Mostly it's correspondence for Sir Reginald, for the butler to sift through and vet before even daring to bother the man with any particular letter; so Pogo runs interference, handles most of the routine requests for information or scheduling inquiries, juggles the man's itinerary, keeps the insipid public from burying the Nobel laureate with letters. Et cetera. Et cetera.
These two pieces, though. He'd looked at the name and address on one, and turned the postcard end-over-end, before setting them on a silver tray and knocking officiously on the door of the only occupied bedroom in the children's wing.
Master Luther. You have some missives today.
And Luther jerks, flabbergasted — what? surely that can't be right — before he's being handed the tray, and he's picking them up with shaking hands. He reads the postcard first, because he can't help not.
And her handwriting is messy and wine-drunk, but there's similarities in those rushed angles to whenever Allison was writing quickly: blazing her way through an assignment, scribbling down her answers as swiftly as she could so she could get out early, go do something far more interesting. Written like she was ripping off a band-aid. He'd recognise her anywhere, even unmarked and unsigned. And Luther feels his heart turn over in his chest.
It feels like an unexpected gift. They hadn't even had her address, he wouldn't know how to reach her even if he'd worked up the courage to try; now, at least, the door is slightly cracked open.
So he tries over and over and over to write his response, and scraps six different drafts, before an envelope is finally sealed and goes out with the next morning's mail. Every time he wrote something and changed his mind on it, he re-did the entire letter rather than scribble out the text. But in the end result, his handwriting is just as neat and prim and tidy as hers; they've been well-drilled on their penmanship. )
Allison,
There might've been a postcard; I've never seen the Hollywood sign, so it's on my mirror now. Don't worry about it.
But it was really nice to hear from you. I didn't really think you woul I would've thought you'd be way too busy to sit down and write. Lots of Hollywood parties to go to? How wild is it, on a scale of 1-10?
I saw you got cast in another TV Congratu
Things here are quiet— y'know, just the usual, saving the world. Pogo looked like it was Christmas when he handed me this envelope. He'd probably like it if you wrote again.
no subject
Mostly it's correspondence for Sir Reginald, for the butler to sift through and vet before even daring to bother the man with any particular letter; so Pogo runs interference, handles most of the routine requests for information or scheduling inquiries, juggles the man's itinerary, keeps the insipid public from burying the Nobel laureate with letters. Et cetera. Et cetera.
These two pieces, though. He'd looked at the name and address on one, and turned the postcard end-over-end, before setting them on a silver tray and knocking officiously on the door of the only occupied bedroom in the children's wing.
Master Luther. You have some missives today.
And Luther jerks, flabbergasted — what? surely that can't be right — before he's being handed the tray, and he's picking them up with shaking hands. He reads the postcard first, because he can't help not.
And her handwriting is messy and wine-drunk, but there's similarities in those rushed angles to whenever Allison was writing quickly: blazing her way through an assignment, scribbling down her answers as swiftly as she could so she could get out early, go do something far more interesting. Written like she was ripping off a band-aid. He'd recognise her anywhere, even unmarked and unsigned. And Luther feels his heart turn over in his chest.
It feels like an unexpected gift. They hadn't even had her address, he wouldn't know how to reach her even if he'd worked up the courage to try; now, at least, the door is slightly cracked open.
So he tries over and over and over to write his response, and scraps six different drafts, before an envelope is finally sealed and goes out with the next morning's mail. Every time he wrote something and changed his mind on it, he re-did the entire letter rather than scribble out the text. But in the end result, his handwriting is just as neat and prim and tidy as hers; they've been well-drilled on their penmanship. )
There might've been a postcard; I've never seen the Hollywood sign, so it's on my mirror now. Don't worry about it.
But it was really nice to hear from you.
I didn't really think you woulI would've thought you'd be way too busy to sit down and write. Lots of Hollywood parties to go to? How wild is it, on a scale of 1-10?
I saw you got cast in another TVCongratu
Things here are quiet— y'know, just the usual, saving the world. Pogo looked like it was Christmas when he handed me this envelope. He'd probably like it if you wrote again.
- L.