"I know. I'm sorry." His voice is ragged; inadequate. Because there just isn't a neat and tidy answer to it all, no magical combination of the right words to dispel it all, no way to tell her that it's going to be okay. Because it isn't. Not until they make their way back. The government tells them that time in their universe is on hold until they go — Luther's placed his faith blindly in that, because for lack of anything else to build himself around, it seems as good as any other conviction. As necessary as anything else.

He can't even promise that they will be able to go back someday, because the Porter's been whimsical in who it's taken so far. Who it gives back.

So instead, his hand just tightens on Allison's; he shifts to get more comfortable, moving an arm around her shoulders instead. Picks through the words that sit on his tongue and that he would've spoken as Space, Number One, the team leader holding a crumbling teammate together by the skin of his teeth, the edge of his fingernails. But in the end, though, what he settles on is more words as just Luther, just him:

"One day at a time, Allison. That's all we can do."