[ If she doesn't answer -- and she doesn't, doesn't even lift her thumb like she's considering how to phrase the responses at all -- it's not that she's not answering. It's not even that she's refusing.
It's that he really will be here soon enough.
And he really will bring her water and aspirin even if she doesn't.
And it still hurts. More than her head does. More than waking up without pants is annoying. And embarrassing. And stupid. Childish. She can hear the therapist voice in her head, not that she's telling her this -- How does that make you feel? and Do you think that was a wise choice? and What other ways could you have handled this?
And she just lays her phone on her chest and studies the ornate, inlaid ceiling, waiting for Luther. ]
[Of course he will bring her what she wants, whether he gets his answer or not. He comes downstairs carrying pants and water, along with a bottle of pain killers. It isn't hard to guess she was out enjoying herself...
A little too much.
Luther fights back the worry that flares up and focuses on just helping for now. Helping and hoping she talks to him.]
[ That dusty bigs house can swallow sounds at times, but when it's just her, laying in the silence, listening to it throb just from nothing, it's impossible not to hear Luther coming. Those silent steps of childhood another thing of the long gone past. Allison shifted her gaze to the doorway he came in through, pushing herself up gingerly, at least meeting his eyes for a second, before she was shifting. Sliding a foot under her, while making sure the blanket stayed covering her.
The world is too bright and too noisy, and even at the same time as she feels incredibly stupid, and like the last thing she wants him to see is this, she can't help also feeling like it's better him than anyone else. That she doesn't have the manic need to wrap it neatly and pretend with him. She can just rub her cheek, instead of her eyes, and reach out for the water that he brought. ]
[He passes her the glass and then holds out the bottle. He doesn't have a vast amount of experience with hangovers, but he's learned a thing or two recently.]
Take a couple of these.
[The clothes, he places down beside her before he moves to take a seat quietly.]
[ Allison isn't certain it would easier with the ability to talk, but she's only ever made more aware of how impossible it is when she has to collect her thoughts, if not her pride, which is somewhere else, maybe it crawled under this couch hours ago and never came back, against the dull throbbing in her head.
She held Luther's gaze for a moment. A turbulent collision of regret, frustration, and something all too clearly still pain. One that didn't come from her head. One that went nowhere from standing on her chest still. Even as she worked on opening the bottle and swallowing down some of the pills first. At once so tempted to give in, give over, something unchecking just at the sound of his voice, at seeing his face, hearing his voice.
And almost suddenly frustrated it had ended up being him to answer, too.
Because she might have managed to find a way to say nothing at all. With anyone else. ]
[Luther watches her, studies her quietly. As much as things have changed, part of him still feels like... he knows her. Knows her well enough to know what a single gaze can mean, to see everything that seems to be building up inside of her.
Or maybe it's just wishful thinking, longing for the past when they'd tell each other everything.
Whatever it is, it prompts him to reach out, resting his hand over her free one carefully.]
... It's okay. [It's not, not really... but Luther doesn't want to push her into anything right now.] Do you want to get some more rest? Maybe we can get you up to bed instead.
[ It's almost hard to hear the reluctant give he offers up freely, even just half a minute into sitting down. The one she knows exists. Acknowledged could, would, if she chose it, before he even appeared. Except that isn't the part that makes it hard to hear. It's the way, for a few seconds, her focus skips, a bit like a record, a bit like a singular tunnel in waking to this haze, after his hand covers her.
Steady and solid, heavier than it used to be, yet so carefully placed.
It would take so little to turn her hand over.
Again. Like that first night. Again. Like in the phone booth.
(There's so much that aches there, too.)
It's almost worse than the words. It means what they say, but it's more, somehow, too. Luther just wanting to be there. Whatever she determines there means or doesn't mean. The one person she told everything for half her life, and that she never had so freely after with anyone. And never even close, without the comparison to it. Him. Them. Then.
