Luther had gone rigid as a sign-post, eyes wide, and stuttering a sentence he never finished while his body convulsively shifted in disjointed places around and against her. Her hand on his hand on her hip, his arms across part of her shoulder, her back, the stutter-stops that were shivering up just barely against her shoulder.
But Allison wasn't looking at him already. She'd looked back across her shoulder at the asshole, already cutting a line directly for her. It couldn't have been more than a minute. Only long enough to cross the room and kidnap Luther without warning (and how is it possible that he's been this close, just a few feet, a few seconds walk, when it's felt like the most of an hour had made her sure Luther was still half a country away, even at visible).
When her fingernails dig into the coat they're on, and it's more to keep herself from peeling right back out from under Luther's arm and doing the one thing she's not allowed to do out here. At the museum. In the whole of LA, and Hollywood, and California at large. Because there are so many things she has to become out here,
But just as much there are restrictions on what she can't be, And she had just so little rest. The urge of instinct is tighter coiled, Ready to spring, and all the more willing, tempting for the lax leash of it.
Luther slips into action she wasn't sure would happen, and it's a goddamn epic relief on the same par as being fucking annoying that she has to pretend she couldn't just crumple this man like a piece of waste paper. Instead, she smiles winningly, leaning slightly more into Luther. Comfortable. Intimate. (It's the habit of acting, sliding into character, but there's a prickle starting down her shoulders as she realizes it's not someone random. It's Luther. Luther's hand, and Luther's voice.)
Allison doesn't have time for that, though, doesn't give herself the time for it, any more than she gave herself the time to rumor the man, or gave Luther the time to say no. She takes that relief, and the hand that settles a little tighter on her, and runs with it. Her smile stays light. A little more politely stilted than earlier, but still passingly professional.
"James, this is Luther Hargreeves. You know, from the Umbrella Academy." Without giving him the time, as though she was peerlessly just playing hostess to the moment of networking introductions, she looks up at Luther with that same peerless expression, tilting it shades fonder (even as something in her chest gives a worrisome clatter at everything him) as she caught his gaze. Her voice dropped purposely softer, more winningly fond with him.
"Luther, this is James Covington. We did a commercial back last year." Her gaze flipped back to James, fingertips of her free hand coming up to brush as she paused artfully, even caught at looking polite and sheepish in one. "What was it again: gum? The dental one?"
Decidedly nonplussed, and almost offended, at the reference to being at least half-forgotten, maybe as much as everything in front of him suddenly, his response was flatter: "Cat food."
"Ah, right." Allison's voice never left smooth, as her fingers shifted into a point about remembering now, before her hand fell back against Luther's on her. (Every muscle up her fingers, her palm, her wrist taking in the warmth of that hand, the long, thing fingers suddenly, the weight of both of those against her hip, the solidness of where the rest of his arm curved up her side, along her back.) "Science Diet."
no subject
But Allison wasn't looking at him already. She'd looked back across her shoulder at the asshole, already cutting a line directly for her. It couldn't have been more than a minute. Only long enough to cross the room and kidnap Luther without warning (and how is it possible that he's been this close, just a few feet, a few seconds walk, when it's felt like the most of an hour had made her sure Luther was still half a country away, even at visible).
When her fingernails dig into the coat they're on, and it's more to keep herself from peeling right back out from under Luther's arm and doing the one thing she's not allowed to do out here. At the museum. In the whole of LA, and Hollywood, and California at large. Because there are so many things she has to become out here,
But just as much there are restrictions on what she can't be,
And she had just so little rest. The urge of instinct is tighter coiled,
Ready to spring, and all the more willing, tempting for the lax leash of it.
Luther slips into action she wasn't sure would happen, and it's a goddamn epic relief on the same par as being fucking annoying that she has to pretend she couldn't just crumple this man like a piece of waste paper. Instead, she smiles winningly, leaning slightly more into Luther. Comfortable. Intimate. (It's the habit of acting, sliding into character, but there's a prickle starting down her shoulders as she realizes it's not someone random. It's Luther. Luther's hand, and Luther's voice.)
Allison doesn't have time for that, though, doesn't give herself the time for it, any more than she gave herself the time to rumor the man, or gave Luther the time to say no. She takes that relief, and the hand that settles a little tighter on her, and runs with it. Her smile stays light. A little more politely stilted than earlier, but still passingly professional.
"James, this is Luther Hargreeves. You know, from the Umbrella Academy." Without giving him the time, as though she was peerlessly just playing hostess to the moment of networking introductions, she looks up at Luther with that same peerless expression, tilting it shades fonder (even as something in her chest gives a worrisome clatter at everything him) as she caught his gaze. Her voice dropped purposely softer, more winningly fond with him.
"Luther, this is James Covington. We did a commercial back last year." Her gaze flipped back to James, fingertips of her free hand coming up to brush as she paused artfully, even caught at looking polite and sheepish in one. "What was it again: gum? The dental one?"
Decidedly nonplussed, and almost offended, at the reference to being at least half-forgotten, maybe as much as everything in front of him suddenly, his response was flatter: "Cat food."
"Ah, right." Allison's voice never left smooth, as her fingers shifted into a point about remembering now, before her hand fell back against Luther's on her. (Every muscle up her fingers, her palm, her wrist taking in the warmth of that hand, the long, thing fingers suddenly, the weight of both of those against her hip, the solidness of where the rest of his arm curved up her side, along her back.) "Science Diet."