through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow

[obediences]

WHO: The Hargreeves + Guests
WHERE: Various Cities
WHEN: Month of December 2020 🎄
WHAT: Mass log of idiots to keep from flooding others. A log for all things Hargreeves, their adventures, and those trying to befriend them.
WARNINGS: Obligatory CW for: drugs, alcohol, mentions of death and child abuse.

Comments

Dec 2nd { holiday greetings, and gay happy meetings when friends come to call

[numberthree]

The nice thing about today is she didn't have to come in until late, so she'd been wandering some shops, trying to decide if she was going to bring home some cheap, but still nice looking, garlands to hang over the windows on the downstairs in the house. The boys had let her get away with the tree, and she was tempted to just let herself have whatever she wanted of the season.

She and Ray had decorated their new little house in as charming state as Dallas would allow through backdoor sales and gifts from others. And Vernetta has decorated the house Allison had been staying in with her the year before that, and she'd always decorated up the salon starting the day after Thanksgiving, letting it all stay up well toward the end of January. Said it gave everything an extra zip of spirit, and everyone can use that.

Allison'd been pulled away before she could decide, though. Work calling and all. Which is how she finds herself headed through the sets of one of Project Walkway's Nonah base of operations to do retouches and retakes on any photos they'd been less than excited about for the Limited Edition Christmas Publication coming out in two weeks.

[irondad]

Wrapped on a recent shoot, Tony preens under the attentions of several members of the crew, signing various things now that the heavy lifting and the flurry of photos have finished. Mark 42 waits for him by the austere black backdrop, a better ride home than any car.

Movement catches his attention- someone familiar breezing a shortcut past the prop table, and he caps the sharpie, to a small chorus of polite 'aww's. "That's about all I got time for, ladies."

Trusting his publicist to handle the rest of the details from here, he jogs to catch up with Allison, coming right up alongside her and matching her stride with a playfully firm: "Excuse me, ma'am, this is meant to be a closed set. Schlubs only. Gorgeous superheroines not allowed."

[numberthree]

Allison is caught up in her own thoughts, so the first, just barely there thought is that she's about to be interrupted by some imPort fan who manages to be staff, for endless chatter and possible an autograph request, before she glances that direction just as Tony starts off his roll. Making her smile, at the unexpected appearance, as much as the equally half-empty insinuated joke.

"Tony!" It is not loud, but it is pleasantly surprised, with that small half chuckle to it. Amenable, if not far into complimented truly. "What are you doing here?"

[irondad]

Tony cants his head back toward the small soundstage, the set. "Working. Had a book cover to shoot. Pepper and I missed you at the party," he continues, already off on another tangent and ready to dive right into it, as is typical for him.

"What are you doing later?"

[numberthree]

"Oh, right. The book." She remembered hearing about that while they were away. At least a few details about the man who had just randomly taken her off to a vacation where she hadn't even had to play dutiful guest for several days while he was just in bed recuperating.

There was something of a very faint grimace for the mention of the missed party. It was just a party, but she had meant to show up after the whole beach trip. And then everyone had suddenly not been there, and a party had seemed like the stupidest thing to spend any time on it. Which didn't mean it didn't leave some guilt.

But he'd already popped on to another question.
Breakneck speed, rather like Klaus talked, not waiting.

"Uh." Allison looked up, thinking, a little surprised at the topic's change and the question's specificity. "Nothing really. Not sure when I'm getting out, but I didn't really set up anything for tonight. Just mostly this and then going home. Maybe picking up some more ornaments."

mid-december → josh foley. i've grown tired of this body, a cumbersome and heavy body.

[obediences]

It's been five months since their conversation and Josh's offer; or only four months, if you discount the month that slid away from them all. Things are finally quiet, or about as quiet as they can be: no spider demons or universe-ending goddesses or killer robots descending, his family life is stable, nobody's switched bodies or powers, and so it finally seems like a safe enough time to try this heading into the new year.

He's had months to sit and stew on it, to weigh the pros and cons. And in the end, it's remembering Rikki's words — a whole year ago, holy shit — that cements it, carves Luther's decision into stone:

"But if you don't try... Then all that's left to resent is yourself for not exploring the option and nobody wants to do that. At least if you try and fail, then you can be mad at your circumstances, or keep feeling like a victim of things out of your control, yeah? But if you don't try, then you're the only thing in your way."

