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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[numberthree]

"Maybe?" At the moment she said it, she was half wild—at the idea of bringing him back wrong, at the idea that she couldn't protect him, at the idea that they might drag him right back under whenever she wasn't next there, and at the idea that maybe she'd just upstaged them for the biggest threat to Luther. The path to hell, good intentions, and all the mess she made of it—all but apocalyptic.

The person who best destroyed all she loved, when she touched it, herself.

"I don't know. I've never—" Done that before. Had a reason to. Thought about whether she could put a dome around someone that made them impervious to her. There's something marrow-deep and trained-dark that feels sub-human, even as it feels too familiar that throbs against the idea of making any potential enemy impervious to her attack or defense. Their father would scoff at the blunting of the weapon of themselves before anything else. Hadn't he so many times?

Except that Luther isn't.
Hasn't ever. She'd never.

(...Again?

It feels like stabbing herself.

Never was supposed to be never,
never-never stayed never, with her, did it?)

"I didn't want them to be able to do it again. If I wasn't there."

Except that's only half of it—maybe calling it half is too much—and it's tangled up clear as anything on her face—the shame of the unspoken part, the ownership, and the tangled, manic uncertainty. Maybe she'd wanted him to be as safely untouchable by her, too. If her desperation could get the better of even Luther. The way she couldn't burn out his face, eyes turned milky white. The way he'd come right at her and hugged her right after.

[obediences]

She so rarely pries open that shell over her heart, the raw wound of what happened with Claire, but she’d done it with him, and so he knows what this all means. So Luther steps even closer. Normally she’s the one trying to breach the distance between them, but now it’s his hand on her shoulder, fingerless-gloved as always, now sliding up to catch at the line of Allison’s neck, the curve of her jaw, holding her in place to meet his gaze.

He rarely ever uses his strength like this, but this is important: he needs her to look at him, blue eyes meeting dark, solemn, and needs her to listen. Pay attention.

“Allison, I don’t know what happened but I would never — never — have proposed to some stranger I’d just met. I’d never have… have bothered with a party when the world’s ending outside our goddamn window. I’d still be tying that stupid fucking bowtie if you hadn’t done… whatever you’ve done.”

Is he himself? If he did an inventory examining all his impulses from top to bottom, could he even tell if there was any lingering influence remaining? It’s impossible to say. But he needs to believe it; she needs to believe it.

[numberthree]

It's the rarity—the all-but impossibility—that shatters something harder. So much more completely. Luther's hand traveled up the soft skin of her neck, catching her jaw with the kind of just more than normal pressure that meant she couldn't just jerk away. And she's not certain she could. Would. She deserves whatever he could—

But his words aren't angry. She can hear a matching kind of desperation, but she can't feel it because all she can feel is his hand's warm, solid presence. All she can feel is how much Luther doesn't touch her, shouldn't be touching her, a kaleidoscope of too bare, too shameful things all lining up together, as his blue eyes blur in her vision. The way her fingers knot at her sides and touching him is the last thing she could let herself do now.

He's always been something she wanted too much.

Throwing her arms around Luther's neck and leaping into him. (And how his arms just floated around her.) The feel of his hand over hers. (When she admitted she'd married a man, not for love but to survive.) Pushing her way into his arms in the kitchen after he told her she had to leave her husband. (The feel of his hands on her back, the tilt of his head against hers.) The press of his mouth against hers. (The instant flustered apology after.)

It's always been more than nothing. They've both known that.
But attraction—even love—isn't always enough.

Never with their family. With them.

Not enough with Claire. (Had she rewritten whoever Claire was originally supposed to be?) Not enough with Ray. (Who chose the cause, the fight, the mission over her in the end, just like Luther. In their childhood, in the basement, in the concert hall.)

"I didn't m—I wouldn't—" But she had. She did. She'd said the words. She'd watched his eyes go empty and white the first time. Then, she'd said the actual words and felt him go limp around her. She made a mess and then did it again, trying to take it back. (I did what I always did. I made a wish, and then I couldn't take it back.). Half of the terror now is that her despair will make it worse. She's already slipped, and it never stops there. "I just wanted you to come back to me. I couldn't lose you."

"Not again. Not a third time." It's all useless, and selfish, and ashamed. What doesn't she ruin if she lets herself touch it? Didn't he understand? How important it was? He was? Himself and his whole existence in her world? "But I'd never. Not you. You know that." It's so weak, but it's all crawling out of her at speed. Maybe the only chance she'll get to tell him it all, as everything else becomes rust and stardust debris. "You're the only person who knows who I am and still likes me anyway."

Pretty and petty, vicious and vengeant, manipulative and ashamed, jaded and jagged, always aware she was more broken than she was ever whole; willing to survive at any cost—almost. And even with all her worst flaws, even when she turned herself on those closest to her, he'd never turned his back on her. He was the one thing she could trust in the three worlds and timelines.