Luther breathes out as he reads over those words. A calming technique; one he'd fallen into again and again over those long years. Thin recycled air and when all he could hear was the hum of the generator and the ebb-and-flow of his own lungs, his heartbeat dull in his ears, the vacuum of space humming outside. This time, he can hear the murmur of voices in the distance, footsteps, the faint distant beep of monitors, the buzz of adrenaline and fear. He can practically taste it in the air. A hospital waiting room is a unique kind of hell, he decides, quickly enough.

He lets his arm settle against the side of his chair, against hers, their sleeves brushing. Not taking her hand in his, not something so open, but a display of solidarity nonetheless.

Once upon a time they would've slipped handwritten scribbled notes to each other during one of Sir Reginald's lectures, or whispered in the hallway when they were sure they couldn't be overheard; this time, the mental link at least gives them perfect privacy, even here, right in public, surrounded by their family.

This isn't the first time, though. He's been through this before and he's come through, right? So it's gonna be okay.

A pause as he weighs the next words, if this feeble attempt at humour will even carry through via text:

Plus. Klaus is a stubborn son-of-a-bitch.