luther "the big shy one" hargreeves | #00.01 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
obediences) wrote2019-03-08 09:00 pm
obediences) wrote2019-03-08 09:00 pm
Entry tags:
for numberthree.
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.
no subject
And he ploughs on: "Like, if you just meant to say thank you, I don't want to make a bigger deal out of this than it should be. Or if you were trying to kiss my cheek and just... missed..."
His voice trails off, falteringly, lost. But the more he looks at her and notes the way she looks at him, though, there's that slow-dawning realisation that maybe he doesn't need to be panicking just yet.
She hasn't exactly confirmed what that (that) may or may not have been between them, outside, in the snow, earlier.
But she hasn't disavowed it, either.
no subject
As Luther rambles increasingly less plausible, and still yet striving to be strung together, possibilities, and she thinks only that she should have kissed him over a decade ago. Or found some excuse three years ago. Or. Or that she should have tried harder. Held on better. Whatever better is. Been less weak. Less needy. Less selfish, and willfully destructive, willing to destroy from her own survival or comfort. Less prone to finding other things to hold on to.
The question when it comes, and it barely pauses a full breath between hers and his, doesn't actually comment (on the growing list of less and less plausible excuses he's given her to hand back to him, that sits slowly even more amused-by-skeptical on her expression, at the tuck of her mouth and), it's simply:
"Was it a mistake when you kissed me back?"
It's an unfair question without answering first. She knows it even as she asks it without avoiding directness. (Just like she know what he means, even though none of his words have been questions.) But she's never been a very fair creature, has she? Not as a child, and maybe not, even more drastically, as whoever she is while masquerading as an adult. But somehow, he's always taken her as she is. Liked her. Accepted her. Even at her very worst.
And he had. Kissed her back. Hard and hot, heavy and hungry. Left her mouth and her jaw with it, softly throbbing for a good while against the force of that focus, of all other focus lost and forgotten, whether it was meant or not. Too.
no subject
Without stopping to think about it, for once in his life. Not his slow ponderous careful consideration of most things, his patience and meticulousness as he weighs out his words. Instead it's that one syllable forcing itself out before he can even think about it, because he doesn't have to think about it. He knows it like the sharpest truth down into his marrow, the question Allison's never gotten to ask before but which he's been waiting his whole life to answer, been waiting to hand that promise back to her.
"No. It could never be a mistake."
Even if she's married. (And she is, still. Technically.) Even if there have been other men. Other lifetimes and lives between him and her. Years' worth, and the decade apart before then. None of it matters, and none of it makes Luther hesitate in his answer. He's just looking at her, his blue gaze slow and steady, even as he can feel his heartbeat hammering in his throat, a dull pounding in his fingertips.
And it's only after the fact that he finally starts to stutter, to stammer, to try to fill up his sentences more: "I mean. I don't want it to be one. If you don't."
no subject
But even as he finally stumbles into words, other words. Caveats to clean up how bare and clear and clean the shot is. It feels like Allison can breathe in. Not for the first time since he stopped kissing her, or she stopped breathing, or she suddenly saw him, sitting there, on the picnic bench. She doesn't even know how long. Long enough, it creaks and aches, even as every part of her feels like it might start trembling if she doesn't hold perfectly still.
She wants to cross all the space left between them and grab the sides of his face fiercely and pull him down and kiss him again, until they can't breathe, again, until the world is only him and only his hesitationless no and his steady gaze, until whatever's left of this room isn't even that anymore. It's as flash brightly sudden as it is winding. At the same second, as some part of her, she can't even explain why starts the edges of her eyes prickling and why it's hard to swallow.
Why it huffs, under her breath, in a sore not quite laugh,
winded and amused and sad and wondering all at once,
"We have terrible timing."
no subject
And it is bad timing, for all the reasons Luther doesn't feel like naming. She's married. She's still married. They're on their way out of this universe, to god knows what and god knows where. But in other ways, he can't imagine a better moment, a more desperate relief: he'd thought she was dead. Dead and entirely gone. For a year and a half. So if not now, when? Every piece of timing they ever could have chosen was going to be terrible, in some way or another. The world wasn't kind to the Hargreeves.
But it still isn't anything near agreement.
"Does that mean you don't—" Luther starts, then stops yet again. Clamming up, unable to fill in any of those words to finish his sentence.
no subject
Without him.
Not now.
Not after that kiss.
Not after those words.
Not even when everything in her body has become a compass waiting to move. For a brother, for a briefcase, for her daughter. Who she needs. Can never stop needing. Not even standing here, staring across at Luther. Like air, like blood, something compressed into the marrow of her bones, like if she never said it, then she could survive it, however many days she'd been sentenced to. Even if it was decades on decades like Five.
Not just Claire. Luther, too.
The both of them.
