[ If they were in separate rooms, and if Luther were actually typing this out, he could have furiously desperately stabbed the SEND button and then flung his communicator under his bed or something, so he doesn't have to stare at the inbox waiting for a response. That would have been easier. He's still half-wishing he could crawl under this armchair and escape.
Instead his whole face feels stiff and rigid with the effort of keeping it motionless, holding his jaw and cheek muscles in perfect stillness, burningly self-conscious. Luther's never been the best at poker faces to begin with. ]
[ For a moment, Allison doesn't so much as breathe. She just stares at those words. Thinking that she was an idiot. Scrolling up and re-reading. Thinking that she probably wouldn't have assumed the other if he'd said it out loud. Thinking that if it was 'just you and me' they probably would have been having this conversation out loud. She wouldn't have felt the need to start a conversation like this.
She has to fight the urge to open her eyes and glance at Diego. Or Luther. For wholly different reasons each. Instead focuses on keeping her eyes closed, fingertips pressing just barely into her stomach, as something to focus on instead. ]
[ Case in point: this whole damn mental network conversation. They're both thinking about it, the corners it backs them into in search of privacy. ]
Yeah. And I mean, it's good, I like having him around. But I got used to things a particular way. It's just... different now.
[ Okay. Shut up, Luther, he thinks, and then forces himself to not touch the message anymore. He's blanked out the last few minutes already, can barely recall what's happening in the show. Are the interviewees on the second or third house? He doesn't know. ]
[ Different, like she doesn't really feel like she's more than another version of herself when she comes home. One she didn't mind, one she'd been for the whole length of time in the big house. But it'd been different, when it was just them, here, in this littler space.
When she hadn't felt like she had to think about it. None of it necessary. It was a little like going back to having bars on windows she'd never noticed she'd thrown them, the shades, and even the glass panes away. Not until they were all suddenly there again. Miniature versions of different kinds of walls. Of ways she was. Or wasn't. ]
[ Luther exhales. And it's— some indefinable weight and tension off his shoulders that he hadn't even realised was there to begin with. A strange unclenching of relief, simpatico, understanding. Knowing that he's not alone and pathetic in being so wistful over the past six months, this half-year they'd had together. That she, miracle of absolute miracles, misses it too.
He doesn't know how to follow up on that, though. What do you say? What useless sentiment do you pour into that black hole, when there's a thousand things he wants to say but can't, let alone in front of someone else? In the end, he settles for: ]
I'm glad it's not just me.
[ And then, abrupt, Luther finally rises from his seat. "This TV show is gonna drive me to drink. Anybody want a nightcap? I'll make some," he says, and vanishes to the kitchen to pour some glasses for all three of them. Something to keep his hands busy, something to distract him from this disorienting conversation and the way his heart's pounding in his chest as if he's run around the block. This whole thing. This whole topic. It's like a bruised wound and he can't let himself touch it too much, for the sting. ]
[ Luther second six words, and then as quickly as they arrive he's speaking out loud, causing her to open her eyes and look toward him, as he's quickly vanishing off to the kitchen. She tosses a "Sure," over the couch, toward the kitchen where he's gone, but without getting up to look or to a follow. Staring at the ceiling as the thought turns over and over, unexpectedly, in her head. Thinking about being smaller. Compressed, and certain things quieter. Here, and in Dallas, too, in its own way.
That she'd found something that hadn't made her feel that way. And it was gone, too. Before she'd even realized she'd had it. That there was no way to get it back in this situation.
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obediences) wrote2019-03-28 10:51 am
no subject
And when it was just you and me.
[ If they were in separate rooms, and if Luther were actually typing this out, he could have furiously desperately stabbed the SEND button and then flung his communicator under his bed or something, so he doesn't have to stare at the inbox waiting for a response. That would have been easier. He's still half-wishing he could crawl under this armchair and escape.
Instead his whole face feels stiff and rigid with the effort of keeping it motionless, holding his jaw and cheek muscles in perfect stillness, burningly self-conscious. Luther's never been the best at poker faces to begin with. ]
no subject
She has to fight the urge to open her eyes and glance at Diego. Or Luther. For wholly different reasons each. Instead focuses on keeping her eyes closed, fingertips pressing just barely into her stomach, as something to focus on instead. ]
It is different.
no subject
Yeah. And I mean, it's good, I like having him around. But I got used to things a particular way. It's just... different now.
[ Okay. Shut up, Luther, he thinks, and then forces himself to not touch the message anymore. He's blanked out the last few minutes already, can barely recall what's happening in the show. Are the interviewees on the second or third house? He doesn't know. ]
no subject
When she hadn't felt like she had to think about it. None of it necessary. It was a little like going back to having bars on windows she'd never noticed she'd thrown them, the shades, and even the glass panes away. Not until they were all suddenly there again. Miniature versions of different kinds of walls. Of ways she was. Or wasn't. ]
Yeah.
I know what you mean.
I miss it, too.
possibly end or yours to wrap?
He doesn't know how to follow up on that, though. What do you say? What useless sentiment do you pour into that black hole, when there's a thousand things he wants to say but can't, let alone in front of someone else? In the end, he settles for: ]
I'm glad it's not just me.
[ And then, abrupt, Luther finally rises from his seat. "This TV show is gonna drive me to drink. Anybody want a nightcap? I'll make some," he says, and vanishes to the kitchen to pour some glasses for all three of them. Something to keep his hands busy, something to distract him from this disorienting conversation and the way his heart's pounding in his chest as if he's run around the block. This whole thing. This whole topic. It's like a bruised wound and he can't let himself touch it too much, for the sting. ]
☂ End
That she'd found something that hadn't made her feel that way.
And it was gone, too. Before she'd even realized she'd had it.
That there was no way to get it back in this situation.
She really could use that drink. ]