There's the brief gust of fresh night air, the slam of the door, the car rocking on its axle, and then they're both looking at the suddenly freed-up space beside them. Running the mental calculation, and knowing what they need to do. That there's no reason to be on top of each other anymore, squeezed in too-tight and too-close, with her hips against his, and his hands on her thighs, and her bare shoulders against the solid wall of his chest, and they don't have an excuse anymore, and so he should let her go.
And there's that moment's hesitation, of both of them waiting just a little too long, before he feels Allison start to shift. She starts the careful, gentle slide over to the other side of the taxi, and it feels like climbing a mountain; like she's swimming through molasses to get away, and he regretfully lets his hands slip off her again. Instead, he ducks down to bundle up the excess fabric from the dress, and holds it up for her while she readjusts her position, so she doesn't step on it while crossing over.
Almost immediately, Luther already misses the warmth and weight and closeness (is it already over? when the hell is he going to be able to touch her again?), even as it's something of— a relief, a reprieve. At least this way, he can remember how to breathe again, when he's not being dizzied and knocked over by mint and aloe vera and honey.
He smooths down the fabric of his trousers; still feels like his entire body is pins-and-needles where she'd been sitting on him, not from any actual weight, but just from the mere proximity. Like Allison's a magnet and he's set of metal ball bearings, scattered and loose and being drawn right into her. The cab driver's double-checking the intersection for their next stop with Allison again, and Luther can't actually remember what he was saying a moment ago. Something about bookshops. Right. There was a bookshop he'd meant to go to.
It doesn't matter. Nothing actually matters except that his heart is pounding a little too heavy in his throat and his palms feel sweaty and, jesus christ, a simple ride in the backseat shouldn't ruin him like this. Shouldn't throw the entire world askew, reminding him in one collapsing fell swoop everything he'd loved and missed and wanted about Allison Hargreeves.
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And there's that moment's hesitation, of both of them waiting just a little too long, before he feels Allison start to shift. She starts the careful, gentle slide over to the other side of the taxi, and it feels like climbing a mountain; like she's swimming through molasses to get away, and he regretfully lets his hands slip off her again. Instead, he ducks down to bundle up the excess fabric from the dress, and holds it up for her while she readjusts her position, so she doesn't step on it while crossing over.
Almost immediately, Luther already misses the warmth and weight and closeness (is it already over? when the hell is he going to be able to touch her again?), even as it's something of— a relief, a reprieve. At least this way, he can remember how to breathe again, when he's not being dizzied and knocked over by mint and aloe vera and honey.
He smooths down the fabric of his trousers; still feels like his entire body is pins-and-needles where she'd been sitting on him, not from any actual weight, but just from the mere proximity. Like Allison's a magnet and he's set of metal ball bearings, scattered and loose and being drawn right into her. The cab driver's double-checking the intersection for their next stop with Allison again, and Luther can't actually remember what he was saying a moment ago. Something about bookshops. Right. There was a bookshop he'd meant to go to.
It doesn't matter. Nothing actually matters except that his heart is pounding a little too heavy in his throat and his palms feel sweaty and, jesus christ, a simple ride in the backseat shouldn't ruin him like this. Shouldn't throw the entire world askew, reminding him in one collapsing fell swoop everything he'd loved and missed and wanted about Allison Hargreeves.