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Luther had been the first human baby Dr. Pogo had ever seen. He hadn’t been Luther back then yet, of course. He hadn’t even been Number One. As a singular entity within the Hargreeves household the lone infant had required little to no designation. Mostly they had called him ‘him’ or ‘it’ or ‘young sir’ or more often than not ‘the baby’.
Pogo did not like to think he remembered much of his existence as a more ordinary ape, but when he had been presented with the young master, he had been thrown very much off guard. Babies, to his mind, were scrawny spindly little things with a very firm grip.
The baby had been soft, and squishy and incapably of doing anything other than wiggling gently. Pogo had been surprised to find that he found it pleasing the way the baby wriggled and kicked his fat legs.
He was a large baby, statistically, though not outside of the parameters for normal and not unusually so. All the same Pogo had stared at the size of babies head and compared it to anatomical diagrams he’d seen of the human pelvis. He shuddered. The evolutionary trade-offs for large brains did not seem at all worth it. He had told the infant with complete seriousness.
The baby did not react still so small that all it seemed to do was sleep, and then when it was not asleep it would scream until someone held it. Usually Pogo, but occasionally the recently hired Nanny, who Pogo privately suspected would reveal herself to be not up to snuff and have to be replaced, would see to him.
Pogo was not good at holding the baby. His instincts still expected the baby to cling and the infant quite simply was incapable of that. There had been one near miss when he had been distracted and...well...very nearly dropped the little fellow. Luckily Master Hargreeves had not been present and with no witnesses Pogo had been able to pretend the incident hadn’t happened- after checking the young master over quite carefully for injuries of course.
The baby seemed unharmed and made a pleased face at Pogo. Pogo tapped the baby's little palm with his finger. Reflexively the baby grabbed on, pale chubby fingers with tiny delicate nails gripping a rough hairy finger that looked massive by comparison.
Dr. Pogo couldn’t help but feel warmed and charmed. He tried to take his finger back and was surprised to find he almost couldn’t.
(From then on he liked to think that he was the baby’s favourite, though why the preferences of a creature who soiled itself and drooled constantly should be a mark of pride was confusing. Pogo had chalked it up to biological instincts toward the preservation of young.)
At the time Dr. Pogo had thought Luther was a very demanding baby, but once Master Hargreeves had returned- this time toting two more, which had resulted in the need to number for ease of designation, Pogo had learned that this was not entirely true.
All human babies were ridiculously high-maintenance, and Number One, while somewhat fussy, was nowhere near the level of needy that Number Two had been, sobbing inconsolably if ever he was put down or left alone, or the level of sheer demonic terror that Number Five turned out to be- screaming bloody murder all hours of the day and night for no particular reason. If Pogo had still been a more ordinary ape he suspects he would have dropped Five off a cliff two weeks in.
Once all seven of them are found systems are put in place for the care of seven helpless infants, and each is assigned their own Nanny, at least initially. Pogo has limited contact with any of the children for a while. Sir Hargreeves assures him that there are more productive uses of his time until the children get old enough to begin to be interesting.
Number One still sqwawks happily when Pogo passes by his bassinet and occasionally holds his little hands out, asking to be picked up again. Pogo does his best to ignore him.
Number One bounces over and takes Pogo’s hand. It’s always mildly surprising, every time he does it, because none of the other children initiate physical contact, at least not with Pogo. He swings their hands and chatters away.
Pogo allows it though the last two years have made him long for the times when the children were not yet mobile and did not attempt to speak. As, despite their enthusiasm for both, they were not yet particularly good at either.
They have all recently become able to speak coherently in English, but to Pogo’s disappointment this has not led to an increase in stimulating conversation. He’s grateful that Grace has been introduced to the household. It gives the children someone else to focus on, and unlike the nannies she is more than comfortable interacting with him as well.
Number One has begun jumping around, still firmly grasping Pogo’s hand and wrenching his arm about as he throws his weight around. Number One is still the largest and his strength means that he really needs to be more careful with everyone around him than he is.
