Luther's smile spreads across his face, even in the changing lights of the room, and they must look like idiotic children, who've forgotten they aren't children, but Allison can't bring herself to care for that moment. Her shoulders shaking a little in at the sheer lunacy of it, even if she can't laugh, at the disparity between the absolutely underwhelmed four-letter word he chooses, just fills her vision, and that smile just beyond it, in front of him.

Inflated relief, stupified giddiness.

That she can speak. (That she can talk to him.)
That somehow she can be heard. (That he can hear her.)

That he sobers it a little, doesn't surprise her. Returning to where she started. Her rambled explanation of pushing words out, when she was explaining and hoping it just wouldn't be too weird.

Well, we have it now. We'll have to tell the others about it, too.

There's a momentary pensiveness at the words, rereading them in her vision.
One in specific. But she sends it anyway.