She sidles so much closer, eradicating every last inch of personal bubble between them as she leans in for a confidential, confessional whisper (there had been so many moments like that when they were younger: Luther passing a note and folding a tidily-folded piece of paper into the palm of her hand, Allison's mouth against his ear and a honed whisper sans the actual rumour). He feels the electricity of her against his arm like the whole limb's gone numb, a too-sharp awareness rippling its way up all his nerves; his fist clenches unconsciously, then loosens, trying to banish some of that pent-up energy.

And even after everything, even after her abandonment of the Academy and his abandonment of her... he's realising, with a ripple of surprise, that he's proud of her. Of this news. Number Three had been his red right hand, where Number Two had been his bruising left. Allison Hargreeves isn't supposed to be second string to anyone; he'd always known that she was leading material. Right from the start.

"Oh, man. Congratulations," Luther says softly, his lips barely moving, pitching his voice just as low to mirror hers, even as his mouth is wreathed in a smile. "It's about time. I always thought the savvy lab tech should've been on-screen more."

Does he conscientiously, assiduously make time for her show every single week? Maybe.