Allison pulled in a breath and pushed it through her nose, her shoulders giving a little more. She picked up her phone from the blankets on her lap, opening it, again. Touching a handful of buttons with the edge of her thumb. Pulling up a voicemail and tapping it to play. If he happens to be looking close enough, it reads Patrick where the name is, but when he puts it to his ear, it'll be the all too newly familiar voice of Claire. ]
[He watches her so carefully, every emotion that flits across her face as if he can read what's actually going on in her head with a look. Maybe at one time, when they share absolutely everything, he thought he could. Maybe he'd been able to guess.
He doesn't have to guess long when she plays the voicemail though, Claire's voice coming through. He tilts his head, listens to it play. Ah... okay. It makes sense... at least more than it had when he received her message this morning. Letting out a breath, Luther does the only thing he knows to do--
He shifts forward once it ends and settles next to her on the couch and brings an arm around her, pulls her in to a careful embrace.]
I'm sorry... [He murmurs.] I know this is hard for you...
[ For a moment Allison froze, a strange stagger to her thoughts. Where no one has touched her during in the better part of a year, and before that, the better part of half a decade, even Patrick knew better than to touch her, except carefully, like a litmus test on a bomb, if she was angry or hurt.
But Luther isn't Patrick. Luther isn't.
No one on the planet is Luther. No one else. No one ever had been. Could be. Even come close.
She's not sure if it's better, like she can breathe a little deeper, or worse, like she might tear up, again, as he starts talking into her hair in the same second she finally starts to relax a little. Hard is such an understatement. Hard was leaving this place. Hard was coming back. Hard was not talking. And breathing being strange all together now, impossible to take for granted.
Not having Claire? Not even being able to say a single word to her now, when words were all she'd even had to hold her through the last months? Was a constant reminder of how much just living could feel like dying. Hyperbolic, her therapist would say. Stupid, she'll say later. It doesn't change -- even if she lets herself close her eyes against him -- that it feels just like bleeding out on the cabin floor did. Except for every day, without end, without a wound to point to that anyone can see. ]
[He wishes he could-- fix this. Make everything better for her somehow. He wishes none of it had happened and she at least had her voice because he can't imagine what this must be like for her. He can't do anything besides hold on though.
Hold on and press a soft kiss to her head.]
We'll make it okay somehow... Okay? I'll do whatever I have to.
[Not that there's a lot he can do, but hopefully it'll-- help. Maybe it will soothe some of the hurt she's feeling, some of the hopelessness.]
You're going to see Claire again-- and you're going to hold her again, no matter what.
[ It's her faith in Klaus and the will of the drunken that made her sure they did even before she asked. One broken bottle was hardly a hazard long. Aside from the floor. But, honestly, glass shards didn't even rank as existing at all on an actual threat meter in their world.
And. Fine. It was maybe just the smallest bit cute. Stupidly. Picturing Luther and Klaus surrounded by a field of donut boxes, drinking. ]
Me? Have faith in you? Where would you ever get a silly idea like that?
EPISTOLARY • adjective, formal. involving or consisting of letter writing.
There's not that much to do, even after he's meticulously noted down all the new readings, listened to the meaningless distortion coming from outer space, and measured the steady tick of radio waves emanating from the Earth (sometimes he tunes into an oldies station and enjoys the distant staticky crackle of music from far away, the nearest thing he can get up here to his vinyl records).
Nothing ever happens.
It doesn't mean the threats aren't out there, though. So Luther keeps neat and orderly notes. A daily log. There are notebooks and notebooks, and measurements and measurements to pin down, to keep himself busy — and even then, there's not enough to fill up all those hours. He reads. He works out in the low gravity, as best he can in that tight and cramped space, trying to keep his muscles from atrophying (he doesn't entirely succeed). He reads. And reads.
And after a while, he starts to repurpose some of those notebooks for something other than their intended purpose, and starts to write.
