A.N.: I don't own Luther or the characters, I'm not making money with this. I'm just playing with the pretty psychopaths and shall return them when I'm done ;)
„You have a visitor."
A visitor, really? He'd not had a visitor since they'd locked him up here. He didn't count his frustrated duty solicitor. That little squirrel of a man didn't realize how pointless his work really was. He also didn't count the psychiatrist the solicitor had dragged in to evaluate him. He did not care whether he ended up in prison or locked away in a psychiatric ward. Actually, prison might be preferable because there he would not be poked and prodded by doctors and psychologists.
A visitor…who would visit him? He had no family anymore. There had only been Nicholas. They'd let him attend the funeral, manacled and in a borrowed and ill fitting black suit, wary guards watching his every move. He hadn't asked them for the privilege. He hadn't asked them for anything, hadn't spoken one word since the news of his brother's death. What use was going to the funeral? The body in its cheap wooden box wasn't Nicholas anymore. His brother was gone. He'd left him alone. All their life it had been the two of them, together, inseparable. Ever since their parents' death they had hardly spoken to anyone outside their little family. They hadn't needed anyone else. Other people only meant trouble, only wanted to tear them apart. Other people found their closeness disturbing.
The other prisoners talked about him, mostly behind his back, sometimes to his face. They called him creepy and psycho and nutter. They feared him. They feared his silence. They feared that he was unpredictable, that he might be a lot more dangerous then his slight frame made him look. They were right.
Who would want to visit him? He wanted to refuse the guard's insistent orders to come to the visiting room. But his curiosity got the better of him. A visitor….how intriguing.
She had been keeping taps on John Luther, of course. It wouldn't do to let him slip out of her sight. She may have been half a world away sometimes but every night she would sit in front of her computer and find out what he had been up to. More often then not he had not been up to anything even remotely interesting. But sometimes he caught bad guys. Sometimes he did it in ways that made the news. Sometimes he did it in ways that made her smile and feel proud of him.
Like walking into the back of a truck, covered in fuel, with a madman who had a bomb, a lighter and not one rational thought in his head. She had been grinning like the Cheshire Cat for hours, had trawled the internet for every little bit of information, every little bad quality You Tube video.
She loved it when John broke all the rules, when he was unpredictable and crazy. When he was a little bit like her.
And sometimes his adversaries were just as interesting as him. Like this walking bomb….and his brother. His identical twin brother no less. How cute that they shared a murderous little hobby. Too bad the police killed one of them. She was sure she would have liked them both. It sounded like a lot of fun, what they had been doing, turning killing into a game, making it nearly unpredictable. The bomb had been where they had gone wrong, she thought. And of course getting caught red handed was always a big no-go. But it meant she wouldn't have to track him down first should she want to talk to him. She really, really shouldn't do that though. Really, it would be dangerous, she might get caught….no, she must never do that…
She was not what he'd expected, his visitor. She was blond and good looking and way too at ease in these surroundings. She smiled at him. It was not a friendly smile, it was predatory. This cat surely had eaten more then one canary.
"Hello Robert. You don't mind me calling you Robert, do you?"
He thought she wouldn't care in the slightest should he mind. The guard pushed him down into the chair. It was bolted to the floor, just as the table was, and the other chair his visitor sat in. She wore a sharp grey suit with a modest pencil skirt and a white blouse. When she pushed her glasses up it did not look natural, it looked more like an actress pretending to wear glasses regularly.
He sat down and just looked at her, stared at her, to make her go away. He did not want to talk to her, whoever she might be. She had a notebook open in front of her, pages white, empty and unlined. Where had they put his notebook, he idly wondered. Where had they put his brother's? He missed his dice. He folded his hands, clenching them together tightly until the knuckles turned white.
A pen was pushed behind one of her ears and she took it out wish a sharp motion, tapping the tip against the pages lightly. Was she a reporter of some kind? Or another psychologist trying to fit him into a neat category of lunatic? As if it would make him less dangerous if they labelled him, put a name to everything they found frightening about him.
He would not talk to her. He'd stare and be quiet and she'd go away eventually. The psychiatrist had.
He looked like a lost boy, she thought, with his too big prison garb and those big blue eyes. An angry lost little boy, all alone. She decided she liked him already.
She was not offended when he didn't return her greeting. He must think she was a psychologist, if her disguise was any good. She loved disguises. She loved putting on wigs and new clothes she'd never wear otherwise and become someone completely different. It had been easy to forge IDs and a letter giving her permission to talk to Mr Millberry. Nearly too easy.
They had hardly glanced at the papers, only taken every portable item but her notebook and pen off her and entrusted her to a guard. The man had disinterestedly led her to the visiting room, all the time regurgitating rules and warnings she didn't pay attention to.
She smiled at the security cameras hoping, knowing, John would one day see the footage. Would he be impressed with her daring? He would scold her if he knew she was doing this. He'd call her reckless. He would be worried about her. That was a nice thought.
"How are you feeling, Robert?" He didn't answer.
"I'm sorry about your loss. It must be so hard, loosing a brother." He blinked, no change in expression and, predictably, still no answer.
"Do you have any other family?" He kept staring at her, the guard shifted in the background, nervous or bored, she couldn't tell which and she couldn't be bothered to think about it.
"Why did you and your brother do what you did? Why did you kill?" He rolled his eyes. He must have been asked that question a thousand times already.
"What did it feel like, your hammer hitting flesh? Warm blood on your hands?" She thought she saw a tiny star of surprise deep in those ice cold eyes. She was sure no one had dared ask him about this so bluntly yet.
"Did it make you feel powerful? Did it turn you on?" He frowned. She smiled. It seemed she was slowly getting somewhere. She dragged the pen over paper like someone reluctantly making notes they knew to be useless.
"Did you look into their eyes as they died? Did you see them break?" The frown deepened. Surely he was beginning to question his first impression of her by now. The guard looked surprised as well but didn't yet interfere.
"Won't you talk to me, Robert? Won't you tell me what it felt like? I'm dying to know." She widened her smile, winked at him, tipping her notebook so he could read what she'd written on it:
"Do you want to play with me?"
She turned the page before the guard could get a look at it.
His voice was raw with lack of use as he said: "Game over. Would you like to restart?"
She nearly giggled as the guard led him out of the room. This would be fun.