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"Surprised? Something like that. I think it would be more accurate to say she hated me. Called me a monster, tried to speak to Lucas about me even though I asked her not to." His tone was one of mild disdain. He considered the timing of their conversation against Liselle's split from Lucas, and a small realization clicked into place. His eyes grew slightly wider, his complexion slightly paler. "...Was that my fault?" The falling out that had paralyzed Lucas, that continued to grieve him years and years later, had Luke wrought it with his own hands...?

"No, that's..." It was a bit much for such a sudden realization, and a distinct and terrible guilt was eating into him. "It was my fault. I see. I should have understood that from the beginning. I should have... avoided it, somehow." It was a mistake, and an awful one at that. The gravity of it all began to sink in, and he lay his head against his palm. Everything that Lucas most regretted in his life stemmed from that single event in a series of chain reactions, forcing him to retreat further and further from sincerity. "I ruined his life, didn't I?" The irony was sickening.

As far as protecting was concerned, that was essentially a bum job. "...It's fine. I can't change what's been done." He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn it all, why had he made such a horrible mistake? "I should... I should write something," he muttered, rising to his feet and proceeding to the nearby desk. He thumbed through the various papers and located a blank sheet, holding a pen over its surface with a wavering resolve. What could he possibly write that would excuse this error?

He murmured a passing thanks as he seated himself, fixing an intent glare on the paper as he listened to Claire speak. The pen tip hovered just over the white sheet, its slight tremble betraying the anxiety beating at Luke's fingertips. He needed to write. But how was he supposed to phrase it? He turned towards his company suddenly and with an expression that seemed to suggest he was completely stranded.

"I need to apologize. To explain. How can I write this?" He spared a glance back in the direction of the paper as though it were some foreign creature skittering across the desk. Lucas wrote things all the time - words simply flowed from his mind to his hand and onto the page - but Luke floundered to find the words he needed.

"...I see." He tapped the pen against the paper in what was otherwise silence for several moments. "What do you think would be worse for him? Thinking he hurt Liselle, or knowing he had an alter ego?" It was the question upon which the whole letter hinged, right down to whether or not he even wrote it. He had only a few hours at most to decide. He drew a deep breath in an attempt to settle himself. This was proving quite the stressful evening.

So it was a choice between allowing Lucas to believe he was guilty of the one thing he hated more than anything else in the world and taunting him with an explanation for his missing with memories without actually divulging those memories. A quiet yet unmistakable growl of sheer frustration rose within his throat, and he turned back to the paper, folding his arms on the desk and laying his head against them. "What have I done." His voice was muffled from the fabric of his sleeves. "The only reason I ever existed, the only reasoned I ever needed or wanted to exist, was to keep him from being hurt. And now this can't end without hurting him. What have I been doing for the past thirty years that it should end like this...?"

He took a long moment to consider her words before he replied, "Okay." He raised his head with a long sigh and took the pen back into his hand. A few more moments passed in consideration before he set the tip to the paper, writing in slow, deliberate strokes in an effort to avoid any mistakes in both spelling and phrasing. When he completed his task, he dredged up another sheet of paper and began to fold something akin to an envelope from it.

"...Could I entrust this to you?" He folded the letter to fit its makeshift sleeve, searching for a means to seal it shut. "I don't think he should read it right away, but I won't be able to regulate when he receives it myself." His expression was noticeably forlorn, but he felt at least some vague sense of relief that he would be able to do something to make up for the havoc he had caused.