Pogo doesn’t reprimand him. After everything that has happened with Number Seven there is something comforting about One’s blithe unconcern. He is the easiest of the children, tractable and obedient. Happy to display his powers and follow orders except for those few moments when he’d grab the doorframe and refuse to be moved...Sir Reginald had been most unhappy about having to replace the chunks torn out of the walls.
Pogo tries to free his hand. “You really must be more careful Number One.”
Number One immediately let’s go and nods earnestly. “I will! I’ll promise!”
The children grow up. They leave one by one over the years until it’s like it was at the beginning, just Number One. Just Luther, as he’s now called. Pogo wishes he could just tell the dear boy to go. Just leave, go be someone else, somewhere else. He could always come back if it didn’t work but he’d never know unless he-
Well, Pogo doesn’t say anything, and by the time he might have worked up the nerve it’s already much to late.
When he hears Luther wake up and scream he hurries down to the infirmary as fast as his old bent legs can carry him.
The boy, (except he’s not a boy hasn’t been a boy for years and why does that make it worse?) is shaking and screaming and when Pogo reaches down at takes his hand to try and calm him he just stares at it like he doesn’t even understand what he sees. Their hands match now. Luther’s is bigger, and a bit paler but otherwise the same. Long blunt fingers, and an even longer palm, all coated in fur.
He breathes in small short gasps and Pogo moves to put his hand on his shoulder but Luther jerks away.
“It’s alright dear boy.”
Luther’s hands are shaking, and it’s wrong. Luther’s hands never shake. Not when they’re covered in blood. Not when Sir Reginald asks something impossible. Not when he’s angry. Not when he’s sad. Not when he’s frightened (not that Number One is ever frightened).
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. Nor does Pogo need to employ his staggering intellect in order to realize that there is nothing to be done about the root cause of the problem. Luther’s life had been saved at the cost of his humanity. There was nothing for it now but to mitigate the side effects.
Pogo consults with Grace and they cobble together things for their boy. Grace is a wizard with a sewing machine and Pogo is no slouch either. They don’t exactly produce semi-formal three pieces in chimpanzee sizes and he has had to learn over the years. They sit in silence at the kitchen table ripping out seams, adding panels and when necessary sewing garments from scratch.
Luther comes to find them later, still in the remains of his uniform pants and the rest of him swathed in a duvet he’d probably taken from his bed.
He pulls the chair out, and sits awkwardly. Pogo tries not to stare as his-as the boy who’d always been physically fearless, agile and confident suddenly has to relearn how to sit in a chair.
Pogo does not comment. Neither does Grace. After a moment Luther manages it, and he picks up the nearest piece of clothing from the pile. Pogo notices he keeps the corners of his blanket wrapped around his hands. He runs his fingers over the new seams in the old clothes. He forces a smile and then with, again more difficulty than can be observed without something wrenching in Pogo’s chest, shrugs the hoody on and zips it up, flicking the hood up over his head. “Thank you Mom, Pogo. I never would have thought to-“
“Oh, of course dear.” Grace replies with her usual unconcerned brightness. “What kind of mother would I be if I let you wander around without any decent clothes?”
Luther sits with them and tries to make himself smaller. It doesn’t work. Sir Reginald buzzes from his study and Pogo stands to respond. He pats Luther on the hand as he passes, “You’ll adjust in time to your new circumstances, as I did.”
Luther nods and his face settles into a more familiar, determined experession. “Of course! I can still go on missions once I get the hang of things. Tell Father I’ll get back to training soon. I’m still Number One! He can still count on me!”
Pogo nods, and does not tell him that he doubts Sir Reginald will ask. He doesn’t.
He doesn’t ever speak to Pogo about Number One, or his injuries or what he’d done to save him or whether it really had been necessary.
Pogo misses Luther terribly, when he goes to the moon. But, perhaps Sir Reginald is right. Perhaps it’s really for the best.