thought to even rummage for the right words, and where even thinking about thinking on that had spun it even further. When the question is so. Middle of the road. But it's not. It looks it. But she knows him. Can feel it. What it actually is. It's a prompt. A check. It's own version of an aside.

No sweeping anything off the table. It's --



It's that moment, in the living room, earlier this week even.

Looking over her shoulder and finding him sitting there, patiently studying her, through whatever fuss she decided to throw up first. Still there. Mingled under the look of not quite being certain what to say to her after so many years, but that other thing, still. Too. That patience. A game aged as old as both of them, as any number of those moments. His patience, and her lack of it.

But he isn't here. He can't see her. Still there, laying on her bed, staring at his last four sentences like somehow she could find the right words, when she never tries to at this point, cared about right and wrong, or had to puzzle it out as a thought-out choice, has never had something between her and just letting it fall out, until this day, and never had something that was even a cent toward having her own words, her own some kind of version of "a voice," even still soundlessly, after this day of silence.


He doesn't. Know.


And some part of her can't help wondering how he could ever just not-know. Think she wasn't. Still there.

(Which just then has to ask, how she can still that transparently stupid even after what happened earlier?) ]





Maybe.

[ Is a little petty, but it's not as petty as it could be. As not saying No, when she knows she's not angry enough at this second to mean it that way, and none of this is light enough to mean it in trite fashion either. It's stupid, and a little petty. But she presses send on the single word, and still says it, says something, anything, that says she is despite whatever letters make it up. ]

[obediences]

[ That little piece of pettiness is familiar in its childish pique, like the times when they had squabbled over something-or-other. Usually inconsequential. Juice boxes or him accidentally breaking one of her music boxes, not knowing his own strength. What he wouldn't give for their problems to be of that level again, rather than this heavy and strangling thing between them.

Yeah. His stupid question was taking her pulse, as best it could across this digital divide. The best he can do. Then: ]


What do you want from me?


[ Because spilling apologies hasn't been working. He's exhausted and frayed, particularly after that heady reunion with almost all their family earlier, and he can only imagine she's even more ragged; she's not even healed up yet, still recovering from surgery. He'll listen, if she needs it. Or give her space, if she needs it. ]

[numberthree]

[ There's the press of lips, in a frown at the words that appear.

Because that is annoying.
Stupid. Passive-aggressive as all shit.


She wants him to know what's going on.
She wants him to take back what he did.

Everything he did. All of those things. The choices he made.
The ones about her, and about Vanya, and the ones she can't look at;
the ones that have nothing to do with her, because he doesn't want her to;
not without burning her fingertips and her heart on just thinking of them into life.


She wants him to make it better. He's supposed to.
He's Number One. He's supposed to.

Have a plan. Be their leader. Lead them. Make it better. Fix things.

And even more, he's Luther -- her Luther -- and he's supposed to.
Save them -- save her; their family; the world; Claire -- from all of this.

And the cut of that all those thoughts, run into with no preparation, no foreknowledge it was buried in there, a decade from touched, a decade from supposedly moved on from, to roll out from petty hurt, livid exhaustion, and all these days, so transparently faithful, and bitterly betrayed right down to the splinters gouged deep into its roots, hurts like some new part of her skin had been sliced suddenly. A razor blade splitting through the skin of her heart, her lungs, like it was tissue paper and not caring about the damage it does, or the yawning inability to unsee, to outrun, to push it away.

It hurts. Like everything else, it just hurts. Beyond the anger, still simmering waiting for another even small prick.
Beyond words. That she barely even has. And somehow has, and somehow that hasn't made slightly better.

All of it just hurts, and all she has in her to write is -- ]

Nothing.

[ That it's more reburned defeat than anger that sets that one free. That makes it true. That reminds her, with every whisper of her therapist's voice: it's not anyone else's responsibility but your to make your world better, you're an adult, that is all on you. Even if she knows it's as much truth as it so patently a lie, but one at a distance he can't see, to tell her she's full of shit, she adds before pressing need. ] I need to sleep.




[ Even though she knows too well, leaning her head against her pillow and pressing send, that he'd know that was a lie if he was here. That sleep is last thing she'll find any time soon. Not after finally making herself face that Claire is dead, and now. Now that. On top of everything else already between them. ]

And we have to figure out this place starting tomorrow, too.

[obediences]

[ Nothing gives him a searing sting, an ache. But then I need to sleep is-- in a way, what he'd been half-hoping for and expecting. They're both so fucking tired. It's been the longest twenty-four hours of their lives. They need rest.

But then that last sentence, that olive branch-- ]

Yeah. Sleep tight, Allison.

We'll all figure it out, together.


[ They're weary and bitter and hurting, and the team is splintered and he doesn't know how to put it back together, but they're all tackling it together at least. At least there's that. ]