Her words are quiet enough that he's not even entirely sure he heard them right; it could be he imagined them, except there's an iron self-flagellating edge to them that he wouldn't ever have dreamt up himself for her. But still.
"That's okay too," Luther says, his voice just as soft, just barely on the edge of an exhale. His breathing is slowing down to a steady rise-and-fall now, hands back to being laced over his stomach, their conversation having ebbed back to confessional and then to surprisingly comfortable silence.
It had seemed impossible to sleep earlier, wired and jittery and practically clawing out of his own skin, but something's finally started to feel normal and familiar and reassuring about this moment. Like so many times they'd talked themselves to sleep through the bedroom windows, except with that small difference (massive difference, earthshaking difference) that she's lying right next to him this time. But there might as well be a brick wall of propriety between them for all the proper distance he maintains, and when he next blinks, he drifts under and loses some ten seconds of consciousness. Wakes up again, looks back up at the ceiling.
And then, he dozes off again.
Which, in the end, is how they wind up falling asleep: with the soothing presence and weight of someone else on the mattress beside them (a kind of weight that Allison had grown too accustomed to over the past year, and one that Luther's never known). Him under the covers and her on top, curled up on the other half of his bed, but they can both intrinsically sense the other one is there. That they haven't vanished in the night. Still haven't vanished. Still haven't.
By the time Luther wakes up again in the morning after the full knock-out unconsciousness of total exhaustion, bleary, his body stinging with little bruises everywhere, his covers are rumpled and there's an impression in the mattress that wasn't there before. But Allison's gone, and he actually can't remember if she left before or after he fell asleep. There's no way of knowing.
wrap or yours to close?
"That's okay too," Luther says, his voice just as soft, just barely on the edge of an exhale. His breathing is slowing down to a steady rise-and-fall now, hands back to being laced over his stomach, their conversation having ebbed back to confessional and then to surprisingly comfortable silence.
It had seemed impossible to sleep earlier, wired and jittery and practically clawing out of his own skin, but something's finally started to feel normal and familiar and reassuring about this moment. Like so many times they'd talked themselves to sleep through the bedroom windows, except with that small difference (massive difference, earthshaking difference) that she's lying right next to him this time. But there might as well be a brick wall of propriety between them for all the proper distance he maintains, and when he next blinks, he drifts under and loses some ten seconds of consciousness. Wakes up again, looks back up at the ceiling.
And then, he dozes off again.
Which, in the end, is how they wind up falling asleep: with the soothing presence and weight of someone else on the mattress beside them (a kind of weight that Allison had grown too accustomed to over the past year, and one that Luther's never known). Him under the covers and her on top, curled up on the other half of his bed, but they can both intrinsically sense the other one is there. That they haven't vanished in the night. Still haven't vanished. Still haven't.
By the time Luther wakes up again in the morning after the full knock-out unconsciousness of total exhaustion, bleary, his body stinging with little bruises everywhere, his covers are rumpled and there's an impression in the mattress that wasn't there before. But Allison's gone, and he actually can't remember if she left before or after he fell asleep. There's no way of knowing.
But that's okay too.