[ Quieter longer, there’s something about those words that wrap warm, even in the silence, around the exhaustion that’s become her bones. That is too insidious and far-reaching to need to check that. To check the fact that, though she's thought a lot about being mute, she hasn’t spent a lot of time thinking much about her near-death either. To check to way it slides itself into Klaus throwing his pillow across the room angrily and Ben’s misery.
Into she hurt you and I lost you once this week, I wasn’t going to do it again; into what do you want from me? and nothing; into you can ask me and i'll try my best; into call out of work and you’re the only one I can do that with; into it’s mine and we'll find a way.
Into the first clear voice telling her, through the pain and the panic, she was somehow still alive, being Luther’s, and the way how no matter how eroding the deep hollow anger, and swallowing the even deeper hollow sadness, burrows into her here, it’s Luther, it’s being near Luther, it’s having Luther’s words, spoken or written, that makes her feels more alive than just making it through the day.
She’s not sure there is anything short of death that could stop that. Stop her coming back. To Luther. Hadn’t that been true even when he wasn’t anything more than a ghost in her heart no one could compare to in the end? Any more than his overreactions and bad decisions and a burning planet could stop her. Anymore than her temper or distance or coolness or choosing Vanya could ever stop him.
She's too tired for anything but holding it, in the dark deep of the night, for anything but feeling bare beaten to the floorboard grateful, in a way that is only bloody and just breathing, even without a fight, that he didn't die after that mission, that she didn't die on that floor (that Klaus is alive, alive, alive, again, somehow miraculously, again, and they have nothing new to mourn).
The letters never change, always flat, always regimental, but she knows it would be the barest whisper if she could. ]
no subject
Into she hurt you and I lost you once this week, I wasn’t going to do it again; into what do you want from me? and nothing; into you can ask me and i'll try my best; into call out of work and you’re the only one I can do that with; into it’s mine and we'll find a way.
Into the first clear voice telling her, through the pain and the panic, she was somehow still alive, being Luther’s, and the way how no matter how eroding the deep hollow anger, and swallowing the even deeper hollow sadness, burrows into her here, it’s Luther, it’s being near Luther, it’s having Luther’s words, spoken or written, that makes her feels more alive than just making it through the day.
She’s not sure there is anything short of death that could stop that. Stop her coming back. To Luther. Hadn’t that been true even when he wasn’t anything more than a ghost in her heart no one could compare to in the end? Any more than his overreactions and bad decisions and a burning planet could stop her. Anymore than her temper or distance or coolness or choosing Vanya could ever stop him.
She's too tired for anything but holding it, in the dark deep of the night, for anything but feeling bare beaten to the floorboard grateful, in a way that is only bloody and just breathing, even without a fight, that he didn't die after that mission, that she didn't die on that floor (that Klaus is alive, alive, alive, again, somehow miraculously, again, and they have nothing new to mourn).
The letters never change, always flat, always regimental,
but she knows it would be the barest whisper if she could. ]
Me, too.