( Scraps of paper and experimental poetry, crumpled up and thrown into the recycler: )
for the third, who is also the first in
for the only girl who ever
there are 8760 hours in a year and until now—i had never considered the weight of those particular numbe
( A piece of paper carefully-copied out by hand, folded neatly in half as if meant to go into an envelope. And then, it's eventually tucked away between the pages of another book, forgotten and unsent. )
Among the men and women the multitude, I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs, Acknowledging none else, not parent, wife, husband, brother, child, any nearer than I am, Some are baffled, but that one is not—that one knows me.
Ah lover and perfect equal, I meant that you should discover me so by my faint indirections, And I when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you.
— "AMONG THE MULTITUDE", WALT WHITMAN
( Letters, unfinished and also angrily crumpled. )
Dear Allison, My dearest, Allison Rumor— Dear
To Allison Hargreeves, I feel incomplete without
( In the end, this is what finally makes it down from Lunar Base #00.01 in a capsule, earmarked for Pogo, and the butler forwards it onto the latest address he had on record for Allison Hargreeves, Los Angeles, California, USA. )
A, How's LA? It looks like you're taking it by storm these days — Pogo sends me copies of your interviews sometimes. Seeing you in magazines again reminds me so much of the old days, so I guess some things haven't actually changed that much. Pogo and I caught the first Love on Loan before I shipped out, and watched it together; it was really funny. You looked ni
The mission goes on and on. I haven't given interviews in a while, but that's because there honestly isn't that much to report. Guess no news is good news when it comes to alien invasions though, haha—
I know we haven't spoken in a while, and I don't really know anything about your life out west. But I'd like to, if you want to tell me about it. I don't know if you actually want to answer this. But if you write back to the house, Pogo ought to be able to get a reply up to me in the next supply shuttle. It's quiet up here; it'd be nice to read your words for a change, instead of all these books.
I miss you.
– L.
( Unfortunately, by the time it arrives she's already moved on to a larger house in a better zipcode, cutting her teeth on an even larger paycheck. The letter returns to the Academy mansion two weeks later, post-marked UNDELIVERABLE: RETURN TO SENDER. )
Vanya can't sleep. She's going through that time of life where no matter how hard she tries, she can't fall asleep before two or three in the morning, even when Dad insists on waking them all up at six. It's miserable.
She can't practice violin in the middle of the night, so Vanya has taken up walking around when she can't fall asleep, ghostly wanderings through the empty mansion. But tonight, she sees light in the attic. Vanya frowns, figuring that it's probably Klaus smoking again, but lacking anything else to do, she goes to investigate.
What she doesn't expect to see is Allison all alone up there with a lamp, surrounded by magazines.
"Allison?" Vanya mumbles as she climbs into the attic. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust, but then she sees the covers of the magazines.
Oh.
Vanya's cheeks turn red, her eyes lingering on the covers. Beautiful men and women naked, bearing themselves to the photographer with their lips parted just a little.
Are you looking at like a "we need to go out for this" upscale/downscale wine drinking or like "bring me as many bottles as fit in your purse" kind of wine share?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
numberthree) wrote2019-03-13 09:06 pm
For Luther (@paulbunyan)
three. For the love of god, if any of you are up, bring me pants.
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I woke up without them?
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But I can bring you some, sure. Are you not in your bedroom?
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On the couch.
[ She hesitates, frowning.
But. It is Luther.
And he'll be here soon anyway.
Then.]
Bring me some water and asprin, too?
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[No pants and a hangover? When that happened to him, there really-- wasn't much good that came of it.]
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It's that he really will be here soon enough.
And he really will bring her water and aspirin even if she doesn't.
And it still hurts. More than her head does. More than waking up without pants is annoying. And embarrassing. And stupid. Childish. She can hear the therapist voice in her head, not that she's telling her this -- How does that make you feel? and Do you think that was a wise choice? and What other ways could you have handled this?
And she just lays her phone on her chest and studies the ornate, inlaid ceiling, waiting for Luther. ]
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A little too much.
