His whole body feels like it's gone stiff and rigid, made of cement, turning into a statue after a single paralysing heartbeat. And just one word. A name.
Luther has had a few weeks now to get used to the realisation she'd planted in his head with that letter. (The people you're dating.) Some time to grow accustomed to it, and to somehow try to anticipate the blow when it comes, even if it still catches him off-guard as it always has and always will. But thankfully, this time it isn't like a sledgehammer to the jaw; although he doesn't smile dazzlingly for the camera, just looks a little serious and somber, perhaps appropriately dour for Sir Reginald Hargreeves' son. But he still feels it ricochet through him, pinging back and forth. He takes the moment to gather himself while Allison is posing, her mouth settling into the practiced smile he's seen her leverage hundreds of times at photo ops. (Dating.)
It's an echo of what she'd written, and yet that echo is still rippling here, now, so long after she wrote it. She was one of America's most eligible bachelorettes even when she was in the Academy. Why in the world would that have changed?
(Watching her kiss someone else on television was much, much easier when the sight was confined to that small blocky screen in the basement, and with the clear knowledge that it was all fake, an act, a character.)
Allison handles the photographer with ease, her expression enigmatic like the Mona Lisa, but with the side-effect that when Luther sneaks a glance out of the corner of his eye, down and to the side, trying to read her, he realises that he can't interpret it either.
He waits until they're gone. Until the after-images of the flash have faded behind his eyes, until he can see properly again, feel the weight of her hand on his elbow again rather than his whole body gone numb like his heart's forgotten how to pump blood. And in the end, he just tries for one single word:
"Robert?"
Just the one name, and affected nonchalance in Luther's voice, even as he's the exact opposite of careless and uncaring. He's not quite sure if he nailed the intonation, or if it came out too strained. He can't tell anymore. He's never had to do this before.
no subject
Luther has had a few weeks now to get used to the realisation she'd planted in his head with that letter. (The people you're dating.) Some time to grow accustomed to it, and to somehow try to anticipate the blow when it comes, even if it still catches him off-guard as it always has and always will. But thankfully, this time it isn't like a sledgehammer to the jaw; although he doesn't smile dazzlingly for the camera, just looks a little serious and somber, perhaps appropriately dour for Sir Reginald Hargreeves' son. But he still feels it ricochet through him, pinging back and forth. He takes the moment to gather himself while Allison is posing, her mouth settling into the practiced smile he's seen her leverage hundreds of times at photo ops. (Dating.)
It's an echo of what she'd written, and yet that echo is still rippling here, now, so long after she wrote it. She was one of America's most eligible bachelorettes even when she was in the Academy. Why in the world would that have changed?
(Watching her kiss someone else on television was much, much easier when the sight was confined to that small blocky screen in the basement, and with the clear knowledge that it was all fake, an act, a character.)
Allison handles the photographer with ease, her expression enigmatic like the Mona Lisa, but with the side-effect that when Luther sneaks a glance out of the corner of his eye, down and to the side, trying to read her, he realises that he can't interpret it either.
He waits until they're gone. Until the after-images of the flash have faded behind his eyes, until he can see properly again, feel the weight of her hand on his elbow again rather than his whole body gone numb like his heart's forgotten how to pump blood. And in the end, he just tries for one single word:
"Robert?"
Just the one name, and affected nonchalance in Luther's voice, even as he's the exact opposite of careless and uncaring. He's not quite sure if he nailed the intonation, or if it came out too strained. He can't tell anymore. He's never had to do this before.