Allison is positive she has to be a hallucinating -- is wide-awake, full-on body-hallucination out of nowhere, without torture first, a thing? Is it the sleep deprivation and an overactive imagination? -- because one of Luther's fingers slides in a quick stroke, back and forth, back and forth, over the center of her dress, the rise of her rib cage, and it feels like she's going to fall out of her body, like she's losing having the faintest clue what's happening.
Especially when her heart had leapfrogged confusedly sideways at the touch that started and then stopped immediately, only for him to start talking right next to her ear again, and she swears something between her head and her heart and her lungs is going to actually strangle itself soon. She's so stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She knows better than this.
She needs Luther to stop touching her.
(She wants him to have not stopped that soft glide over her middle, too. She's never considered throwing herself out of a moving vehicle before. But suddenly.)
"This is you guys." A voice suddenly cuts in, before Allison can even pretend to come up with breathing, no less words to answer the ones Luther has, again, so easily produced. Like talking is somehow normal. Teasing her with her clearance level (ex-superhero, only superstar wannabe now), and then answering in spite of it. But instead of replying to his answer, Allison is looking at the two people grabbing their bags and only making that vaguest of eye contact of people who don't know each other just sharing space for five minutes to get home. Or to wherever.
There might be something a little manic about her consideration of the other two-thirds of the bucket seat they are currently taking up and the fact she plans to get there, even if she has to fall face-first into it shortly. If only to plaster herself to the piece of the car furthest from Luther's hands. Arms. Mouth. Chest. Stomach. Lap. Legs. Every single part of him touching her too much; and not nearly enough.
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Especially when her heart had leapfrogged confusedly sideways at the touch that started and then stopped immediately, only for him to start talking right next to her ear again, and she swears something between her head and her heart and her lungs is going to actually strangle itself soon. She's so stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She knows better than this.
She needs Luther to stop touching her.
(She wants him to have not stopped that soft glide over her middle, too.
She's never considered throwing herself out of a moving vehicle before. But suddenly.)
"This is you guys." A voice suddenly cuts in, before Allison can even pretend to come up with breathing, no less words to answer the ones Luther has, again, so easily produced. Like talking is somehow normal. Teasing her with her clearance level (ex-superhero, only superstar wannabe now), and then answering in spite of it. But instead of replying to his answer, Allison is looking at the two people grabbing their bags and only making that vaguest of eye contact of people who don't know each other just sharing space for five minutes to get home. Or to wherever.
There might be something a little manic about her consideration of the other two-thirds of the bucket seat they are currently taking up and the fact she plans to get there, even if she has to fall face-first into it shortly. If only to plaster herself to the piece of the car furthest from Luther's hands. Arms. Mouth. Chest. Stomach. Lap. Legs. Every single part of him touching her too much; and not nearly enough.