Allison's not sure just what she'd been focused on when she has to look up, a little too sharply and then a touch embarrassed, going from the automatic offensive when the space next to her is not even just touched but being invaded by someone, to realizing it was Luther. Shifting the row of chairs by sitting down. Holding out a cup of coffee. For her. Trapping the almost expulsion of those nerves back against her pressed teeth, locked jaw, and his own, all too familiar, and well-meaning, tense expression.
There's a breath out her nose, and maybe something about her expression attempts a strained, wordless, apology as she at least does take the cup. Tries not to relate it to a million more wrong moments when it was Claire. With nurses who tittered in the corner, whispering her name like it was their lucky day. Putting a chair of things between herself and anyone else in the room, including Patrick.
The words pop up before she can lift the cup to take a drink, and Allison stares at them in her vision.
If she had air to breathe, it feels like they wrap around it choking it, smothering it. A Rolodex flicker of every interview, every paparazzi who'd sieged her with whether she knew about, or had called her brother, who just OD'd, who was in rehab, who was in jail. The way she always felt like the next time might be the last time. Might be how she found out about Dad. On the red carpet. In front of a million cameras. She thought that would be Klaus. How she'd find out Klaus had died. Klaus who might be dying right now.
She stared at the words, focusing on the air in a way she didn't, hadn't in weeks. Like she had to construct each letter.
FineI'm okaEverything's going tHow do you think
She starts each one, watching the letters build words like blocks. Words it would be so easy to say while looking down, or away, but having to look at them makes them feel like they burn in her vision and make her aware of the burning in her chest behind them. The one she doesn't want. The ease of the lies. The way she probably wouldn't have thought about it. The way, having to consider it, to stare it in the face, she doesn't want to lie to Luther.
Which makes it harder. To search for true words. For a fact that is true. And what Allison finds is worse. Like it was just waiting for her to look at it. To ask the right question of herself and realize it was standing in front of her. Allison's mouth pursed, the tension in her chest suddenly feeling like someone had tied ropes to her ribs and was pulling them from her now, with the weight it. She knows it's right because it feels impossible to breathe, looking at it written.
I can't lose him, too. It feels like something in her chest is sucking everything in hitting send before she can erase it. Eat it. Pretend she never saw it. Said it. Bury beneath anything and everything else. Which she can't not do, the next second anyway, adding words, like somehow they'll assuage the damage of honesty. Not with Ben and Five both finally back. Vanya.
no subject
There's a breath out her nose, and maybe something about her expression attempts a strained, wordless, apology as she at least does take the cup. Tries not to relate it to a million more wrong moments when it was Claire. With nurses who tittered in the corner, whispering her name like it was their lucky day. Putting a chair of things between herself and anyone else in the room, including Patrick.
The words pop up before she can lift the cup to take a drink, and Allison stares at them in her vision.
If she had air to breathe, it feels like they wrap around it choking it, smothering it. A Rolodex flicker of every interview, every paparazzi who'd sieged her with whether she knew about, or had called her brother, who just OD'd, who was in rehab, who was in jail. The way she always felt like the next time might be the last time. Might be how she found out about Dad. On the red carpet. In front of a million cameras. She thought that would be Klaus. How she'd find out Klaus had died. Klaus who might be dying right now.
She stared at the words, focusing on the air in a way she didn't, hadn't in weeks. Like she had to construct each letter.
FineI'm okaEverything's going tHow do you thinkShe starts each one, watching the letters build words like blocks. Words it would be so easy to say while looking down, or away, but having to look at them makes them feel like they burn in her vision and make her aware of the burning in her chest behind them. The one she doesn't want. The ease of the lies. The way she probably wouldn't have thought about it. The way, having to consider it, to stare it in the face, she doesn't want to lie to Luther.
Which makes it harder. To search for true words. For a fact that is true. And what Allison finds is worse. Like it was just waiting for her to look at it. To ask the right question of herself and realize it was standing in front of her. Allison's mouth pursed, the tension in her chest suddenly feeling like someone had tied ropes to her ribs and was pulling them from her now, with the weight it. She knows it's right because it feels impossible to breathe, looking at it written.
I can't lose him, too. It feels like something in her chest is sucking everything in hitting send before she can erase it. Eat it. Pretend she never saw it. Said it. Bury beneath anything and everything else. Which she can't not do, the next second anyway, adding words, like somehow they'll assuage the damage of honesty. Not with Ben and Five both finally back. Vanya.