It looks like a statement, but there's a question sitting underneath it instead, and he knows exactly what it is. What it's getting at. When Allison announces that she's done and Luther turns around, there's a strange, strained expression on his face. Stiff. Uncomfortable. He hadn't ever expected this to come up again, or come up properly. Had hoped they could just sweep it under the rug permanently.
But Allison is Allison, and if there's anybody he's honest with, it's her. Even before she got that lie detection power.
"You weren't, no," he says, and there's something so delicately careful about the way he says that. As if he's any more careless with his words, he might shatter and come apart entirely.
He'd almost told Vanya, of all people, about it. A long furious communicator message that went scrapped, unsent, deleted from his screen before he could let any of those words slip. He hasn't told anyone. Had wanted to bury this as deep and low and smothered as possible. For a fleeting while, he'd considered talking to Five about it, considering his brother must be one of the few people on this whole damned planet who knows what it's like (Delores)— But then Five was gone, whisked away from them again, and Luther hadn't had anyone to talk to.
When Allison looks at him, she can see right through him. The corner of Luther's mouth twitches; he's trying to smile reassuringly, but can't. There's nothing reassuring about this. And how in the hell does he explain it?
I lost it, for a while, up there.
The pause goes on too long, before he manages to scrape something together. "I... read about it afterwards," he says. Approaching the subject askance, from the side. "It's the lack of stimuli. The monotony. Your brain tries to fill it up with something. Visuals, sounds. They've done studies. It happens."
As if he can make this sound impersonal and scientific, parse it down to logic and rationale and research, as if it makes complete sense and as if it wasn't him. As if it's a piece of information, rather than something that he went through.
no subject
But Allison is Allison, and if there's anybody he's honest with, it's her. Even before she got that lie detection power.
"You weren't, no," he says, and there's something so delicately careful about the way he says that. As if he's any more careless with his words, he might shatter and come apart entirely.
He'd almost told Vanya, of all people, about it. A long furious communicator message that went scrapped, unsent, deleted from his screen before he could let any of those words slip. He hasn't told anyone. Had wanted to bury this as deep and low and smothered as possible. For a fleeting while, he'd considered talking to Five about it, considering his brother must be one of the few people on this whole damned planet who knows what it's like (Delores)— But then Five was gone, whisked away from them again, and Luther hadn't had anyone to talk to.
When Allison looks at him, she can see right through him. The corner of Luther's mouth twitches; he's trying to smile reassuringly, but can't. There's nothing reassuring about this. And how in the hell does he explain it?
I lost it, for a while, up there.
The pause goes on too long, before he manages to scrape something together. "I... read about it afterwards," he says. Approaching the subject askance, from the side. "It's the lack of stimuli. The monotony. Your brain tries to fill it up with something. Visuals, sounds. They've done studies. It happens."
As if he can make this sound impersonal and scientific, parse it down to logic and rationale and research, as if it makes complete sense and as if it wasn't him. As if it's a piece of information, rather than something that he went through.