It was disorienting in a way Lucien didn’t appreciate. Not the kind of disorientation born of unfamiliar terrain or magical interference, but something quieter, more insidious. Personal. The kind that settled under his skin and sat there like a splinter he couldn’t reach. ( From a distance, Richard Brock wore his brother’s face like a second skin. Same cut of jaw, same lilt in the way he breathed through his nose when irritated, even that faint tension that always seemed to hum just behind the eyes. ) But the rhythm was wrong. Not broken, exactly. Just... misaligned. It was Jim’s body, but not Jim’s soul, and that single truth unsettled Lucien more than he’d care to admit aloud.
He stood at the edge of the room, posture deceptively casual, one hand loosely hooked in his pocket while the other absently toyed with the edge of a silver ring. He had been watching Richard for several minutes now, unnoticed or at least unacknowledged, cataloguing the way he moved, the subtle differences in tone and presence. ( It wasn’t fair. He knew that. And yet fairness had never once stopped instinct. ) There was something calculated in Richard, something held a little tighter, a little more practised, like a man always aware of the weapon within him and what might happen if he misfired. Not unlike Jim in that regard. But still... different. Sharper around the edges.
‘You don’t walk like him,’ Lucien observed eventually, his voice quiet but clear, cutting through the space without raising itself. He didn’t move closer yet, preferring the distance while he assessed. ‘It’s subtle. Barely noticeable unless you’ve memorised someone’s stride over the course of years.’ A beat passed before his gaze narrowed, more thoughtful than accusing. ‘But I have. And you’re not him.’
The words weren’t meant as cruelty. They were truth. Groundwork. Something he could build on, if he chose to. He exhaled through his nose and finally shifted forward a step, blue eyes never leaving Richard’s face. ‘That’s the part that makes it difficult. Not your resemblance. Not the voice. It’s the flickers. The half-mirrors. Things I recognise and things I don’t, crashing into each other every time I look at you.’ There was a pause, long enough to be deliberate, then his tone softened, just enough to show he was still open to something beyond suspicion. Curiosity, perhaps. Something cautious but not closed.
‘I know your brother. I trust him. With a lot more than I probably should.’ He tilted his head, mouth curving into a faint, unreadable smile. ‘And I don’t expect you to be him. But I won’t lie and pretend it’s not going to mess with my head for a while.’ His shoulders rolled back, easy but not dismissive. ‘So help me out here, Richard. What do I do with you? Where do you fit?’
