When Luther freezes Allison wonders if it is too far. A suggestion as much as a direction (as a command, without any sound to inform it), and nothing like the end of a question. Wonders if it's too much like gutting the only escape route, and if he needs one of those. From her, and not so much from her, as much as in general. The last thing she actually wants to do is make him feel trapped.
Except that he yields right then. Turns back, crosses to the door, and closes it. Hovering a little longer than necessary by the door. Long enough Allison swears she can hear it in a couple of too loud beats of her heart. Even as he listens. Luther is obedient in so many things, in so many ways, and the barest pauses before and within his obeying are an entire language she somehow hasn't forgotten. Uncertain if she's pushing too hard, but continuing on, Allison decides to take point on at least off-settling some of that too blatant frozen awkwardness from the first time he stepped half-in.
Bed? Floor? Desk chair?
I'm not picky, but staring up at nearly the ceiling will give me a crick in my neck, so you should choose something.
That one is an exaggeration, but she doesn't add anything beyond the hyperbole of it. It's strange to have to choreograph it. When they were young the place they felt the second most themselves was wherever and whenever they'd managed to squirrel away the time and space to just exist in the same space together. Strange to feel that same anxious uncertainty that wants to force it into order, order it to be orderly, lest it fall apart, dissolve into sands trickling out between her fingers, before she can even figure it out for herself, no less try to make any part of it easier for him.
no subject
Except that he yields right then. Turns back, crosses to the door, and closes it. Hovering a little longer than necessary by the door. Long enough Allison swears she can hear it in a couple of too loud beats of her heart. Even as he listens. Luther is obedient in so many things, in so many ways, and the barest pauses before and within his obeying are an entire language she somehow hasn't forgotten. Uncertain if she's pushing too hard, but continuing on, Allison decides to take point on at least off-settling some of that too blatant frozen awkwardness from the first time he stepped half-in.
Bed? Floor? Desk chair?
I'm not picky, but staring up at nearly the ceiling will give me a crick in my neck, so you should choose something.
That one is an exaggeration, but she doesn't add anything beyond the hyperbole of it. It's strange to have to choreograph it. When they were young the place they felt the second most themselves was wherever and whenever they'd managed to squirrel away the time and space to just exist in the same space together. Strange to feel that same anxious uncertainty that wants to force it into order, order it to be orderly, lest it fall apart, dissolve into sands trickling out between her fingers, before she can even figure it out for herself, no less try to make any part of it easier for him.