It’s such a banal, everyday picture for anyone else in the world to paint — jeans! — but for these two, for him, it has the tint of impossible fantasy to it. Luther’s never looked quite so casual or at-ease as that mental image depicts. Some interviewers occasionally asked about a more casual look for their broadcast, to make him more affable and approachable, and the Monocle had slammed the door shut on that possibility: the Academy was formal, the Academy was stiff and buttoned-up and almost Victorian, the Academy couldn’t reflect poorly on Hargreeves Enterprises. (And then there was Luther: Reginald’s most successful experiment, his biggest failure, obeying the rules to a tee.)

“If the acting thing ever falls through,” he says after a moment, “you could be a stylist.”

Beat, then, quickly, “Not that it’s gonna fall through. I mean it’s obviously going really well! It’s gonna be fine.”

Oh god.

It’s always so comfortable with Allison until it’s not: until he accidentally steps into something awkward, some breach of etiquette, gigantic foot stuffed in mouth. Luther sighs.

The universe could take pity on him and have them turn the corner and spot her apartment building any minute now—