It's not like all those years ago, overreacting to the thought of him dying.
It's a choice, but it's not an automatic assumption or an impulsive over roll that she didn't catch until it was already over. There's a network of uncertainty, of knowingly overstepping, when the bare muscles beneath her fingers suddenly flutter. Not wanting to, but ready to let go, if the next second his whole body lurched away. Or her wrist was caught in the same snakebite iron vice of a grip, hand lifted meaninglessly back away.
But it doesn't. Luther doesn't.
But she does, a few seconds later, she does. For him. Like every part of her doesn't want to leave her hand there. But she knows better than to press her luck. To be grateful that it was allowed to stand even after trying to hide every parts of himself currently uncovered for sleeping further under the blanket when she absconded with half of his bed. Her fingers curling into her palm, still warm with his higher body temperature, and pulled back against her own body.
There's a small huff, a little amused, at the bare simplicity at his declaration. Light over unexpected glass shards. Too broad, too light. But she knows him. She knows what he's doing. It doesn't mean she'll stop him, but she knows. Doesn't even disagree, when her first words are, "Maybe so."
Before a small wrinkle of her brows, bring back, too. "And home, waiting, after so long. After whenever this stop ends."
Something infinitely easier -- even at infinitely more impatient, because: "It's better than having the apocalypse looming over our heads while we wait this time. The things we couldn't fix. People we couldn't save."
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It's a choice, but it's not an automatic assumption or an impulsive over roll that she didn't catch until it was already over. There's a network of uncertainty, of knowingly overstepping, when the bare muscles beneath her fingers suddenly flutter. Not wanting to, but ready to let go, if the next second his whole body lurched away. Or her wrist was caught in the same snakebite iron vice of a grip, hand lifted meaninglessly back away.
But it doesn't. Luther doesn't.
But she does, a few seconds later, she does. For him. Like every part of her doesn't want to leave her hand there. But she knows better than to press her luck. To be grateful that it was allowed to stand even after trying to hide every parts of himself currently uncovered for sleeping further under the blanket when she absconded with half of his bed. Her fingers curling into her palm, still warm with his higher body temperature, and pulled back against her own body.
There's a small huff, a little amused, at the bare simplicity at his declaration. Light over unexpected glass shards. Too broad, too light. But she knows him. She knows what he's doing. It doesn't mean she'll stop him, but she knows. Doesn't even disagree, when her first words are, "Maybe so."
Before a small wrinkle of her brows, bring back, too.
"And home, waiting, after so long. After whenever this stop ends."
Something infinitely easier -- even at infinitely more impatient, because: "It's better than having the apocalypse looming over our heads while we wait this time. The things we couldn't fix. People we couldn't save."