When her head tips against his shoulder, jotting so neatly into that exact spot where she's always fit like the missing piece of a jigshaw puzzle, Luther is thrown so askew at first that he doesn't notice the pop-up in his vision. Can't focus and concentrate on reading the message, until he takes a deep breath, and then he forces himself to read through her words. She remembered the e.e. cummings poem (of course she would). It's one of the ones he'd liked but never quite clicked with, but he can see, now, how it was just sitting there waiting for her life experience instead. Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands. This infinitely precious, tiny thing, Claire an inextricable piece of her.
somewhere i have never travelled—
(How goddamned apropos.)
And what she did, it's a horrible thing. Both horrible and yet terrifyingly understandable (because who wouldn't? when handed omnipotence and the easy path on a platter, who wouldn't take it? for a few more quiet moments, for a few more hours of sleep, for a better day, for a happier family, for fewer complications—). And yet, when Luther tries to look at the situation from all its various angles, he can't be repulsed by it the way some might be. He sees all these parts of her, accepts them all. He hadn't met Allison Hargreeves as the too-perfect shining actress, cleaned up for the front pages; he'd known her when they were all monstrous, together.
He should be horrified, probably. But their father had twisted and skewed and warped them all until all they could see were the brutal efficiencies, no matter the cost that came with them. And it's seeing those ripples and echoes still playing out across her, across her life.
If they all thought they'd extricated themselves from Reginald by moving away a decade ago, they were fucking kidding themselves. They'd still been as tied to that man as ever.
Luther's not going to lie and tell Allison that it's okay, that anyone would've done it in her position (because the latter might be true but the first thing isn't). So, in the end, he settles for: "But you learned, though."
Which was more than you could say for everyone else. Not everyone in the world learned from their mistakes. They could be dogs chasing their own tails, caught in a rut, Luther among them.
"You forgot it, for a while. But you know it now."
no subject
somewhere i have never travelled—
(How goddamned apropos.)
And what she did, it's a horrible thing. Both horrible and yet terrifyingly understandable (because who wouldn't? when handed omnipotence and the easy path on a platter, who wouldn't take it? for a few more quiet moments, for a few more hours of sleep, for a better day, for a happier family, for fewer complications—). And yet, when Luther tries to look at the situation from all its various angles, he can't be repulsed by it the way some might be. He sees all these parts of her, accepts them all. He hadn't met Allison Hargreeves as the too-perfect shining actress, cleaned up for the front pages; he'd known her when they were all monstrous, together.
He should be horrified, probably. But their father had twisted and skewed and warped them all until all they could see were the brutal efficiencies, no matter the cost that came with them. And it's seeing those ripples and echoes still playing out across her, across her life.
If they all thought they'd extricated themselves from Reginald by moving away a decade ago, they were fucking kidding themselves. They'd still been as tied to that man as ever.
Luther's not going to lie and tell Allison that it's okay, that anyone would've done it in her position (because the latter might be true but the first thing isn't). So, in the end, he settles for: "But you learned, though."
Which was more than you could say for everyone else. Not everyone in the world learned from their mistakes. They could be dogs chasing their own tails, caught in a rut, Luther among them.
"You forgot it, for a while. But you know it now."