"Ah," he says, with the sound of dawning understanding, and there's a slight ebbing of that tension: some of the knots in Luther's shoulders loosening as he breaks into movement, lets her draw him further on to the next exhibit, although his concentration's shot and he's not doing his usual meticulous read of every single plaque anymore. He's still spinning; untethered, caught off-guard, processing that faint distant relief.

Of course Allison uses the tabloids, and cultivates a purposeful ambiguity around her co-star if it helps her. It's just another weapon in the arsenal.

(He is so relieved.)

"There's so much out here," Luther says after a pause, his voice quiet enough that only she can hear him, looking at the replica moon lander in front of them although he's not actually looking at it, "that I don't get. The hoops to jump through. The public image to craft. I mean, we did that too, but at least at the Academy we were known for our work more than, I don't know, relationships, fake or otherwise."

Because there wasn't supposed to be anything more to them than the work, really: the cocksure smiles, the bravery and derring-do, the training, the missions. That life had, in its way, been brutally simple. (But empty.)