So he finally goes to De Chima General. Makes an appointment with Dr. Foley. (And that name sounds vaguely familiar, like there's something caught in his teeth that he can't dislodge, but he can't put his finger on where else he's heard it before.) He sits in the examining room waiting for the doctor, and he fidgets and he stares at the stupid pain chart on the wall, the cartoonish smiley faces beaming down at him.

How much does it hurt? Not at all. Not anymore. Not since that first day and the agony of the accident, and the transformation. But in every other way that matters, it's a dull ache; a thorn in his paw; an eternal anguish whenever he catches a fleeting glimpse of himself in the mirror. He keeps reminding himself that it's better to try and fail, than to not try at all. (Don't be a coward, Number One.)

By the time Josh arrives, there is an an extremely anxious 6'5" hulking man sitting on the examining chair.

[goldtoxicity]

[ all mutations are beautiful. professor xavier had said that time and time again. they were told that time and time again - and as a teenager, he'd struggled to believe it. mutants were freaks, after all. he'd grappled with the idea of simply possessing the x-gene, and he'd struggled to look in a mirror and see anything beautiful about changes he'd never asked for, until one day he'd tilted his head in just the right way and found pride where there'd once been shame.

he was who he was always meant to be.

hours before he'd found himself standing in the porter, joshua foley had undone millions of unnatural mutants in one go. he'd felt the pain, the fear, the confusion. he'd done it because it had been right - and he hadn't been able to strip anything that hadn't been there before. some people were who they were always meant to be, their dormant truth brought to the surface - and others had a taste of what it was to be a mutant.

( though they'd only come away angrier )

he figures this'll be about the same. ]

Hi, Mr. Hargreeves? [ he tucks the clipboard under his arm, reaching out to shake his hand. ] I'm Dr. Foley. You can call me Josh if you wanna.

[obediences]

[ when the door opens and the other man walks in, the gold skin and pale eyes throws luther for an immediate loop — for whatever reason, he wasn't expecting another visible mutant. but even startled as he is, ingrained politeness and years' worth of training snaps in on autopilot and makes luther reach out, enfold that hand in his massive one, and shake it. and when he touches him, he can almost, almost catch the edges of something familiar—

(gold skin looking wan and washed out, another hospital room, except there's an unexpected figure crumpled in the bed and—)

luther stares at him for a second. wrestles his composure back together, trying to string his words back into some semblance of order. ]

Hi. Uh, Josh. It's nice to meet you. I don't know if you remember, but we had a conversation over the network back in July. About, uh. Reversing mutations. Sorry it took me so long to set up this appointment, things just... kept cropping up. You know how it goes.

[ #importstruggles ]

[goldtoxicity]

Don't I ever. It's coo -- [ a pause as he tries to correct himself to be slightly more professional ] okay, everything's been upside down lately. And you gotta do this kinda thing on your own time anyway.

[ he takes it, gives a firm shake and offers a bright smile.

in another life he feels relief at the sight of the man before him. something familial and warm, like home. in another life he'd probably be upset that this was done to him, would focus on sitting him down and talking to him about it. in this one he only pauses at the familiar feeling, then drops into the chair and takes out the chart. ]

Is it alright if I ask how it happened?

mid-december → allison. the night of; leave what's heavy behind.

[obediences]

[ after this. ]

You'd think he'd be more accustomed to this, after he accidentally dreamed himself his old body a year and a half ago. Then, the City. Krakoa. Waking up aged thirteen again. This place has been playing merry hell with his body, always throwing him off every time he starts to think he might be accustomed to it, every time he starts inching closer to some form of acceptance. At least this time, the change was his choice.

And it worked. It worked. It worked.

But Luther finds that it does, still, require some clumsy readjustment all over again: suddenly his center of gravity is all off again and he finds himself over-correcting for a weight and bulk and heft that isn't there anymore. He moves too quickly; slams into doorways again, not because he's so much larger than he expects, but because he's smaller and quicker on his feet than he expects. One step carries him further, almost sends him flying off his feet when he lunges too hard. He's ever so slightly unbalanced, like he's been walking for five fucking years with an over-laden backpack strapped to his shoulders, and now each step feels disorientingly like he's floating off the ground.

When he comes home to the house after his appointment at De Chima General, his shirt and jacket are hanging loose on his body, and he keeps glancing down at himself in a kind of stunned disbelief. He's not wearing his gloves; they've been shoved into his jacket pocket, and that mere fact alone feels like a minor miracle. He keeps flexing his fingers and reveling in their litheness, their dexterity. His face hurts from smiling. He's physically lighter, but the lightness is in his heart and soul, too: a psychological pain shrugged off, a weight off those shoulders that he's been carrying for a full half-decade now.

