"I will, I will, I will," the girl is gushing, bobbing up and down on her feet, nearly buoyant with her joy. And peering down at that exchange between them, Luther still feels like he's watching it from outside himself, tongue-tied.
But he does know something about that joy, the way it fizzes and bubbles up inside your chest, like you've swallowed a whole mouthful of champagne. He hadn't felt it in years, so it's gone rusty, but that spark keeps catching fire with each little stolen glance at Allison, or another inside joke between them taken off the shelf and dusted off.
Ever since that drunken postcard, addressed and sent where she thought she shouldn't have.
The awareness curdles in the back of his throat: those shrinking minutes and hours, that countdown ticking until he has to leave. It feels like the sword of Damocles hanging over him, over them both — that ever-shrinking territory before he'll have to be on a plane heading east and back to that lonely house —
(that place he can't bear to think of, right about now)
so he extends another gentlemanly arm, ever the knight, still playing a role for their watching audience. But Luther's blue gaze softens when it lands on her again. This evening was supposed to be coffee, but then she'd surprised him with this, and now he doesn't know where they're headed next.
"Your chariot awaits," he says. "Unless there's somewhere in walking distance that you had in mind? I'm pretty much entirely yours, at this point. You're the local expert."
His gaze drifts over Allison's shoulder, to the small crowd which coalesced around their little scene. It'd be a good idea to move on to the next location on their whistlestop Los Angeles tour, anyway, before the paparazzi show up. It's a familiar song-and-dance that both of them know well: Allison navigating that balance of dangling just enough tabloid fodder to remain relevant; Number One swooping in on a mission, staying long enough for a photo op looking heroic in the rubble, then swooping back out before they can ask him too many questions.
no subject
But he does know something about that joy, the way it fizzes and bubbles up inside your chest, like you've swallowed a whole mouthful of champagne. He hadn't felt it in years, so it's gone rusty, but that spark keeps catching fire with each little stolen glance at Allison, or another inside joke between them taken off the shelf and dusted off.
Ever since that drunken postcard, addressed and sent where she thought she shouldn't have.
The awareness curdles in the back of his throat: those shrinking minutes and hours, that countdown ticking until he has to leave. It feels like the sword of Damocles hanging over him, over them both — that ever-shrinking territory before he'll have to be on a plane heading east and back to that lonely house —
(that place he can't bear to think of, right about now)
so he extends another gentlemanly arm, ever the knight, still playing a role for their watching audience. But Luther's blue gaze softens when it lands on her again. This evening was supposed to be coffee, but then she'd surprised him with this, and now he doesn't know where they're headed next.
"Your chariot awaits," he says. "Unless there's somewhere in walking distance that you had in mind? I'm pretty much entirely yours, at this point. You're the local expert."
His gaze drifts over Allison's shoulder, to the small crowd which coalesced around their little scene. It'd be a good idea to move on to the next location on their whistlestop Los Angeles tour, anyway, before the paparazzi show up. It's a familiar song-and-dance that both of them know well: Allison navigating that balance of dangling just enough tabloid fodder to remain relevant; Number One swooping in on a mission, staying long enough for a photo op looking heroic in the rubble, then swooping back out before they can ask him too many questions.