The slight raise of an eyebrow; nowhere near the sardonic looks she's mastered, but still a flicker of half-incredulity half-bemusement from him. "Uh, you saw it," Luther says. "Today."

But even that isn't the full picture, really. The real question is: how long have you been thinking about it?

Every day. In constant futility back home, the one thing he'd asked and demanded and pleaded his father to fucking fix, and Sir Reginald had been unable to. Every damn day for four— no, five years now. Reinforced and amplified every time this world served him up another reminder of what he'd been.

He crosses his arms, too, unintentionally mirroring Allison's body language. It's easier than wondering what the hell to do with his hands, whether or not to stand up, or if he's still going to be stuck in this chair with his chin tipped up forever, looking at her.