He's expecting to have to go find Allison when he gets home, but instead he finds her waiting outside on the porch as he approaches the house, her hands just barely lit by the smoulder of a cigarette. (She hasn't smoked in ages.)

"Hey," Luther says, a helpless smile even in that one word, and the conclusion is immediately obvious by his slimmer silhouette against the streetlight behind him.

It worked.

[numberthree]

Allison had to beg off the end of the day, with a lie, after getting the text.

She'd tried not to. She'd worked through losing Claire the first time. The lie had helped at the time—the not-being-herself. Being the Allison Hargreeves everyone flawless assumed she always was. But it hadn't today. She'd gotten moody. Despondent. Distracted. And then annoyed. In rapid succession at anything that hindered the morning, any mistake made, the number of shoots a scene took, someone flubbing lines a normal amount. Anytime she did.

Even once she got home, she couldn't focus. Couldn't eat. She'd found herself nursing a scotch, pacing in the kitchen. At even more loose ends with nothing at all to distract herself with. The Network shows and the Network itself a nonstarter. She'd basically stood forever, nursing a drink, trying to keep herself from either digging her nails into her palm or texting even a single word to Luther.

Fantasized a thousand times about tracking down where this Josh Foley was and demanding to be shown him. (Gotten only further frustrated as it seemed like her frustration at the person in question, with those two names, only slid off of it, only felt slightly foolish, like there was no reason to doubt him. When she didn't even know the person fucking around with Luther's body. With Luther's fucking permission. Like there hadn't been enough of that fucking around for a lifetime already.)

There'd been another scotch. More than one. But even that hadn't helped. Time kept ticking by. Nothing kept coming in. She didn't even know if paperwork here listed next-of-kin. She tried not to focus on just how many pieces of bone and scraps of skin she would turn someone into if Luther didn't come back. She'd ended up staring at every place in every room, seeing too many of every recent moment spent with him.

Too loud. Too many. Too unable to breathe.

She'd ended up outside. Somewhere they weren't.
Somewhere she could see him if he was headed back.

Eventually, she'd rumored herself a cigarette—something she hadn't even done in Dallas. Not since the Fanport before last and one of those last days in the Academy, before the Academy was demolished along with the future -- that should be back, but who knew being stuck here, and did Luther changing himself, mid-time-jump, if they were mid-time-jump, change things there at all, too? And did it fuck up anything in the time-jump if this worked, or didn't work? Or if the worst happened? Could it screw up ever getting home at all, too?

Allison is far too deep into her own head, the too many what if's running silent screaming through heart, when that voice interrupts her finally. The relief that slams through her, strong enough to crack the mountain of noise inside her, Luther probably will mistake for anything other than what it is. "It worked."

[obediences]

"It worked," Luther agrees, confirms. And he climbs the mere two steps it takes to bring himself onto the stoop and join her, and he comes further into view, where her eyes have long-since accustomed to the darkness: fabric hanging loose on his trim body like the clothes are several sizes too big (which they are now), or like he's a kid trying on his father's shirt. Luther extends his hands like he's presenting them for inspection, the way he never has before: palms up, long thin fingers splayed in the air. A magician revealing a card trick, pulling the metaphorical ribbon out of his sleeve.

"Is it messed-up to say 'ta da'?" he says.

His jaw aches from smiling; he's always been too-serious and dour for his own good (except around her), and his face just isn't accustomed to being bent into that much happiness anymore. He can't sweep it off his face. He's tried.

[numberthree]

It's disorientingly strange.

The combined reaction that wants to take a few steps forward and touch his arm, to convince herself further he's real, he's fine, in one piece whatever the piece is, and the other one that holds perfectly, unchangingly, still to avoid how close she'd come to almost backstepping away from him, to keep the same distance between them, as he came bounding up the few steps, all quick, fast energy, and excitement, into her space, hands held, alarmingly, up and out toward her.

Everything feels incredible upside down. She almost wants to take his hand and look at both sides, but her hands don't even move. The idea of reaching out and touching Luther when not making a point, or not in the abject dark, in a moment where it can't be avoided any longer, has been drilled in too deeply. It feels almost profane to think about breaking it lightly.

"I suppose that's up to you." Allison's not sure she's anywhere near ready to joke about Luther, himself, being a magic trick. Or a surprise. She can't stop herself from looking him over, though. Much like when she'd shown up to find he'd dreamed himself this way. (Nothing like the way he'd still acted when that had happened.

