Just because she isn't picky, doesn't mean she didn't have a preference in that list, but Allison isn't sure that isn't the exhaustion talking, too. Or if it's the exhaustion that's unmasking what she doesn't have the energy to just gloss over caring about. The thing is she knew when she offered it, and it's not because it was the safe one, it's because it's the one that would be most comfortable for him. She doesn't know how not to do that. Too.
She doesn't know that she wants to pick it apart. Her toes flex a little under her thighs, still sitting with her legs crossed, back to the headboard, and the pillow in her lap, and she settles it with the fact he's still there. No matter what it is. Still there, and not like he's searching, frantically, for a reason to leave. She takes a drink of her whiskey finally, letting her eyes close just a little as the warmth seers down the inside of her throat, and she considers how to open that box again. The one in between them.
Which puts her at the surprised disadvantage of his question, which seems to come out of nowhere. At least nowhere she's expecting, wrinkling her brow briefly, before she shook her head, resting the side of her hand and the bottom of the glass on the pillow while choosing easy words.
No.
It did at the beginning, after I woke up, obviously, but not since getting here.
Not like the day before it, when breathing and swallowing had felt like they were tearing her apart from the inside to match the out.
Allison lets herself do what she hasn't once with anyone else, gaze going a little unfocused as she reaches up with her free hand to touch, with only the tips of her fingers, the scar on her skin that glares at her in every mirror. The ungraceful line marring the column of once unbroken skin, caught in a million pictures and one million rolls of film. Hard to say if it's the lack of wanting to be seen self-conscious or lack of wanting to let anyone in further than she has to with what it requires of communication already. That she doesn't worry about as much with Luther, even if it doesn't entirely make it comfortable either.
no subject
She doesn't know that she wants to pick it apart. Her toes flex a little under her thighs, still sitting with her legs crossed, back to the headboard, and the pillow in her lap, and she settles it with the fact he's still there. No matter what it is. Still there, and not like he's searching, frantically, for a reason to leave. She takes a drink of her whiskey finally, letting her eyes close just a little as the warmth seers down the inside of her throat, and she considers how to open that box again. The one in between them.
Which puts her at the surprised disadvantage of his question, which seems to come out of nowhere. At least nowhere she's expecting, wrinkling her brow briefly, before she shook her head, resting the side of her hand and the bottom of the glass on the pillow while choosing easy words.
No.
It did at the beginning, after I woke up, obviously, but not since getting here.
Not like the day before it, when breathing and swallowing had felt like they were tearing her apart from the inside to match the out.
Allison lets herself do what she hasn't once with anyone else, gaze going a little unfocused as she reaches up with her free hand to touch, with only the tips of her fingers, the scar on her skin that glares at her in every mirror. The ungraceful line marring the column of once unbroken skin, caught in a million pictures and one million rolls of film. Hard to say if it's the lack of wanting to be seen self-conscious or lack of wanting to let anyone in further than she has to with what it requires of communication already. That she doesn't worry about as much with Luther, even if it doesn't entirely make it comfortable either.