Work Text:
Perfection is a very difficult and delicate thing to maintain in a package.
Mrs Wormwood was sure she had it, like a perfectly pressed page of a book not yet littered with fingerprints or creased edges, in the archetype. But perfection is also difficult to describe, and Luke - the archetype - finds himself scanning the web for the definition of a perfect human. No such thing exists, he eventually finds out, and definitely not in him. His creator (he refuses to call her mother, that title belongs to Sarah Jane) has passed on and whatever her definition may have been dies with her.
At first, he thinks, Mrs Wormwood created him as the perfect human - the idea in mind that he is incapable of illness or of being plagued by nightmares, with the perfect mind and maybe even an extended lifespan because it's what humans strive for. The latter he's still unsure of, and will be for a long time - and the idea of such terrifies him, but he realises this definition is impossible. He gets deathly ill with the Rakweed and since had bouts of sickness every now and again, and ever since the visitation of the Nightmare Man he had also been capable of nightmares and dreams. As for the perfect mind - intelligence means nothing to him when his mind is too naive, too impressionable and easy for others to manipulate, and too riddled with anxieties and fears and the visitation of all the wrong that has happened to him and all the wrong that he is and ever will be.
Luke then thinks that maybe this exactly what Mrs Wormwood intended - fit in with the rest of the human population. Have the same anxieties and fears and doubts as the normal human being, albeit with his problems being a little more alien. But Luke doesn't like that definition, he realises, because who would let a child - any person, mind you - be burdened with such ideals. And he realises, as his brain ticks, that definition makes sense - his brilliant mind and eidetic memory are not his traits alone and exist in other human beings and his previous incapability of dreaming and illness could have been a fault from being awakened before his creator intended.
But that's just it, he supposes, a fault.
No matter what definition he fits into, his creation as it happened was because of a fault, a mistake. He clings onto that to describe his entire being and doesn't know how to let go, and his grip tightens when he sits down on the couch opposite to his mum, Sarah Jane later that night, cross legged with K9 at his toes. She reads, glasses perched atop the bridge of her nose, and he stares at the TV without processing any of its content.
He turns to her, suddenly, and asks,
"Mum, what does it mean to be perfect?"
She puts her book aside, keeping her page by resting it on the arm of the couch, and takes her glasses off to get a clear look at the vacant expression that he shares with the TV. She follows his eyes, seeing if anything on the TV influenced such a question, but she sees nothing of the sort and coughs a sweet reply. "You, Luke," she says, smiling and picking her book up, "that's what it means."
She doesn't expect a retort other than I love you.
"No, mum," he says, standing up and shuffling his way past K9, "I'm being serious. Because I'm not, am I? I mean, I nearly destroyed the world when I was only two days old."
She stands up this time, making her way to him, and she holds his arms in her delicate hands, brushing them from the edge of his shoulders to the tips of his fingers. Sarah Jane takes the time and effort to press the hands comfortably into her own, rubbing her thumbs smoothly over them. Luke watches the actions and he's blooming with love and appreciation for his mentor and mother, but the question is not answered and he holds back.
"Nobody's perfect, Luke," she says, pressing a kiss to his forehead as she stands over him, "I think being good, or striving to be good, and acknowledging and working past your mistakes is all that matters. What's got you thinking like this?"
"Mrs Wormwood," he replies simply, rushing past her comment on mistakes (he was brought into this world with a mistake, and that is what his decisions will all be moving forward, he realises - it's hardwired into his DNA), "she created me with the intent of being the perfect human. But I don't get it, mum, because I'm not and I don't know what her definition of a perfect human is."
"Well, I think you should stop fussing over perfection," Sarah Jane responds, and Sarah Jane knows how difficult letting go can be. "Because you're a good person, you strive to help people, and you greet people with kindness and - oh, Luke," she says, melting into him with a warm embrace, "you're my son. I love you so much, and you've got such a brilliant mind so I think it's time you learn that you cannot fit someone into a box of definition. "
She sends him to bed with a kiss on the cheek, scruffing up his hair, and a cup of nice, warm milk. And he lies on his back, quilt covered up to his shoulders, head perfectly comfortable on his pillows, and hands anxiously fidgeting. He knows she's right, of course she is - she's his mum, she's Sarah Jane Smith of Bannerman Road - but he can't help but dwell on the idea of perfection. If this is what Mrs Wormwood intended, bringing the archetype into the world - fault or not; if to feel these constant negative emotions, to relive the trauma of all what the world has made him endure, to be sensitive to rejection with fears of abandonment in order to fit in with the general population was her idea of perfection - then, Luke really doesn't like it.
But he loves his mum, and that's what keeps him going for another day. And if Luke goes to sleep, restless and teary-eyed, nobody else has to know about it.