Funny. How none of it feels real. How desperately she wants it to be. (How deeply, coldly, intimately familiar, and worn-in that oily spreading feeling of disbelief shattering through it all is.) How much angrier than makes her. At herself. At him. She hates that clawing, digging, disgusting desperation that wants to blot out the rest of this for that. To look away. That wants him to produce some good enough excuse. Except that's what they are. Excuse. Like he just said.
Like hers. Just like hers.
Every reason she gave herself. Ray. Klaus. Vanya. Even Luther.
Luther swings himself up, making her have to go from looking down at him on the couch to havnig to look up at his now towering form, and if anything, Allison's expression only hardens a little, sharpens, shoulders holding, eyes narrowing. But at least he's on his feet. Her jaw feels like steel, and there's an itch in her muscles that's familiar even if it's seldom given into. Not here. Not Dallas. Not Hollywood. Not for over a decade. Not at him. Never at him.
No. Lie. But only one of them.
Only one of them got to be mad the last time. When there was a place to have, be a last time.
What do you want from me?
Nothing.
But she had nothing. She had two and a half years of nothing. The last thing she wants is nothing. (But she feels reduced to nothing, too.)
"Great." It's almost, but not quite the same as seconds back. Even shorter, sharper. Thrown across the space. "You're sorry. You didn't mean it. You just never considered it. Does that fix it? Do you think it makes it better? I just, what? Forget it now? And it doesn't matter? Even though nothing has changed, except you got caught?"
no subject
You're never irrelevant.
You exist. You matter.
Funny. How none of it feels real. How desperately she wants it to be. (How deeply, coldly, intimately familiar, and worn-in that oily spreading feeling of disbelief shattering through it all is.) How much angrier than makes her. At herself. At him. She hates that clawing, digging, disgusting desperation that wants to blot out the rest of this for that. To look away. That wants him to produce some good enough excuse. Except that's what they are. Excuse. Like he just said.
Like hers. Just like hers.
Every reason she gave herself.
Ray. Klaus. Vanya. Even Luther.
Luther swings himself up, making her have to go from looking down at him on the couch to havnig to look up at his now towering form, and if anything, Allison's expression only hardens a little, sharpens, shoulders holding, eyes narrowing. But at least he's on his feet. Her jaw feels like steel, and there's an itch in her muscles that's familiar even if it's seldom given into. Not here. Not Dallas. Not Hollywood. Not for over a decade. Not at him. Never at him.
No. Lie. But only one of them.
Only one of them got to be mad the last time.
When there was a place to have, be a last time.But she had nothing. She had two and a half years of nothing.
The last thing she wants is nothing. (But she feels reduced to nothing, too.)
"Great." It's almost, but not quite the same as seconds back. Even shorter, sharper. Thrown across the space. "You're sorry. You didn't mean it. You just never considered it. Does that fix it? Do you think it makes it better? I just, what? Forget it now? And it doesn't matter? Even though nothing has changed, except you got caught?"