Luther's chin snaps to the side at those words, suddenly processing that admission. Understanding clicks and settles over him; another sharp little twinge of relief. "I'd wondered. You said you weren't going to be in town. I thought maybe—"
He's looking vulnerable, equally unguarded, but he still shears off those words, not able to say the rest of that or finish his sentence, that train of thought (even obvious as it is). I thought maybe you didn't want to see me. It's probably revealing too much of his hand.
Which is, in and of itself, such a strange instinct to fall back on when she knew (knows) him by heart, can read most every flicker of expression and shift of mood in him. He's always shown all his cards anyway. And perhaps the more jarring thing is how even two years apart doesn't change that; can't change that, and hasn't. He is still so ceaselessly predictable, steady as the tides. You could set your clock by Luther Hargreeves.
His hands are back in his trouser pockets, trying for nonchalance but revealing bashfulness instead, as they stand between those massive wall panels of lunar photography and true-to-size models. He's not even noticing the rest of the crowd anymore, the other names and faces and people passing by and reading the plaques. Most of them just skim the captions, their eyes just sliding over each piece of paraphernalia and history; Luther, when he goes to museums, reads each placard from start-to-finish.
no subject
He's looking vulnerable, equally unguarded, but he still shears off those words, not able to say the rest of that or finish his sentence, that train of thought (even obvious as it is). I thought maybe you didn't want to see me. It's probably revealing too much of his hand.
Which is, in and of itself, such a strange instinct to fall back on when she knew (knows) him by heart, can read most every flicker of expression and shift of mood in him. He's always shown all his cards anyway. And perhaps the more jarring thing is how even two years apart doesn't change that; can't change that, and hasn't. He is still so ceaselessly predictable, steady as the tides. You could set your clock by Luther Hargreeves.
His hands are back in his trouser pockets, trying for nonchalance but revealing bashfulness instead, as they stand between those massive wall panels of lunar photography and true-to-size models. He's not even noticing the rest of the crowd anymore, the other names and faces and people passing by and reading the plaques. Most of them just skim the captions, their eyes just sliding over each piece of paraphernalia and history; Luther, when he goes to museums, reads each placard from start-to-finish.