She can see the irony, even before it becomes sound, when the first and only sound is finally her steps coming closer and closer to him, across the debris-littered floor. The answer he wants, it's not the answer that comes. Because his question is too small. Like the ring on her finger, inside these gloves. That hadn't stopped her, when he tried to congratulate her, and the words had just tumbled out of her, impossible to stop, impossible to pretend mattered beside.
It doesn't stop her now. "It's always been you."
Simple and true, and every bridge burns in four words.
He doesn't even have to believe it, for her to know it's true.
For her to know just how close Ray almost came to knowing it, too.
no subject
He's thunderstruck and caught off-guard and lagging a moment behind, in which two-and-two together doesn't actually equal four. His gaze darts down to the debris on the floor between them, the rapidly-shrinking feet of distance between Allison's boots and his own, as she closes in. He feels like a deer in the headlights, suddenly drowning with a different kind of panic — because this is rapidly swerving into uncharted territory where he's untrained, inexperienced, and he has no frame of reference for this. Doesn't know what to do with this particular subject. Life as Number One has not prepared him for this.
And Allison's words just don't seem to make any sense. Because surely not. It's been the better part of two decades since they've spent any significant amounts of time together. He abandoned her, betrayed her. She's been married. Twice. So how can that even—
(The woman that I love loves someone else.)
There's so much he could say, but he can't set any of it down in any particular intelligible order, so the only thing that comes out is a startled: "How?"
He could buy an impulsive, thoughtless kiss, riding high on adrenaline and hypoxia and relief. A mere show of gratitude, accidentally gone a little too far. But what Allison's just confessed goes far deeper than he was expecting; cuts right to the root of it.
no subject
(The way Luther's face reminds her of the echo of Ray's. Body pressed to the wall, and the living room mantle, like they might be able to pull him into themselves and away from what was happening to him, ramping panic radiating from his every look, right after Diego and Herb appeared in their living room.)
"I don't know." It is the stupidest answer and yet the one that falls out. Too honest. The fault line of her entire existence. He is. Luther. And that every time she tries to build something on it, nothing can stand. Not for long. And this time, it hadn't even really been a year before she'd been made to see that again. "It's just always been that way. Since the beginning."
Whether the beginning is the beginning of being here, or coming home, or leaving home, or whatever the earliest beginning of everything even counts as. It's always been him, and the worst messes of her life she's made were in thinking that she actually had any power to outrun or outlive or out choose that truth.
That it would even allow itself to be delayed after the last time she'd finally seen him.
(I see you, every night, looking at the moon.)
no subject
And even before then. How could he measure up to Hollywood, red carpets and galas, Allison's bright glittering life in the limelight, and with handsome charming co-stars on her arm? How could he ever compete with the entirety of the outside world, when all he had to offer in contrast was his shabby rundown self? (Especially now. How he looks.)
"I didn't know," he says dumbly, as if it weren't already the most apparent thing. That of course Luther had no clue. He never does, about this sort of thing. "I had no idea. I mean. I thought, possibly, maybe back when we were kids— but then I screwed that up completely when—"
When she left, and when he didn't come with.
Allison is so near now, just a few feet away from him, still outside his personal bubble but having crossed the room to get closer to him. Luther shifts away from the table, re-settling his weight onto his feet. He takes half a step closer, but then stops there, all his muscles coiled. Balanced lightly on his feet as if he's getting ready to fight or flee, but the real answer is none of the above.
no subject
Why can't she ever keep her mouth shut around him?
God. The irony of that thought. Now. Against all this. A kiss.
His words are reluctant, still confused. He moves, but only a small amount, like maybe he can't even decide which direction is the right direction -- and maybe that means she isn't. Not when there's something about how he's holding himself that makes it impossible to know. If he's about to bolt backward now, too. It takes all her willpower not to reach out and lay a hand on his arm and say don't where his words break off. It's so annoying that in some moments, she can without thinking about it, and in others, she can't forget.
"Maybe I should have kissed you then." But somehow, it's not entirely light—that joke. There's something a little pensive to her expression. Like she doesn't believe in her own pressed up humor. Because it's not humor. Because even then, it was an impossible want. But it'd been one without a decades' regrets to weigh it down. One that gave her something she couldn't give up. Not even in a joke. Not even for him.
She can lie to a million-million people, but not him. Not about any of it.
no subject
But even that isn't something they can joke about, and Luther can't express that desperate wanting yearning, because of the repercussions it would've had. The knock-on effects of the roads Allison wouldn't have taken, the ones that would have left her without Claire. The one trade-off he could never ask for. Would never ask for.
"Part of me wishes you had. But now is okay, too." His hand half-flutters outwards, before the fingers fold in and clench in on themselves. (He can't really remember, anymore, how to be tender with these hands. Bloodied knuckles wrapped in bandages.) But then he finally forces his hand to loosen and he reaches forward slightly, grazes his fingers over her sleeve.
