This is touching her, and so it's not the same as what he'd once repelled; back home and her hand reaching tentatively for his cheek and Luther's grip snapping out, whiplash-quick, an iron vise to clamp down and shove her away from him.
But this, he can do. The unexpected warmth and comfort of her fingers against his — something he hasn't felt in so long, can't remember the last time he just sat and held hands with someone, apart from that instinctive unthinking reach for each other when the time vortex appeared in the Hargreeves garden.
(And yet, still, there's that quiet, quiet voice in the back of his mind, that guilty shameful whisper of I wish this were two weeks ago. When he'd been ill-at-ease in his dream-built bones, but at least it was his old skin, something that at least looked right, and didn't catch him at off-kilter angles staring out of every mirror like Allison's scar did hers.)
Luther allows the touch for a long lingering moment — lets himself savour it, like a selfish treasure, the smallest indulgence they were never allowed to have — and then he pulls away. Not sharply or violently yanking himself away like he'd once done, but just slowly disentangling their hands instead. Reluctantly drawing back to their separate realms again.
Even if he just wants to stay, to relish this moment even more. Trace the angles of her cheek, the delicate shift of her knuckles.
Can't.
"So— let's just. Not let that happen again, if we can help it. For any of us." It almost sounds like a weary joke, could be a subtle evasion, but there's something somber in Luther's voice too, his steady blue gaze as he meets Allison's eyes. He means it.
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This is touching her, and so it's not the same as what he'd once repelled; back home and her hand reaching tentatively for his cheek and Luther's grip snapping out, whiplash-quick, an iron vise to clamp down and shove her away from him.
But this, he can do. The unexpected warmth and comfort of her fingers against his — something he hasn't felt in so long, can't remember the last time he just sat and held hands with someone, apart from that instinctive unthinking reach for each other when the time vortex appeared in the Hargreeves garden.
(And yet, still, there's that quiet, quiet voice in the back of his mind, that guilty shameful whisper of I wish this were two weeks ago. When he'd been ill-at-ease in his dream-built bones, but at least it was his old skin, something that at least looked right, and didn't catch him at off-kilter angles staring out of every mirror like Allison's scar did hers.)
Luther allows the touch for a long lingering moment — lets himself savour it, like a selfish treasure, the smallest indulgence they were never allowed to have — and then he pulls away. Not sharply or violently yanking himself away like he'd once done, but just slowly disentangling their hands instead. Reluctantly drawing back to their separate realms again.
Even if he just wants to stay, to relish this moment even more. Trace the angles of her cheek, the delicate shift of her knuckles.
Can't.
"So— let's just. Not let that happen again, if we can help it. For any of us." It almost sounds like a weary joke, could be a subtle evasion, but there's something somber in Luther's voice too, his steady blue gaze as he meets Allison's eyes. He means it.