Luther might not remember if he has more to do, but Allison does.
She knows she should stay, wander, mingle, talk to as many people as want to talk to her, be caught in this dress, laughing and smiling, by as many cameras and journalists as are there, see the night out. That there's a sort of implied timeline of expectation. But one that no one requested, informed, or even implied once. It's not entirely like ditching, but it still snags somewhere in the box of knowing-doing what she supposed to at her level is overdoing it immaculately, too, so people can't find faults, so that she's everywhere, unavoidable, unreproachable.
But she doesn't care at all -- the whole of that idea, of the world, even the noise of the crowd not far from them, burbling along is a distance hum -- when Luther stares at her a too long, possibly suggested too much, moment, before his expression shifts, turning playful. His words make her smile a little, clouding up her chest with relief.
Luther squeezes her hand, and as much as she knows she should leave it at that, relief, her heart never did play fair where it came to Luther. Even when she doesn't want to, rejecting one set of priorities makes it so much easier to want to deny other unpleasing realities. She lets go of his hand. Casually. There are exits closer than the front, thankfully, so they won't have to press back out through the whole reception crowd, where they'd both be inevitably stopped a half dozen, dozen times first. It's out a side door and then looping back one side to where the taxi area is.
If she was feeling guilty about it, most of it vanishes at his words. In the easy return of, "We'll just have to make the most of our time, then."
Even the exhaustion at the edge of her thoughts could be made to wait. Would. For Luther. Who was already halfway out the door, on the night they weren't even supposed to be able to have.
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She knows she should stay, wander, mingle, talk to as many people as want to talk to her, be caught in this dress, laughing and smiling, by as many cameras and journalists as are there, see the night out. That there's a sort of implied timeline of expectation. But one that no one requested, informed, or even implied once. It's not entirely like ditching, but it still snags somewhere in the box of knowing-doing what she supposed to at her level is overdoing it immaculately, too, so people can't find faults, so that she's everywhere, unavoidable, unreproachable.
But she doesn't care at all -- the whole of that idea, of the world, even the noise of the crowd not far from them, burbling along is a distance hum -- when Luther stares at her a too long, possibly suggested too much, moment, before his expression shifts, turning playful. His words make her smile a little, clouding up her chest with relief.
Luther squeezes her hand, and as much as she knows she should leave it at that, relief, her heart never did play fair where it came to Luther. Even when she doesn't want to, rejecting one set of priorities makes it so much easier to want to deny other unpleasing realities. She lets go of his hand. Casually. There are exits closer than the front, thankfully, so they won't have to press back out through the whole reception crowd, where they'd both be inevitably stopped a half dozen, dozen times first. It's out a side door and then looping back one side to where the taxi area is.
If she was feeling guilty about it, most of it vanishes at his words.
In the easy return of, "We'll just have to make the most of our time, then."
Even the exhaustion at the edge of her thoughts could be made to wait. Would. For Luther.
Who was already halfway out the door, on the night they weren't even supposed to be able to have.