"Even if that's exactly what I'm more used to doing?" he whispers back like a shared secret, their own joke.
And there's something in the muscle memory of a hand outstretched, an invitation granted — them moving towards each other across a divide, even if it's the small one of this outdoor cobblestoned courtyard space this time — her hand going for his shoulder — and it dislodges the memories of an abandoned greenhouse, a slammed door. These recollections were so old and dusty that they'd been buried for the most part, but they're shaking themselves loose now, and Luther pauses. Finally swallows that nostalgia which rises up like it could choke him, and when he looks at her again, he simply asks (and he tells himself that it's for the sake of the girl watching them, donning the shape of the chivalrous knight or gentleman):
"Allison Hargreeves, will you dance with me?"
And there's no real music besides the faint, top 40s background music of the ice cream shop being piped outside, but it's enough to get them moving, at least. Something to steer by. With her hand on Luther's shoulder and his floating by the small of her back, he starts moving them in a tight, controlled waltz, and Luther keeps his gaze trained on Allison's face; partially just to look at her and drink in her features all over again, and partially to remind himself not to look down. When he'd first hit that growth spurt so many years ago, he'd stepped on her toes over and over and over. It had taken a long time to stop tripping over himself, but it all comes back to him now: nimble steps and a surprisingly easy push-and pull like the balance they'd once had on the fighting mats together,
and it turns out that it really is like riding a bike. Luther's steps are just as sure and certain as ever, and he doesn't step on her very expensive shoes; he has to be more careful with the voluminous shape of her gown, but soon enough Allison's hand bunches in the fabric to hold it out of the way regardless.
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And there's something in the muscle memory of a hand outstretched, an invitation granted — them moving towards each other across a divide, even if it's the small one of this outdoor cobblestoned courtyard space this time — her hand going for his shoulder — and it dislodges the memories of an abandoned greenhouse, a slammed door. These recollections were so old and dusty that they'd been buried for the most part, but they're shaking themselves loose now, and Luther pauses. Finally swallows that nostalgia which rises up like it could choke him, and when he looks at her again, he simply asks (and he tells himself that it's for the sake of the girl watching them, donning the shape of the chivalrous knight or gentleman):
"Allison Hargreeves, will you dance with me?"
And there's no real music besides the faint, top 40s background music of the ice cream shop being piped outside, but it's enough to get them moving, at least. Something to steer by. With her hand on Luther's shoulder and his floating by the small of her back, he starts moving them in a tight, controlled waltz, and Luther keeps his gaze trained on Allison's face; partially just to look at her and drink in her features all over again, and partially to remind himself not to look down. When he'd first hit that growth spurt so many years ago, he'd stepped on her toes over and over and over. It had taken a long time to stop tripping over himself, but it all comes back to him now: nimble steps and a surprisingly easy push-and pull like the balance they'd once had on the fighting mats together,
and it turns out that it really is like riding a bike. Luther's steps are just as sure and certain as ever, and he doesn't step on her very expensive shoes; he has to be more careful with the voluminous shape of her gown, but soon enough Allison's hand bunches in the fabric to hold it out of the way regardless.