Nothing like the way all of this has gone before now. This week. Months ago.)

She tries to grab on to something to steady her.
Facts, to start with. "How was the procedure?"

mid-december → diego. the breakfast table.

[obediences]

[ the morning after this. ]

Absolutely true to form, Luther hadn't given Diego a headsup beforehand. He'd barely told Allison, but at least she'd been armed with a promise extracted from Luther to tell her when he planned to do this exact thing. Jury's still out on whether he would've just tried to handwave it off with both of them otherwise, tried to walk into it blind and pretend nothing was going on.

But he and Diego run on similar early-bird schedules; they're both up at stupid o'clock in the morning, for their respective workouts and showers and jogs around the block. And so, when Diego walks in from his post-workout shower, Luther is already awake and standing in the kitchen, frying eggs. (With a slight hunched tension in his shoulders, the anticipation of knowing a shoe is about to drop.)

"Morning," he says lightly.

Completely ignoring the fact that, today, of all random days, Luther suddenly looks normal again: still tall as ever, with broad shoulders and narrow waist, but he looks human and he looks like he once did in his twenties, from the last time he graced the covers of magazines and newspaper photos as Number One. His muscles are regular-sized muscles, his arms slim again, and his sleeves are accordingly rolled up to his elbows and baring skin for once. He's not wearing his omnipresent gloves, for once.

"Want some coffee?"

[deadlycurves]

Every morning started the same: Up before dawn, a run sometimes alone, sometimes he would pester Luther into going together, a little work on a heavy bag and a shower. Breakfast with Luther (and usually Allison, but sometimes she was busy with other things for work) and his history podcast that Diego inevitably would complain about.

Today was no different. He went for his run, did a quick workout and had a shower same as every other day in this place.

Today was very different when he walked into the kitchen after his shower.

He comes up a step short and pauses in the doorway, just.... staring for a second. That was Luther standing at the stove, asking him about coffee like any other day. But. No. This was off. How is he being so casual right now? Had this place dialed him back to before? It wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened but... Luther was never so casual about these sort of things and...

Finally, Diego finds his feet under him and pushes further into the kitchen, “You gonna just act like nothin’ happened in the last 24 hours?” He grabs a coffee mug from the cabinet, still looking at his brother a little bit like he has three heads.

[obediences]

Luther shoots a look over his shoulder from where he's standing at the stove. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says — but he still has the world's worst poker face, so his guileless expression soon crumbles. And besides, considering how often this place has fucked with people's bodies and memories, it's a genuine risk that he might not remember at all. Not really worth joking over.

So in the end, Luther dispels it, shaking his head. "Maybe. It seemed like a weird thing to try to announce. Slipping a note under your door or to your communicator seemed redundant— you were gonna see it soon enough."

He nods to the coffee machine, where it's clucking away to itself. "There's a fresh pot on."

[deadlycurves]

His eyebrows arch up as high as possible on his forehead and he just levels Luther with a look of high doubt. "Uh-huh." he deadpans.

"So..." he grabs the carafe and pours himself some coffee, leaning a hip against the counter when he was done, coffee standing untouched for the moment. "this isn't some weird... thing... that's happening because this place is being itself? You expected this?"

Luther, please stop pretending Diego has had one ounce of a clue, here.

dec 25 🎄 → numbers one, two, and three.

[obediences]

Luther wakes up early as usual — everything about that is technically normal, even as he rolls himself out of bed and his bare feet hit the wooden floor, and he's still settling into this human-shaped body, just over a week old and still familiarly unfamiliar. But there's also something else to the date today, a faint imagined anticipation in the air. (They'd never had the experience of being children waking up early, giddy and excited for Santa Claus and presents under the tree. It wasn't something they'd ever experienced, not even for their birthday. Sometimes Reginald had even forgotten, and October 1st had slid past like any other day.)

But today, he's trying. Instead of his usual mountain of breakfast eggs, this morning Luther is agonising over eggnog. There's a scattering of broken eggshells all over the kitchen; separating the eggs was the hardest part thanks to his superstrength, but eventually he'd been able to master the delicate art of tapping the shell without disintegrating it all over himself, and then pouring out the yolks. The warm pot is simmering away on the stove with the milk and cream, which he squints worriedly at while he pours the mixture into the mixing bowl (somebody please rescue the nog, it's definitely over-cooking). He's whisked it into some kind of froth, but he's not entirely sure what it's supposed to look like.

