Even Luther can't pinpoint or identify the emotion currently buzzing in his skull, straining at his chest, his aching heart. He just knows that it hurts. Hurts in a way that can't be patched up by painkillers and Mom's delicate suturing. Having his greatest mistake thrown back in his face, choking on the guilt of what he'd done to himself. You cost yourself all of that, Luther. You. All on your own.

He'd made his bed and he'd had to lie in it for thirteen years.

He's about ready to snarl back, maybe even slam Diego backwards with a single press of the hand just to get him away from him and out of his space, but then. That confession, that admission, and it punctures his anger and tempers it with another ripple of loss. Of what could have been. Surprise.

Somehow he'd never considered it. They'd never spoken about it. Diego hadn't invited him like Allison had, hadn't cracked open the door and invited Luther to be a part of this new life. He'd never thought it could've been an option—

(What would they have done? Formed their own team? Their own pair of vigilantes taking down criminals together in the city, Number One and Number Two fighting side-by-side?

The mental image isn't as alien as it could be.)

"You never said anything," Luther says numbly. "I didn't know if— You just... vanished overnight."