Luther unfolds himself from the taxi (absentmindedly patting his pockets, checking he still has his own wallet too), stretching his legs as he walks down the pavement, and then he's looking at the shop. All brightly-lit neon in the window, diner-style counters and bright fire-engine-red stools. "Oh wow," he says, marveling. Hands shoved in pockets and his shoulders sloped, head tilted backwards as he takes in the store. It's such a normal everyday thing, but instantly he knows what this means. Because as if, Allison. As if he could ever forget.
They both stand out horrifically, now that they're far away from the gala — other people on the street are sneaking glances at the fashionable pair, particularly the gorgeous woman in her overwrought ballgown. (Gorgeous and vaguely familiar too, in that Los Angeles way that all supporting actresses and faces in commercials are.) They look like two people who swanned out of a fairytale and found themselves downtown, Cinderella and her prince, both with a hankering for dessert.
"I can't even remember the last time I—" Luther starts, and then cuts himself off sharply, because of course he can remember. Both of them can. It would've been the last time the Academy was a twosome; the pair of them being rewarded with ice cream at the tail end of a job well-done, both acutely aware that they were probably too old for ice cream anyway, a little embarrassed by it, but enjoying it anyway because it was one of the only treats they were ever allowed. Luther's sweet tooth had been born from it. It was one of his few indulgences.
And it had been a bonding activity. Ever since the Academy had dwindled to just Number One, there just hadn't seemed like much point.
"My diet's been really boring lately. I can't tell you how much I've missed ice cream." He sounds wistful as he looks at the glowing neon, before he tilts his head and shoots her a sidelong look for a moment.
And in that moment, it's entirely possible — and more than likely — that Luther means he's missed more than ice cream.
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They both stand out horrifically, now that they're far away from the gala — other people on the street are sneaking glances at the fashionable pair, particularly the gorgeous woman in her overwrought ballgown. (Gorgeous and vaguely familiar too, in that Los Angeles way that all supporting actresses and faces in commercials are.) They look like two people who swanned out of a fairytale and found themselves downtown, Cinderella and her prince, both with a hankering for dessert.
"I can't even remember the last time I—" Luther starts, and then cuts himself off sharply, because of course he can remember. Both of them can. It would've been the last time the Academy was a twosome; the pair of them being rewarded with ice cream at the tail end of a job well-done, both acutely aware that they were probably too old for ice cream anyway, a little embarrassed by it, but enjoying it anyway because it was one of the only treats they were ever allowed. Luther's sweet tooth had been born from it. It was one of his few indulgences.
And it had been a bonding activity. Ever since the Academy had dwindled to just Number One, there just hadn't seemed like much point.
"My diet's been really boring lately. I can't tell you how much I've missed ice cream." He sounds wistful as he looks at the glowing neon, before he tilts his head and shoots her a sidelong look for a moment.
And in that moment, it's entirely possible — and more than likely — that Luther means he's missed more than ice cream.