He's still rooted in that seat, hands now clutching the arms of the chair and his body forcibly rigid — because if he gets up, he's going to loom, and he is always so, so careful to try not to loom or intimidate where it comes to her. (To anyone, when he doesn't have to.) And if he gets up, he might just start walking and never stop, walk right out of this room and leave this conversation behind. So Luther forces himself to be a statue, even though it grinds along all his muscles strung taut, his jaw gone tight.

And those words from her... should be a comfort and a reassurance, maybe.

But he can't believe them.

Like he'd said in private to the other anonymous commenter, the ghoul: They can swear up and down that it doesn't matter, but it's not normal, so of course it does matter.

So: "No," Luther says simply, and his voice is softer now, weary and so, so tired. "I'm not. We grew up on the front pages, Allison. I know what I'm supposed to look like."