Allison's not sure whether she would have judged him he had admitted otherwise. Like asking Diego so long ago, if he had killed the person the police were coming after them for. It wasn't that there wasn't a right or wrong line -- there was, they'd had it hammered into their heads for near two decades, Luther even more than the rest of them, another decade after, too -- but they, also, weren't built just to be passive guard dogs.

Even saving the world, they'd cut a sea of bodies from childhood forward.

At least this part does sound more like Luther. That careful neutrality, polite abhorrence, professional justification, and maybe, it's both parts of the answer and part of his opinion about her feeling the need to ask to ask the question at all. To doubt or consider what more he would have been willing to do for three square meals and a roof. (To know, somewhere deeper than the marrow of her bones, she wouldn't have moved even if he said yes.)

It's the huff that drags her a little out of her thoughts, and she unhooked her knotted fingers. Her closest hand, curled, knuckles lightly knocking his arm, or side, whichever it managed to be, through the blanket, for a second. "You did what you had to. No one gets to judge you for that."