It's still there--the hesitation. The moment when he finally decides to step inside and close the door behind him, and she can still count the number of times he's done that in all these years on one hadn't, can't she? (And what does that say?) She swears she can even catch it. The remotest shift in his posture as the doorknob clicks into the doorframe behind him, and Allison wonders which part of that might be the most to it.
She feels the small sound in her throat -- like the removal of an escape, or like it shifts the balance of the little space, that she feels more possessive of than expected -- but the tension in her shoulders is only growing as he takes his time. Closing the door. Looking around the room again. Deciding to settle into the chair, she doesn't use it as much as she thought she would when she moved it out and in again. Maybe if there was more light in here. Maybe if it didn't remind her of things (and people) it isn't.
One of her eyebrows rises when Luther decides he should go from 'we should talk -- it's not serious' to complimenting the chair that's definitely been sitting there for any number of months. Rambling about it, like it's a lifeline somehow to keep him from whatever it is he's not starting, and at least one of them can be a little more direct about that.
Allison's agreement is noncommital, shifting into, "But it wouldn't fit. Not unless I decided to remove this--" With a gestured at the bed under her. She likes this house, has nothing terrible to say about it, but they were very different places, with very different purposes, picked for different groups of people.
Especially when everything had shrunk down to hovering in the den most. Still, Allison isn't the one for distractions. "You wanted to discuss something with me? Which, unless I'm wrong, probably isn't about furniture for your room?"
no subject
She feels the small sound in her throat -- like the removal of an escape, or like it shifts the balance of the little space, that she feels more possessive of than expected -- but the tension in her shoulders is only growing as he takes his time. Closing the door. Looking around the room again. Deciding to settle into the chair, she doesn't use it as much as she thought she would when she moved it out and in again. Maybe if there was more light in here. Maybe if it didn't remind her of things (and people) it isn't.
One of her eyebrows rises when Luther decides he should go from 'we should talk -- it's not serious' to complimenting the chair that's definitely been sitting there for any number of months. Rambling about it, like it's a lifeline somehow to keep him from whatever it is he's not starting, and at least one of them can be a little more direct about that.
Allison's agreement is noncommital, shifting into, "But it wouldn't fit. Not unless I decided to remove this--" With a gestured at the bed under her. She likes this house, has nothing terrible to say about it, but they were very different places, with very different purposes, picked for different groups of people.
Especially when everything had shrunk down to hovering in the den most. Still, Allison isn't the one for distractions. "You wanted to discuss something with me? Which, unless I'm wrong, probably isn't about furniture for your room?"