It's a distracted expression that's stolen over her some since her words, because they could be flippant. They're an answer without an answer. They're an answer that existed almost a year and half ago, and not a present answer at all, and he could press for it. Might. Does she still hate herself? Does she ever think to ask the question that bare? Was it easier to ask the questions that were serrated?
Who was she if she wasn't doing everything in her power to save her daughter? Who was she if she wasn't doing everything in her power to save her sister? Who was she if she wasn't doing everything in her power to save the world?
Was there any worth to her in a life where she had no voice, no powers, no job skills, and basically the only thing left to her was her pretty face. And more ruthless fight training than most people could imagine. Did she hate herself? Did she? When had it gotten so hard to answer that clearly, and how was she even supposed to sit fine with the fact she was pretty certain that it was Luther, sitting so close by, deep in his own gray clouds, that had so much to do with that uncertainty, too. Acceptance, deserved or not, was an addictive thing.
Allison blinked at Luther's words that came. Those two. Then, again, as it settled, confused. Not a judgement, even if she always waited for his judgement to finally callus over, looked for it and feared it and was grateful it didn't, all at once. Her own knotted tangle of deserved, not deserved, needed.
For a moment she wasn't sure if the apology was about making her say more than she meant, or for her potentially uncertain, and possibly downright unforgivable, digusted, unmendable, belief in herself, espoused in that second. Trying to rebuff him with her anger. Trying to make him disgusted at her. Trying to make him understand how despicable she'd become.
There was a faint huff out her nose when the words after made it not her, but him. An apology she wasn't sure she knew how to hold. Both didn't need and felt strangely unsettled to hear. Made something in her throat stick. Because it mattered. It matter so much, maybe even too much, everything whether Luther of all people considered her worth talking to. Trusting.
Even with these parts of himself.
Even the parts they'd hadn't hesitated to give so long ago.
Her lips pressed and her nose scrunched, a little less that something looking grateful and more like he didn't really need to say those words. Not even if she screamed. Or it hurt. She understood him too well. And if it buried under at least half of that muddled reaction, she still couldn't look away from the earnest apology in his blue eyes at first.
That other place. And the body swapping.
This place loves to fuck with everything.
There's no anger in the words when they come. It's solemn this time. Quiet dark eyes considering her words, considering her truths, how to put them together in a way that isn't screaming at him like he'd just cut her skin open, and the only response was to hit harder until she could be heard. The way she looks down, not even realizing she's reached a hand up to run her forefinger and thumb against the opposite sides of the locket, as her head tilts and she's focused on the air, obviously writing more.
You know that's what I'm worried about, right?
It's not that I don't understand why.
There's only so much that ever seems to go right here, and a lot that seems to go wrong before it even gets there.
She'd rather gut someone and leave them dead on the ground right in front of the Aegis building than see something hurt Luther more than the shadows in his eyes showing right now. This almost inability to even talk about it once he started. Even a year and half (and five or six) later. The depth of this. The self-imposed isolation and ownership of it. It hurt to even think about something having even a five percent chance of hurting him more.
no subject
Who was she if she wasn't doing everything in her power to save her daughter?
Who was she if she wasn't doing everything in her power to save her sister?
Who was she if she wasn't doing everything in her power to save the world?
Was there any worth to her in a life where she had no voice, no powers, no job skills, and basically the only thing left to her was her pretty face. And more ruthless fight training than most people could imagine. Did she hate herself? Did she? When had it gotten so hard to answer that clearly, and how was she even supposed to sit fine with the fact she was pretty certain that it was Luther, sitting so close by, deep in his own gray clouds, that had so much to do with that uncertainty, too. Acceptance, deserved or not, was an addictive thing.
Allison blinked at Luther's words that came. Those two. Then, again, as it settled, confused. Not a judgement, even if she always waited for his judgement to finally callus over, looked for it and feared it and was grateful it didn't, all at once. Her own knotted tangle of deserved, not deserved, needed.
For a moment she wasn't sure if the apology was about making her say more than she meant, or for her potentially uncertain, and possibly downright unforgivable, digusted, unmendable, belief in herself, espoused in that second. Trying to rebuff him with her anger. Trying to make him disgusted at her. Trying to make him understand how despicable she'd become.
There was a faint huff out her nose when the words after made it not her, but him. An apology she wasn't sure she knew how to hold. Both didn't need and felt strangely unsettled to hear. Made something in her throat stick. Because it mattered. It matter so much, maybe even too much, everything whether Luther of all people considered her worth talking to. Trusting.
Even with these parts of himself.
Even the parts they'd hadn't hesitated to give so long ago.
Her lips pressed and her nose scrunched, a little less that something looking grateful and more like he didn't really need to say those words. Not even if she screamed. Or it hurt. She understood him too well. And if it buried under at least half of that muddled reaction, she still couldn't look away from the earnest apology in his blue eyes at first.
That other place. And the body swapping.
This place loves to fuck with everything.
There's no anger in the words when they come. It's solemn this time. Quiet dark eyes considering her words, considering her truths, how to put them together in a way that isn't screaming at him like he'd just cut her skin open, and the only response was to hit harder until she could be heard. The way she looks down, not even realizing she's reached a hand up to run her forefinger and thumb against the opposite sides of the locket, as her head tilts and she's focused on the air, obviously writing more.
You know that's what I'm worried about, right?
It's not that I don't understand why.
There's only so much that ever seems to go right here,
and a lot that seems to go wrong before it even gets there.
She'd rather gut someone and leave them dead on the ground right in front of the Aegis building than see something hurt Luther more than the shadows in his eyes showing right now. This almost inability to even talk about it once he started. Even a year and half (and five or six) later. The depth of this. The self-imposed isolation and ownership of it. It hurt to even think about something having even a five percent chance of hurting him more.