Allison breathes in; most of it the unmistakable scent of Luther himself. Holding still, when Luther, himself, goes rigid. Heartbeats counting themselves as they paraded pounding in her ears. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting to see which of the two it would be, that might have him pull away. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting, until a breath finally, soundlessly, left her as Luther's shoulders relaxed. Not entirely, and not all at once. Almost tentatively, like testing the water, a breath he takes in, that shifts his whole body just a little, and her head against it.
It's not like being held, and for a second she can't help herself, though all of it paints her black.
The fierce ache for the overlooked safety of that being held close by Patrick. Lost. Missed. Impossible here and now. With Luther. To have. To not wish. To picture. Just for a second. Being on the other side of his arm, inside his arms. When even this alone was a risk, an overstep, likely only darkness and desperation permitted. Barely. That sore bleeding space that even in the ache of missing what she lost, of wanting what she can't have, and already acknowledging that even this little, this forbidden, crossed space, divulged of sins, is made of things she could never say to her husband when he still was her husband.
All of it like a litany that she got what she deserved, and deserved no more than she already had, and was taking more than it already.
Too late for it to do any good.
Not a question. Not looking up at him. Not something she could add more words to.
Too late for telling Vanya that where she belonged was with her daughter. Too late for telling Diego that if the world was going to end she needed to be with her daughter. Too late for telling the girl in her yellow dress, holding her shining chalice, I have to do it the right way. Too late. Too late. Too late. And they might never get home. Or it might be years. Or they might not save the world even if they did, but be trapped somewhere else. All those other options she tried so hard to scream out of existence in the daylight -- without the ability to even scream anymore.
Even whisper before the roar of it. This could be the first of many of these she'd have to have here. Months rolling by unchanging.
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It's not like being held, and for a second she can't help herself, though all of it paints her black.
The fierce ache for the overlooked safety of that being held close by Patrick. Lost. Missed. Impossible here and now. With Luther. To have. To not wish. To picture. Just for a second. Being on the other side of his arm, inside his arms. When even this alone was a risk, an overstep, likely only darkness and desperation permitted. Barely. That sore bleeding space that even in the ache of missing what she lost, of wanting what she can't have, and already acknowledging that even this little, this forbidden, crossed space, divulged of sins, is made of things she could never say to her husband when he still was her husband.
All of it like a litany that she got what she deserved,
and deserved no more than she already had,
and was taking more than it already.
Too late for it to do any good.
Not a question. Not looking up at him. Not something she could add more words to.
Too late for telling Vanya that where she belonged was with her daughter. Too late for telling Diego that if the world was going to end she needed to be with her daughter. Too late for telling the girl in her yellow dress, holding her shining chalice, I have to do it the right way. Too late. Too late. Too late. And they might never get home. Or it might be years. Or they might not save the world even if they did, but be trapped somewhere else. All those other options she tried so hard to scream out of existence in the daylight -- without the ability to even scream anymore.
Even whisper before the roar of it. This could be the first of many of these she'd have to have here. Months rolling by unchanging.