By the time Diego and Allison come downstairs, he's set three glasses of eggnog on the dining table (oh yep, it's definitely overcooked), and he's practically vibrating with self-satisfied excitement. Today is Luther's first-ever Christmas. He is doing it by the books.

And so, sitting under the three are three identical soft, lumpy presents, wrapped and meticulously labelled in Luther's handwriting. There's even one for himself.

Which Luther leads in with: "So they're probably not the greatest, but there's presents under the tree. There's also pancakes. Not as good as Mom's, but—" But what could be? "But it seemed fitting, I guess. From what I'd read online."

What monster have you unleashed, Allison?

[numberthree]

Allison takes as long as mastering her hair from a silky sleep scarf into a reasonably neat knot and sliding her feet into some newly bought slippers. Her pajamas, which she stays in, are rather Christmas-y as well, though they've been around the last few weeks like the slippers. A black fitted sleep shirt with a large silver snowflake, and the words let it snow around it, and a pair of loose silky sleep pants that were black with hundreds of littler silver snowflakes of the exact same shape all over them.

The kitchen is only mostly a disaster of things piled on counters and the trash can still open, but it's nothing to the way Luther is beaming with excitement. Like someone somehow poured an excited child into a man the size of a basketball player. It would be worrisome if it weren't just so ... cute.

"I got some things, too," Allison said, sliding into a chair, one-foot curling under her leisurely, as she picked up her drink. She'll be nice and not tease him for the next five minutes while talking and not actually giving him the satisfaction of noticing it or trying. For today. It is Christmas, after all.

It's a miracle she manages only to cough while keeping her mouth shut.
It's not rancid, or poisoned, or disgusting. But it's definitely not egg nog.

[deadlycurves]

Diego hears the fussing around in the kitchen from his office-room, and wonders just what it is Luther is even doing in there. Because it's obviously him. And he's obviously not doing the normal breakfast thing, because he's pretty sure he even heard his brother swear about something or other at one point. The whole thing is kind of entertaining to listen to, but eventually he wanders out. He can't hide the smirk that threatens to break across his face, one edge of his mouth already turned up as he looks around the mess of the kitchen. "What happened in here?" he asks, light and teasing, as he joins them at the table, and he picks up one of the mugs to inspect its contents. "What is this?" He can't tell by looking-- and it doesn't look great, if he's completely honest (and Diego usually is).

[obediences]

"Crossing some Christmas traditions off the list. Cooking happened," Luther says, a firm and definitive answer— except he's looking mistrustfully at the nog, and then more mistrustfully at Allison as she coughs primly while taking her first sip. He lifts one of the mugs too and finally takes his own experimental drink.

And he doesn't recoil (because, truly, it's not rancid, and he once lived off soy packets for four years so whatever), but he does stare down at it in sheer perplexment wondering what the hell he just put in his mouth. This? This is the big deal about eggnog?

"Is it supposed to taste so..." He founders for the right word, finally settles on, "Uh, eggy?"

dec 31 → allison; so this is the new year.

[obediences]

He's seen Allison decked out in jaw-dropping, formal gowns before: swear-ins, arrival ceremonies, various galas that he'd gotten swept up in because they were imPort events, and imPorts were expected to be there. Luther had always attended out of some vague sense of wary obligation, ready for something to go awry and needing to fend off some kind of inevitable attack.

This, however, is the first time he's been invited along to a solely work event. It's a Project Walkway shindig, and therefore decked to the nines. Normally Luther shies away from public events with flashing cameras, with so many handsome and beautiful people milling around, the literal models and actresses and actors that Allison works with—

But this year is going to be different.

Tonight, he looks human. (More like Space, more like Number One, more like the man he'd been once upon a time, for both better and — in many ways — worse.) Tall, blond, neat and trim, armed with a polite smile and a well-cut suit that doesn't have to strain in the seams around his shoulders and arms; a blazer that he can button easily. If the cameras catch stray photos of him at Allison's side, he doesn't shrink away from them this time; doesn't ineffectually try to hide himself behind someone half his size.

Instead, Luther is cheerfully trying some of the canapés (he's had about fifteen already), and he sips some fizzy champagne. The New Year's Eve affair is rich and lavish and over-the-top, and he's still ill-at-ease in a crowd, at a party, with the noise of conversation and throbbing music around them and the glitter of lights, but tonight he's looking far more relaxed than he has in— well, years.

And he stays by her side. Squinting at the sea of people, he's noting faces like he once memorised persons of interest and notable supervillains. "Which one are you doing the short film with again?" he asks, peering over the crowd.

