His words thrown out so nonchalantly, lodging in her chest, her throat, something she doesn't want to name rising in those same places. Filling her chest, trying to get to her throat, the trembling flicker of her lips that can't seem not to tremorous move against each other, but don't yet know how to open, what words to even reach for.
It was a joke. It was a lie. Wasn't it? But he's smiling broadly, unchecked, all bright, sparkling blue eyes and golden smile, like somehow he's proud of it, like he managed that no problem, like there's nothing in the world that could or would or had kept him from it, from seeing her, even all the way out here, not with him, and her fingers tighten a little where they had been laying so casually on his jacketed bicep, and she --
"Allison! Allison, over here!"
It's only that it's become a habit, that she's already pulling up a smile (she doesn't feel, with the network of buzzing in her stomach, that is something fiercer than anything so fragile as butterflies) right as there's a flash to blind her. Rock her a little back on the extremely tall heels hiding under this dress. Fingers sliding, habitually around part of Luther's upper arm.
She knows the person's face -- even through that arrogant, apology of a smile for the surprise, that isn't one and is the other, because none of them really care for more than their byline and their selling dollar -- but she can't place a name. He's still got the camera up, looking over it, and she doubts he'll go without at least one or two more, and something to put with it.
Which, of course, is why the first words out of his mouth are: "You aren't here with Robert's tonight?"
Allison's not surprised about that either, even though she lets her grip slip slightly down Luther's arm, more into the catch of elbow, saying with an enigmatical smile, "Apparently not."
Not a confirmation, not a denial. About either of them. She really isn't helping the people she doesn't have to out.
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Of course, he says, like that makes any sense.
His words thrown out so nonchalantly, lodging in her chest, her throat, something she doesn't want to name rising in those same places. Filling her chest, trying to get to her throat, the trembling flicker of her lips that can't seem not to tremorous move against each other, but don't yet know how to open, what words to even reach for.
It was a joke. It was a lie. Wasn't it? But he's smiling broadly, unchecked, all bright, sparkling blue eyes and golden smile, like somehow he's proud of it, like he managed that no problem, like there's nothing in the world that could or would or had kept him from it, from seeing her, even all the way out here, not with him, and her fingers tighten a little where they had been laying so casually on his jacketed bicep, and she --
"Allison! Allison, over here!"
It's only that it's become a habit, that she's already pulling up a smile (she doesn't feel, with the network of buzzing in her stomach, that is something fiercer than anything so fragile as butterflies) right as there's a flash to blind her. Rock her a little back on the extremely tall heels hiding under this dress. Fingers sliding, habitually around part of Luther's upper arm.
She knows the person's face -- even through that arrogant, apology of a smile for the surprise, that isn't one and is the other, because none of them really care for more than their byline and their selling dollar -- but she can't place a name. He's still got the camera up, looking over it, and she doubts he'll go without at least one or two more, and something to put with it.
Which, of course, is why the first words out of his mouth are: "You aren't here with Robert's tonight?"
Allison's not surprised about that either, even though she lets her grip slip slightly down Luther's arm, more into the catch of elbow, saying with an enigmatical smile, "Apparently not."
Not a confirmation, not a denial. About either of them.
She really isn't helping the people she doesn't have to out.