"I know this... isn't great timing. It was never going to be. I guess the one constant is that we always, always have shitty timing. But I just... I thought you were dead, Allison. So I'm just glad that you're here, back in my life like some kind of miracle, and I don't ever want to lose you again. You're the most important thing to me. The most important person."
He exhales. "And I guess maybe it was about time I stopped wasting time and just told you that. Just in case. Before we run out of any more time, or before anything else happens."
no subject
Closing everything up in a box inside her chest labeled do not share, do not open, do not think about. (Even if she'd only ever truly managed the first.) But she's so close now. The skin of time feeling so thin with Five's promise, impatient with whatever is keeping him, them, from being ready yet.
Luther's hand flashes out, stutters into a fist, and then opens again, fingers touching her arm. The solid, body-warmed leather resting against her cape and a sliver of her skin and for a hazy moment, as she's breathing in or out or through, she wishes he didn't have gloves on and instantly wants to rebuke herself for wanting any more than this. Choice. Touch.
Except that's what they're talking about, is it?
Always having wanted more. Wanted this. All of this.
Luther's expression, as the words pour out of him, finally finding their footing. Her heart, this soft ache that only gets sharper and sharper. Heart starting to beat too fast in her ears at some kind of miracle and ever want to lose you and the most important person (and for just a second it echoes, out of joint, certain by never certain, about the words Luther had chosen, that night, so long ago, the first night she couldn't speak, couldn't say hello or goodbye, and instead, he'd said all of those words, for Claire ...
for her).
Allison finds herself with her lips pressed, still floored, still certain in more than half of her somehow this can't be real, or if it is, to so much as breathe or speak will break it, too. She doesn't know how not to break things, and yet Luther keeps holding on. Doesn't want to lose her. It's heady and terrifying two days later; not something Ray said either time.
But it brings up something else he did. Because she can't stop thinking about it. This whole time. Since before Luther appeared, and after, and she raises a hand (gloved, herself, still), from the opposite side of her chest, which she crosses to lay her hand over his over her arm.
"You can't lose me." It might be one of the truest things she's ever said, and she looks down between them, talking slightly more at his shoes and his chest more than Luther's face. "Someone pointed out recently--" And she doesn't say it was Ray, and she doesn't say it was said in the most romantically undeserved, and absolutely clueless of the truth, way possible.
"--that for the whole time I've been here, before every day would end, I would always end up looking for the moon." There's a glance up, it's terrible, it's true. She's done graves wrongs by people while doing it. Holding on, making promises, but not giving herself in the same fashion. "Every night. No matter where I was. When it was."
She even, irrationally, hated the new moon sometimes.
When the sky was empty and dark of its bright reminder.
There was nothing new about a world wrapped in only darkness.
no subject
It feels so much bigger than either of them, and those words don't make sense again. He can't make them fit somehow — although he's still hanging onto her arm with just the lightest touch, fingers curled against Allison's upper arm as if he can't bear to let her go, but can't bring himself to take her more firmly in hand, either. (He's the leader, the one who heaves himself into battle and throws himself between his family and anything threatening them, but this is not a battle. He doesn't know how to lead, here.)
"But I wasn't even up there," Luther says, dumbfounded as ever as he latches onto the cold hard logistics of it. As if logic or rationality has anything whatsoever to do with matters of the heart. He should know that, too: the way he'd spent years staring down at the glowing lights of the west coast, imagining that somewhere was a small pinpoint of light that would be Allison in Los Angeles, as if he could see it (and her) from all the way up there.
"I wouldn't be there for another, what, fifty-something years?"
Dummy.
no subject
It feels foolish, and hopeless, and -- even anchored by his fingers -- insane—an adult admitting to the stupidest of childish things. A child reaching for something lost so, so, so long before when there was never even a single shred of hope anywhere, to begin with. Not a decade later, without a single word sewn between them after Goodbye.
"It wasn't like here." She can't tell if she rushes those words a little to make them sound saner, and yet somehow, they sound a little like an apology in her ears, too. "Not every night. The bad ones mostly. The worst of the worst after--" The ones were she stole away to windows and darkened back porches, to steal a cigarette or nurse countless scotch glasses, or she'd cried herself empty in that empty, empty, echoing littler house, and the moon just happened to be there already, too, and she couldn't help wondering.
About the boy up there, watching over all of them. Keeping them safe.
(Before it was when he was dicked over by their father in the last, greatest way he could.)
"And then after we all came home--" And she means, but the words don't force themselves: after I saw you, heard you, you were so real, so you, again. "--and you were there, and then I was here, and--" She's never been prosaic or poetic unless she memorized the lines to be that on a screen (and even that part of her life is so long ago it's half-dream). She's all emotion that only comes out cutting straight or couched in lies that never will.
