It's such an instinctive thing: just as Diego's hardwired to obey Luther (when the stars line up and he feels like it, at least), Luther's hardwired to listen to Allison. And though they can't hear the sharp, exasperated snap of her voice cutting them back into line, they both respond to those words slamming into their vision just as if they had. When Diego slinks off the bed, Luther looks over at the wall and the adjacent room that is, now, apparently his by executive decision.

(Still the one next to hers. At least there's that.)

And Luther could be abashed, apologetic at this absolutely childish little squabble that had erupted with all the pressure of a decades-plus rivalry behind it -- but instead, the corner of his mouth twitches at the absurdity of it all. And that rare, dry-as-bones sense of humour creeps out:

"We're not Five," he says. "Five's the other one."