"Not unless you did something to deserve it," comes back quippy and immediate.
She knows neither of them is serious, but this feels a lot like one of those late-stage games. When The Plan™️ was already entirely made, but there was still some waiting, and it inevitably led to dreams of what might be and how would we and what would we—like one of their father's million mission puzzles to figure out how to survive. Except it was about the real world and none of their dusty history and military stratagem books to fall back on—only their imagination.
(Hers.)
"Hhhhmmmmm." Allison draws out the sound, making it comical more than the seriousness her face is affecting as she gives him a once over from head to toe. Once. Twice. Quick, clean, economical sweeps of her gaze, and still, what she thinks most is that he's too handsome, and too All-American Golden Boy clean cut. (It's unfair. It always has been.) There were fashion designers who would drop a year's worth of projects to be the name stitched on his collars. Right this second. In the middle of the night.
"The suit can stay. It's a good cut. But I'd definitely have two or three others for you to try." She ponders upward. "Jeans, definitely. Short-sleeve shirts, fitted but not too fitted. Black or a mix of different ones in earthy tones. For something softer, maybe sweaters. A grey or a washed-out blue to pick out the color of your eyes."
Sunglasses hanging off the bottom of a row of open buttons. A nice, crisp silver watch. It paints itself too quickly.
And she thinks that she's always been thinking about it without trying to focus on it. Always been comparing anyone she was across a stage with, set or gala, with what Luther would look like in that place. In those shoes. With that smile for her. The way they all tried, and failed, to match up. To even come close. Of course, she has.
Of course. She always has.
Because all she had was settling for what she was allowed.
no subject
She knows neither of them is serious, but this feels a lot like one of those late-stage games. When The Plan™️ was already entirely made, but there was still some waiting, and it inevitably led to dreams of what might be and how would we and what would we—like one of their father's million mission puzzles to figure out how to survive. Except it was about the real world and none of their dusty history and military stratagem books to fall back on—only their imagination.
(Hers.)
"Hhhhmmmmm." Allison draws out the sound, making it comical more than the seriousness her face is affecting as she gives him a once over from head to toe. Once. Twice. Quick, clean, economical sweeps of her gaze, and still, what she thinks most is that he's too handsome, and too All-American Golden Boy clean cut. (It's unfair. It always has been.) There were fashion designers who would drop a year's worth of projects to be the name stitched on his collars. Right this second. In the middle of the night.
"The suit can stay. It's a good cut. But I'd definitely have two or three others for you to try." She ponders upward. "Jeans, definitely. Short-sleeve shirts, fitted but not too fitted. Black or a mix of different ones in earthy tones. For something softer, maybe sweaters. A grey or a washed-out blue to pick out the color of your eyes."
Sunglasses hanging off the bottom of a row of open buttons.
A nice, crisp silver watch. It paints itself too quickly.
And she thinks that she's always been thinking about it without trying to focus on it. Always been comparing anyone she was across a stage with, set or gala, with what Luther would look like in that place. In those shoes. With that smile for her. The way they all tried, and failed, to match up. To even come close. Of course, she has.
Of course. She always has.
Because all she had was settling for what she was allowed.