It is, in the end, a defense from her after all, even if he hadn't meant for it to come out that way, like the world's gentlest interrogation. But Luther's exactly where he said he was going to be (even if he didn't, precisely, tell her what was pulling him to LA or where the itinerary was putting him). At least Allison's comment is couched in wry aside, though, wreathed in softer edges by the end of it, the explanation, the mild joke.
"Makes sense," he says, even as his own claim sounds and feels inane to his ears. Luther has no idea what a secondary tier scene is, so he has no way of knowing or confirming. Does it make sense? Sure. Probably.
(But she doesn't lie to him. And so. He buys it as the truth.)
And then Luther starts to flounder, grasping for what to follow that up with and how to get further away from that black hole; searching for something to hang onto and climb and get them out of this quicksand. "Was it TV again or a movie? Should I be looking out for you on the big screen or small, next year?"
Even as he says it, part of him already hates it. Small-talk was never their thing. They'd never had to lapse into these quotidian catchup conversations before, and had mostly managed to avoid it even in their letters, but now that they're looking each other in the eye he's suddenly grasping at straws, trying to cover that stutter-stop.
And it feels stupid. Stupid and unnecessary and like the very last thing he'd ever needed to do with her — they could talk for hours, were never at a loss for what to say — but it's there nonetheless, a metaphorical hiccup like a scratch in the record.
no subject
"Makes sense," he says, even as his own claim sounds and feels inane to his ears. Luther has no idea what a secondary tier scene is, so he has no way of knowing or confirming. Does it make sense? Sure. Probably.
(But she doesn't lie to him. And so. He buys it as the truth.)
And then Luther starts to flounder, grasping for what to follow that up with and how to get further away from that black hole; searching for something to hang onto and climb and get them out of this quicksand. "Was it TV again or a movie? Should I be looking out for you on the big screen or small, next year?"
Even as he says it, part of him already hates it. Small-talk was never their thing. They'd never had to lapse into these quotidian catchup conversations before, and had mostly managed to avoid it even in their letters, but now that they're looking each other in the eye he's suddenly grasping at straws, trying to cover that stutter-stop.
And it feels stupid. Stupid and unnecessary and like the very last thing he'd ever needed to do with her — they could talk for hours, were never at a loss for what to say — but it's there nonetheless, a metaphorical hiccup like a scratch in the record.