Allison Hargreeves | #00.03 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
numberthree) wrote2021-10-10 06:54 pm
numberthree) wrote2021-10-10 06:54 pm
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[1.2] ☂️ it has ended for me many times
The news was already cobbling highlights together by the time she got home. All the biggest and brightest exploits of Sir Reginald Hargreeves, eccentric billionaire, world-renown scientist, and adventurer. Olympic gold in fencing. Inventor of half a dozen things. The head of The Umbrella Academy.
Facts they’d known for their whole lives. Memorized. Lived. Everything about Reginald “I’ve told you repeatedly not to call me Dad” Hargreeves.
Allison didn’t even know how she felt still, a cigarette and a glass of wine into the news playing monotonously across the small empty house. When was the last time she’d talked to him even? Seven or eight years ago? Before Claire was born. The last time she’d been stupid enough to think something she did might make him proud of who she’d become.
She’d learned those lessons with glaring impunity since leaving.
Through being brought into Patrick’s family, and the one they formed together, once they got married, and once Claire was born. The ever deeper truth that nothing in her childhood had been anything like ’a family’ or ’a childhood.’ That it was better most of the time not to give examples of those times, even though everyone in the world wanted to know more about The Umbrella Academy.
But they didn’t. Not really. They wanted their own sensational dreams of it. Not the more and more certain knowledge that siblings weren’t people who existed only in pitted competition to each other, walking in regimental little uniformed rows, having only thirty minutes of 'scheduled free time' to speak to each other a week or do things together.
Would any of them go? Were Diego, and Klaus, and Vanya still in the same city? It’d been a while since the last time an interviewer threw her a curveball about one being in jail for vigilante nonsense or the other having a new OD, being in another rehab program again. She hadn’t heard anything of Vanya since her six months in the spotlight after her tell-all book came out, and that’d been years.
Would someone have told Luther?
There was a glance toward a window near her, but the moon wasn’t visible from her vantage point on the couch; curtains tightly closed against the worst chance of paparazzi trying to get a candid tonight. Allison frowned toward the joint where the ceiling and wall met above that window, toward some spot beyond them both. He was the only one of them who would have cared. The only one of them still working for their Dad like it was something to be proud of. On the moon for years now, and not a whisper about him in the news since he’d left.
Before. He’d never been in the press for leaving to the moon either. Which she shouldn’t have noticed, but the PR was all wrong, and she never could get why their father hadn’t shoved Space Boy to the forefront of every camera with his All-American Boy looks and space-obessions to ramble at everyone in deluded delight bout this newest mission to protect the Earth from Space.
He’d take it so hard.
His foundation kicked out.
(That wasn’t her problem anymore.
He’d made sure of that, hadn’t he?)
It wasn’t like there was a way to reach out to any of them or that she’d know what to say if she did. She could call Pogo, she supposed. That one number wouldn’t be changed, but it still might not tell her about the others. Was it worth it to go at all? Would it matter or make up her mind on if she should go if they were? Would it just be ghosts and memories and shit no one needed a decade later?
More her god damn therapist would make her talk about,
while holding Claire and any scrap of future custody over her head if she refused.
Facts they’d known for their whole lives. Memorized. Lived. Everything about Reginald “I’ve told you repeatedly not to call me Dad” Hargreeves.
Allison didn’t even know how she felt still, a cigarette and a glass of wine into the news playing monotonously across the small empty house. When was the last time she’d talked to him even? Seven or eight years ago? Before Claire was born. The last time she’d been stupid enough to think something she did might make him proud of who she’d become.
She’d learned those lessons with glaring impunity since leaving.
Through being brought into Patrick’s family, and the one they formed together, once they got married, and once Claire was born. The ever deeper truth that nothing in her childhood had been anything like ’a family’ or ’a childhood.’ That it was better most of the time not to give examples of those times, even though everyone in the world wanted to know more about The Umbrella Academy.
But they didn’t. Not really. They wanted their own sensational dreams of it. Not the more and more certain knowledge that siblings weren’t people who existed only in pitted competition to each other, walking in regimental little uniformed rows, having only thirty minutes of 'scheduled free time' to speak to each other a week or do things together.
Would any of them go? Were Diego, and Klaus, and Vanya still in the same city? It’d been a while since the last time an interviewer threw her a curveball about one being in jail for vigilante nonsense or the other having a new OD, being in another rehab program again. She hadn’t heard anything of Vanya since her six months in the spotlight after her tell-all book came out, and that’d been years.
Would someone have told Luther?
There was a glance toward a window near her, but the moon wasn’t visible from her vantage point on the couch; curtains tightly closed against the worst chance of paparazzi trying to get a candid tonight. Allison frowned toward the joint where the ceiling and wall met above that window, toward some spot beyond them both. He was the only one of them who would have cared. The only one of them still working for their Dad like it was something to be proud of. On the moon for years now, and not a whisper about him in the news since he’d left.
Before. He’d never been in the press for leaving to the moon either. Which she shouldn’t have noticed, but the PR was all wrong, and she never could get why their father hadn’t shoved Space Boy to the forefront of every camera with his All-American Boy looks and space-obessions to ramble at everyone in deluded delight bout this newest mission to protect the Earth from Space.
He’d take it so hard.
His foundation kicked out.
(That wasn’t her problem anymore.
He’d made sure of that, hadn’t he?)
It wasn’t like there was a way to reach out to any of them or that she’d know what to say if she did. She could call Pogo, she supposed. That one number wouldn’t be changed, but it still might not tell her about the others. Was it worth it to go at all? Would it matter or make up her mind on if she should go if they were? Would it just be ghosts and memories and shit no one needed a decade later?
More her god damn therapist would make her talk about,
while holding Claire and any scrap of future custody over her head if she refused.