He'd always been bad at card games. Card games of any kind. For one thing, he didn't have the patience, even if he enjoyed trying to win; for the other, most of his life had made cards something that felt archaic, maybe inherently boring. It was a mystery why this didn't seem to apply to things like books or writing, which required similar concentration on Luke's part. A lot of things were mysteries.
Like why Michael dying hadn't seemed to do anything for him. He'd loved his Uncle in the way that he'd come to love his Aunt -- like a parent, someone he took care of and looked up to and expected to be there. But somehow the fact that Michael was gone had been something Lucas swallowed quickly, forcing himself to accept because he still had Alana. Death was a strange concept for someone of his age and temperament in this world; maybe it was just something he didn't like actually thinking about, so that's... Just what he didn't do.
To be honest, even with the brave face he'd put on for his aunt and for the various people he'd found himself talking to over the intranet, Lucas had still been hoping that his father would walk through the door, or that somehow his posting would bring James and April out of the woodwork. Maybe he was especially moody because that hadn't happened yet -- and because it wasn't happening, the safehouses had become a far less magical place than Luke had expected. Not that he'd ever admit it. Fantasizing about seeing your stupid family didn't seem like a thing that self-sufficient people did. (Nevermind that clinging to your aunt definitely wasn't either.)
"How many times have we played this game?" He asked idly, drawing a new card. "A million. And a half."