And hadn't they been slowly winding their way towards this after all? Over the past year? Their bedrooms beside each other again, hands clasped, late-night messages when neither of them can fall asleep, making each other laugh, this little house with its domestic routines, his lips pressed against her hand, a nighttime picnic under the stars. It still feels miraculous — and if he could shake himself now, try to be sure that he's actually still awake, he would. Maybe he fell asleep. Maybe he dozed off while they were messaging each other, and this is just some dreamstuff spun up out of nothing...
And because it's late, and they're both exhausted, and he can feel his body still twinging with the distant aches of blood vessels burst deep under the skin (broken wood and bricks and ricocheting bullets, all bouncing harmlessly off but they still leave their mark), then the whole night feels surreal. Painted in blurry lines, the room black-and-blue like a bruise. Luther's thumb traces the line of her cheekbone again, and he feels his heart pounding hollowly in his chest and he can see Allison's face, upturned, so close to him and still within reach.
Within reach, for the first time in so long. After years with a continent separating them, then an entire atmosphere, then the divide of an entire timeline. Seeing her in so many dark-skinned women around town, his head snapping around like he could give himself whiplash.
(A version of her perched insouciant on the edge of a counter, in the moon base—)
"This is going to sound so stupid," he says, self-conscious, half-smiling because he couldn't suppress that smile even if he tried, "but can you pinch me? Hard. So I feel it."
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And because it's late, and they're both exhausted, and he can feel his body still twinging with the distant aches of blood vessels burst deep under the skin (broken wood and bricks and ricocheting bullets, all bouncing harmlessly off but they still leave their mark), then the whole night feels surreal. Painted in blurry lines, the room black-and-blue like a bruise. Luther's thumb traces the line of her cheekbone again, and he feels his heart pounding hollowly in his chest and he can see Allison's face, upturned, so close to him and still within reach.
Within reach, for the first time in so long. After years with a continent separating them, then an entire atmosphere, then the divide of an entire timeline. Seeing her in so many dark-skinned women around town, his head snapping around like he could give himself whiplash.
(A version of her perched insouciant on the edge of a counter, in the moon base—)
"This is going to sound so stupid," he says, self-conscious, half-smiling because he couldn't suppress that smile even if he tried, "but can you pinch me? Hard. So I feel it."
It'd have to be hard, to even make a difference.