They've grown depressingly accustomed to Klaus' random interjections and whiplash outbursts at what had originally seemed like imaginary friends. It might look like madness, mental instability, in anyone else, but the Hargreeves know the truth. The ghosts are still Klaus-only, but they do exist.

Then, as Klaus' attention turns back to him, Luther's mouth purses. Each word is a knife flung, and they hit their mark. Do you really hate me that much, he almost asks, almost lashes back.

But just as Sir Reginald is trying to train Klaus to shrug off the sound and noise and fury of dozens of ghosts, learning to set them aside and shrug off their attention -- so too has he been teaching Luther to shrug off criticism, his siblings' barbs, to make his psychological skin as durable as his physical one. If he can withstand Diego's acerbic jibes, then he can let Klaus' wash over him, too.

(Besides, Number One still idolises The Monocle. Still doesn't quite see what's so bad about Reginald Hargreeves yet. That'll take another decade-plus to come home to roost.)

"I do care, though," Luther says, simply, and there's something in that basic honesty. No long rambling speech. Just unflinching truth compared to how much their father doesn't. "I want these nights to go better for you. Is there anything I can get you right now, to help? Something from the kitchen or anything to help you sleep?"

They could summon Grace anytime for soothing teas or snacks, but he's making the offer anyway. (It matters, to him, that the team captain offers.)