Re: dec 31 → allison; so this is the new year.

[numberthree]

You know, he's got that kind of face, if he--

He's always had that kind of face.

You know what I mean.

Do I?

Come on, Allie, don't be like that.

I know you should probably stop talking, and excuse me. It looks like Simon just showed up, and I had some ideas I need to talk to him about regarding the newest script updates.

It's barely graceful, and it might even be regrettable later, but she doesn't regret it now. It burrows under her skin, offended rage just simmering under the edge, searing want to take it out on her knuckles, as she strides off, effortless smoothness in heels that still look like they should be intimidating.

But she's not immune either.

Which is probably where at least thirty percent of her ire comes from when she doesn't head toward the Scripting Director but scans the room for Luther. The endless level of hypocrisy she can only add to searing insider her chest. Because he looks so. Awkward, and nervous. But, also, so much closer to at ease. Fumbling at the edges, and his humor is (and will always be a specific brand of endearing and innocent and just a little too rushed by those nerves), but he's faster to smile at the people in front of him.

(That was true in Dallas, too, her mind says,

But she knows it's as true as it is false. It's even more so now.)

It makes her heart swell, and it makes her relieved, and it poisons her worry with a just as deep want for that to never be gone again. To keep watching it pressing more and more clear of his once so hard held shadows. The way she doesn't have to change directions, because she was always going to find her way right back to him.

(And he does have that face.
And he's always had that face.

It's just this world missed out on a decade of this face on every tv screen and newspaper and magazine. Teen-to-twenties heartthrob with a stunning white smile, and effortless golden hair, who also carried off that ever so soft-spoken and polite ma'am and sir and thank you, of course and stood at the front of all of them, leader and spokesperson and representation of everything they were all supposed to have been.)

Allison lifted another glass of champagne off a server with a passing tray full of at least a dozen, downing half of it in one go, as Luther's words cut back in, and she tried to focus on him, without focusing on it. (She fails.) At least the question is simple enough, and she points with her champagne glass.

"That one. Over there. Jackson Strait."

Tall and dark hair, currently surrounded by a circle of adoring fans.
Coworkers, but more so people looking to get their name in his mouth.
His word backing them as a foot further up the ladder beside him.

[obediences]

"Got it," he says, and as always he sounds too-serious, too-somber, like he really does have a rolodex somewhere he's carefully jotting down the names and details of everything in Allison's life. Learning the ins and outs of Allison's coworkers, her new-old career, the people in her life (the sort of thing, in short, that he had been so terrible about supplying himself, until the last few months).

"Anybody else I should know?" He takes another sip of his drink. It's light and fizzy, sparkling in his chest like butterflies, although it's not enough alcohol to make a dent in him. His metabolism's still superhumanly fast — that was a thing even before the incident — but he's getting accustomed, now, to the drinks hitting just that slight touch harder. Less body mass means a stronger effect. He's still readjusting, learning the beating heart of this body, its rhythms.

And even standing by her side, Luther still looks at parties like missions, like a trip into the field. Surveying the gleaming room like a battlefield, all the guests like potential opponents. He has to don that armour, tap back into ancient rusted social muscles that have atrophied since his days in the limelight. (Since five years. Since the last time Reginald ever paraded him at a public event.)

[numberthree]

Luther answers her, as much as just the name itself, as though he's committing it to some indelible part of his brain. He probably is, even though Jackson Strait will probably be right back out the door of her life in another two weeks, and there's no telling whether they will or will not end up cast in anything against each other again.

It's not that she regards him as nothing; it's just that she's gone through this so very many, even if it's been over four years since she was standing on that carpet, swanning for the cameras as Love on Loan 3 and then her whole life changed in the absolutely unexpected blink of an eye. From one life to two others, and never back. She'd never had believed it if someone told her that last morning, or even on the flight out.

"I don't actually know all of the people here." Even though it's a completely understood thing for most of the important enough people, or even just consistent middle rea too, of those in the room, she says it so Luther can, too. "This isn't the same side of the house I was doing everything with for the year before we all ported out and back in."

"Like that guy--" With a gesture toward one of the tables filled that's been busy off and on in waves through the night. "--is on the big guy who runs head over the shows and their runners, but I don't know who the two guys buzzing around him in the nice suits are at all." Or why they think striped pencil ties are still in even here.

There's a very minute pause, and her voice ducks a few levels of sound, just to between them. "A decade ago, I would have just stolen one of them and rumored them into giving me a rundown on who everyone in the room was, making a list of who really mattered and who really didn't."