for numberthree.

[obediences]

And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.

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[obediences]

Luther's pale eyes are darkened and hazy with desire, and his cheeks heated in a blush; his whole body feels like it's burning, set alight wherever she touched him. In one single motion, she's ripped down the brick wall that's existed between them for the past, what, seventeen years? Every last rule and requirement and firm boundary keeping them apart.

And she shoves him back into movement. The Rumor is the only person who can distract Space from his mission quite so thoroughly or so all-encompassingly, but also the only one who can shove him back into the saddle after she's thrown him off it, derailed the entire train of his concentration. Allison nudges at his shoulder and Luther finally clambers back up to his feet, almost slipping and skidding in the snow, and he reaches out and catches her hand in his gloved one to haul her back up to her feet. Her lungs are still a little breathless (from the suffocation or from the kiss, or both).

It feels like coming stumbling out of a dream, groggy and confused and disoriented — the world around them is too sharp and bright. He can't stop noticing every last little detail: the white beneath their feet, the clear open skies, the pale cream of the farmhouse. The tingling in his lips and fingertips, and the sight of Allison's hair disheveled; not just from the fight, but from his hands dragging through it.

They don't have time.

His hand's still caught in hers, but instead of letting go, he squeezes once, and then they start running, breaking into a sprint side-by-side.

[numberthree]

One hand is in the snow, and the other is suddenly in Luther's hand, and it's like the opposite of a trust fall because she isn't falling, but even the smallest tug of Luther in a rush comes with more force than anyone else could with their whole weight thrown into it. Sends her moving a little faster, upward. It's less like falling and a little like flying, without actually flying, plotting only where her feet need to be.

That once even the toes of her boots are crunching down into the hard-packed snow -- and the boards of the broken house wall, still everywhere around them; the ones Luther flew straight through the wall of only minutes ago, too -- they're already off and running. Debris isn't a concern. Only a detail. (And sometimes, when necessity calls for it, a weapon.)

Luther doesn't let go of her hand, squeezing hers gently once, and it's only one step out of the cadence of her roaring heartbeat, and she can't tell if it's just the warning of movement or it's something else. She doesn't have time for her heart to more than flutter something of a question mark that can't even make it to her mind, no less her mouth, before they're running.

Before she does what they've been trained to do;
tucks it away in her pocket; focuses on the mission in front of them.

Diego's voice and getting to him and the fact they've got whatever this is.