Allison watches him wrestle with the words. The shift of his eyes over it again and again. And again. The faintest washes of almost-expressions on his face. The near imperceptible way his shoulders, his whole upper body, almost moves but doesn't.
Fallibility was never a thing Luther believed in. Still isn't. That's the whole reason she's sitting hereafter only somehow stumbling on what he'd finally decided to do. Because he didn't want her, or anyone, to even know that this existed. And would she have, if she hadn't been aimlessly scrolling? Would she have been too late?
Was she? Or was it all beginning still, right here, right now.
A tenuous vine, trying to wait through his silence, even though she'd probably have added more words if speaking was an option. But she already threw enough at him -- or too much, she didn't know. She sat on the thousand words circling, more so after the recklessness desperation of moments ago. But he focused back on her, and she stopped curving one of her manicured nails inside the other in her lap.
She didn't know what her expression was for that.
All of her worst moments, her worst mistakes, the sins she got to carry, she did that to herself. She chose those things. Did those things. Said those words. It wasn't the same. He -- hated? -- what their Father had done to him, in the course of saving. She hated herself often enough, for things only she was responsible for.
Except it's not that simple either. For all that they don't talk about it, what they've seen since coming here, Luther's greatest regret, whether it had to do with her or not, was not leaving that day, that morning, when she came to get him. Was a stab of culpability lain blank and bare, almost too?
He chose to stay. Chose their Father. Even after deciding not to.
Didn't we start there? In the family room. Only days after getting back.
It's been a year and half, but it's impossible to forget so many of the moments from that week. Even for all the truly horrific things then, she can't forget the worst things she said to Vanya because of Patrick, or about implying with no subtly to Luther that she was broken and unfixable. And this place had taken him beat by beat through every red-handed reason for it.
You always could get me to say more than I meant to.
Not the angry words. The real ones. The true ones. The ones she hid so well from everyone else.
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Fallibility was never a thing Luther believed in. Still isn't. That's the whole reason she's sitting hereafter only somehow stumbling on what he'd finally decided to do. Because he didn't want her, or anyone, to even know that this existed. And would she have, if she hadn't been aimlessly scrolling? Would she have been too late?
Was she? Or was it all beginning still, right here, right now.
A tenuous vine, trying to wait through his silence, even though she'd probably have added more words if speaking was an option. But she already threw enough at him -- or too much, she didn't know. She sat on the thousand words circling, more so after the recklessness desperation of moments ago. But he focused back on her, and she stopped curving one of her manicured nails inside the other in her lap.
She didn't know what her expression was for that.
All of her worst moments, her worst mistakes, the sins she got to carry, she did that to herself. She chose those things. Did those things. Said those words. It wasn't the same. He -- hated? -- what their Father had done to him, in the course of saving. She hated herself often enough, for things only she was responsible for.
Except it's not that simple either. For all that they don't talk about it, what they've seen since coming here, Luther's greatest regret, whether it had to do with her or not, was not leaving that day, that morning, when she came to get him. Was a stab of culpability lain blank and bare, almost too?
He chose to stay. Chose their Father. Even after deciding not to.
Didn't we start there?
In the family room. Only days after getting back.
It's been a year and half, but it's impossible to forget so many of the moments from that week. Even for all the truly horrific things then, she can't forget the worst things she said to Vanya because of Patrick, or about implying with no subtly to Luther that she was broken and unfixable. And this place had taken him beat by beat through every red-handed reason for it.
You always could get me to say more than I meant to.
Not the angry words. The real ones. The true ones.
The ones she hid so well from everyone else.