"--I don't know." A beat. A frown. Because she can't make it make sense for him.
"I guess. It was the only echo I had left of you. That I could see. To hold on to."
That even Ray hadn't been enough to hold on to all those days.
He hadn't been the first thing she'd reach for getting here.
And she hadn't been able to stop even once he was there.
(She didn't deserve to be loved by any of them.)
no subject
But what she says. What she's saying. It makes his chest warm from the inside out, a soaring dizzying heat like his heart is going to leap right out of his chest. Like it's going to palpitate and give him a heart attack.
"I wish I could've been there for you. On the worse nights," Luther murmurs. That's a safer thing to admit, because it comes after Claire. Because if a message could have made it up to the moon base, somehow, some way, he's certain he would have come down. He could have been there for there. He would have.
Even so, though, it's useless wanting and wishing for what hadn't happened. But Luther's well-accustomed to that longing regardless; it's taken up residence inside him like a persistent weed, gnarled roots curling into all the cracks and crevices of his heart, tightening like a noose. His hand slides down her arm, the line of her forearm, the turn of her wrist, then down to the curl of her fingers, where two of his fingers hook into hers.
"I didn't have anything to hold onto. Nothing that I recognised. I just— kept thinking I saw you, all around town, every time I saw a woman out of the corner of my eye who had even a passing resemblance to you, I'd do a double-take. I literally tripped over my own feet when I turned to look and faceplanted on the ground, because I wanted her to be you so badly."
Everything he hadn't ever actually wanted her to know, the things about him that had felt sad and foolish and pathetic, they're spilling off his tongue.
no subject
How often, when the only thought afterward, was that he was looking for a ghost of someone he'd thought was dead. The idea of Luther. Thinking she was dead. The utter absent black space in her mind that didn't know how to consider that, hold on to it, expand it, how to word the question, form the thoughts. How he was. What did he. With that. Then. When he thought she was. For how long. How soon after.
His fingers are sliding into hers, and it's not exactly the easiest of things between their gloves, but it's probably the least problematic of things to stand between them. Ever. Supple layers of leather. Her fingers curling firmer against his, against the looseness and the still too present divide between them, even that small, as she looks up into those eyes blue eyes of his.
"Well. You have me now." Alive. Here. Battered and bruised in ways that had nothing to do with her bones and blood and skin (even the soreness in her ribs, her lungs, has already subsided away). And maybe she means that she's here. Alive. Right here in this room. And maybe she means. Anything he wants it to mean.
Everything that it will always be no matter where she goes or what she does.
no subject
He hasn't really been happy in years. Over a decade.
There was the occasional satisfaction of a job well-done and a mission accomplished, sure, but nothing like this: the sheer, uncomplicated joy that he can feel cracking himself open around Allison, like basking in the glow of a radiant sun. It's still going to be hopelessly complicated and convoluted, because everything they touch is, but at least this— this moment— isn't. Because all Luther needs to hear is those four words (You have me now), and it turns the entire goddamned world upside down. Flips it under his feet until he's foundering; until he reaches for solid land, which means tightening his grasp on her hand and tugging her closer as he steps into her.
Close enough for his other hand to catch the line of her cheek in this dim, dark, ruined kitchen (an inversion of Allison's perfect, tidy kitchen glowing in the sunlight), close enough for him to duck his head low and kiss her, finally, for the second time in his life.
no subject
Not when Luther's fingers are tightening further on hers, and he's pulling her closer, and her heart has the sputtering second of seeing it coming this time. Not just her throwing herself forward. Amused. Exhausted. Every nerve screaming. Done with waiting another second. Not even the ones for thinking first. Crashing into him like the air crashed back into her. Like a wave returning to the ocean.
This isn't that. This feels like. Like every second is strung all delicately on a line. The soft tug of his hand. The step that brings her closer to him. The step that brings him closer to her. The soft leather that finds her cheek now, too, for the second time. Fingers at the side of her face, across her cheek and her jaw, and there's a whisper of her that wants to lean into it and close her eyes -- -- but it's the tiniest shred beside the bonfire starting to catch under her breastbone, and the way her eyes can't close, can't look away. Because Luther is leaning toward her. Luther is going to kiss her. Which is different. Even if he kissed her back earlier. Shocked stillness and then apocalyptic shifting. But this isn't that. This is still, and quiet, and slow in the silent darkness of this broken house.
The touch of his lips and how she can't quite place when her other hand found the flat of his chest, or she pushed up on her toes. Only that the whole world flattens out again, entirely, against the texture of his lips, on his fingers in her hand, on her cheek. When this should have been the first kiss. Theirs, and of her entire life, but she doesn't care. She doesn't care that she's been waiting every second of her entire life for this moment.
Because it's happening right now, as her eyes close,
and her fingers ball into his shiny jacket, pulling him closer.