There's that eternal instinct of eyeing escape routes, never being backed into a corner, a soldier's habits honed over a lifetime. Except Luther's never needed one from her, never; but nowadays he'd claw off his own skin in order to not be too near her, or anyone, anymore. The park on the moon base, the waiting room, at least those were in semi-public. None of it's the same as closing the door.

So he glances at the bed and she watches that consideration flit through his mind, before he shifts and pulls up the desk chair instead. Moves it closer until he's seated by her bedside (and that, too, reminds him of a hospital bed and him bowed over her motionless body). At least taking the chair is imposing a little bit of safe distance, to keep his head clear even as he takes a deep swig of that whiskey.

He wishes this were normal again. Like the old days. Like they used to be.

He can see his fingers wrapped around that tumbler, dwarfing it.

(Just a couple weeks ago, they didn't look like that.)

Luther's visibly sorting out what to say — he's never really been at a loss around Allison, but he is now. He needs to find something else to talk about, something other than the looming question of Klaus and what to do with him. So his free hand drifts to his neck, fingers gesturing at his throat. Asks what he hasn't yet, until now: "Does it hurt?"