Even though it's a lull in the conversation (which has felt like rough sandpaper on his skin, a heavy leaden stone in his stomach), it's not a dismissal; it's agreement. And Luther chews over that for a moment, uncertain how to fill up that silence — if they were anyone else, he should probably reach out to her. Take her hands. Something. (Once and only once did he slip, here, his lips grazing against the backs of her knuckles. Accidental muscle-memory from yet another life that hadn't, exactly, been his.)
But he can do this, at least: Luther reaches out and closes the laptop. Slides his chair away from the desk and stands up, rolling his shoulders back, as if he can shed that interminable weight. (He can't.)
"You wanna go have some dinner?" he asks.
It's not done, because it'll never be done. The subject isn't over. He'll likely go back to those conversations on the network later, those options, and she knows it — but it doesn't have to be right now, right under her nose, her attention and distress and panic burning a hole through the wall.
So instead, it's a break, a cease-fire. An apology. An until later.
no subject
But he can do this, at least: Luther reaches out and closes the laptop. Slides his chair away from the desk and stands up, rolling his shoulders back, as if he can shed that interminable weight. (He can't.)
"You wanna go have some dinner?" he asks.
It's not done, because it'll never be done. The subject isn't over. He'll likely go back to those conversations on the network later, those options, and she knows it — but it doesn't have to be right now, right under her nose, her attention and distress and panic burning a hole through the wall.
So instead, it's a break, a cease-fire. An apology. An until later.