Luther recognises some of the accidental slip he's done here, the lapse, the way she feels neglected. And yet— there's something else here that he doesn't even recognise either, some deeper significance to the conversation that keeps flying right over his head. The way Allison declares it so firmly, asking him if he knows what happens.
But he can't just turn and redirect the subject onto her; it'd be transparently evasive.
"I'm sorry," Luther says, and he sounds miserable rather than angry. Luther choosing for other people is a pattern, isn't it. Even if he'd tried and tried to nip that bad habit in the bud (since the last time I destroyed the world by overestimating my own importance).
"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know what happens when you keep a life from people, because I— haven't had a life to keep. I'm just..." He exhales roughly. He wants to stand up, hates that they're trapped here with him sitting on the sofa and her standing over there by the door, but he can't rocket up to his feet. He doesn't want to loom. And this is so familiar. This is the second time they're stuck in these positions: her barging into his bedroom, furious and concerned, him sitting at his desk.
Which had been, again, all about something he'd been hiding from her. Fuck, he's bad at this, isn't he.
"I'm just not used to having someone to tell about my day. Or even a day to tell about. Or even friends to talk about." His voice is rough and broken, as he finally hits on it. Realising it. Ten years. Ten years of nothing.
"I know how to talk to you, but I don't know how to talk to other people, or about other people. There never were any before. I've... never had friends before, Allison. Until this place. The only people I ever knew were you and the Academy, Mom and Dad, and Pogo. So I don't know— what it's like, or how to talk about them, or if you're even supposed to talk about them. I don't know how to do this. I'm sorry."
His fingers tighten into fists, then loosen, fingertips digging into the fabric of his jeans.
no subject
But he can't just turn and redirect the subject onto her; it'd be transparently evasive.
"I'm sorry," Luther says, and he sounds miserable rather than angry. Luther choosing for other people is a pattern, isn't it. Even if he'd tried and tried to nip that bad habit in the bud (since the last time I destroyed the world by overestimating my own importance).
"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know what happens when you keep a life from people, because I— haven't had a life to keep. I'm just..." He exhales roughly. He wants to stand up, hates that they're trapped here with him sitting on the sofa and her standing over there by the door, but he can't rocket up to his feet. He doesn't want to loom. And this is so familiar. This is the second time they're stuck in these positions: her barging into his bedroom, furious and concerned, him sitting at his desk.
Which had been, again, all about something he'd been hiding from her. Fuck, he's bad at this, isn't he.
"I'm just not used to having someone to tell about my day. Or even a day to tell about. Or even friends to talk about." His voice is rough and broken, as he finally hits on it. Realising it. Ten years. Ten years of nothing.
"I know how to talk to you, but I don't know how to talk to other people, or about other people. There never were any before. I've... never had friends before, Allison. Until this place. The only people I ever knew were you and the Academy, Mom and Dad, and Pogo. So I don't know— what it's like, or how to talk about them, or if you're even supposed to talk about them. I don't know how to do this. I'm sorry."
His fingers tighten into fists, then loosen, fingertips digging into the fabric of his jeans.
"What do you mean, about things going to shit?"