Luther fights back the worry that flares up and focuses on just helping for now. Helping and hoping she talks to him.]
Hey- still awake?
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The world is too bright and too noisy, and even at the same time as she feels incredibly stupid, and like the last thing she wants him to see is this, she can't help also feeling like it's better him than anyone else. That she doesn't have the manic need to wrap it neatly and pretend with him. She can just rub her cheek, instead of her eyes, and reach out for the water that he brought. ]
no subject
Take a couple of these.
[The clothes, he places down beside her before he moves to take a seat quietly.]
So... do I get to know what happened last night?
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She held Luther's gaze for a moment. A turbulent collision of regret, frustration, and something all too clearly still pain. One that didn't come from her head. One that went nowhere from standing on her chest still. Even as she worked on opening the bottle and swallowing down some of the pills first. At once so tempted to give in, give over, something unchecking just at the sound of his voice, at seeing his face, hearing his voice.
And almost suddenly frustrated it had ended up being him to answer, too.
Because she might have managed to find a way to say nothing at all. With anyone else. ]
no subject
Or maybe it's just wishful thinking, longing for the past when they'd tell each other everything.
Whatever it is, it prompts him to reach out, resting his hand over her free one carefully.]
... It's okay. [It's not, not really... but Luther doesn't want to push her into anything right now.] Do you want to get some more rest? Maybe we can get you up to bed instead.
no subject
Steady and solid, heavier than it used to be, yet so carefully placed.
It would take so little to turn her hand over.
Again. Like that first night.
Again. Like in the phone booth.
It's almost worse than the words. It means what they say, but it's more, somehow, too. Luther just wanting to be there. Whatever she determines there means or doesn't mean. The one person she told everything for half her life, and that she never had so freely after with anyone. And never even close, without the comparison to it. Him. Them. Then.
Allison pulled in a breath and pushed it through her nose, her shoulders giving a little more. She picked up her phone from the blankets on her lap, opening it, again. Touching a handful of buttons with the edge of her thumb. Pulling up a voicemail and tapping it to play. If he happens to be looking close enough, it reads Patrick where the name is, but when he puts it to his ear, it'll be the all too newly familiar voice of Claire. ]
no subject
He doesn't have to guess long when she plays the voicemail though, Claire's voice coming through. He tilts his head, listens to it play. Ah... okay. It makes sense... at least more than it had when he received her message this morning. Letting out a breath, Luther does the only thing he knows to do--
He shifts forward once it ends and settles next to her on the couch and brings an arm around her, pulls her in to a careful embrace.]
I'm sorry... [He murmurs.] I know this is hard for you...
no subject
But Luther isn't Patrick. Luther isn't.
No one on the planet is Luther. No one else.
No one ever had been. Could be. Even come close.
She's not sure if it's better, like she can breathe a little deeper, or worse, like she might tear up, again, as he starts talking into her hair in the same second she finally starts to relax a little. Hard is such an understatement. Hard was leaving this place. Hard was coming back. Hard was not talking. And breathing being strange all together now, impossible to take for granted.
Not having Claire? Not even being able to say a single word to her now, when words were all she'd even had to hold her through the last months? Was a constant reminder of how much just living could feel like dying. Hyperbolic, her therapist would say. Stupid, she'll say later. It doesn't change -- even if she lets herself close her eyes against him -- that it feels just like bleeding out on the cabin floor did. Except for every day, without end, without a wound to point to that anyone can see. ]
no subject
Hold on and press a soft kiss to her head.]
We'll make it okay somehow... Okay? I'll do whatever I have to.
[Not that there's a lot he can do, but hopefully it'll-- help. Maybe it will soothe some of the hurt she's feeling, some of the hopelessness.]
You're going to see Claire again-- and you're going to hold her again, no matter what.
TFLN - July 31st
Luther's Cont.
[ Rrrriiggghht. ]
And you didn't think to ask if anyone else wanted any?
no subject
[ is he a little tipsy too, miraculously? maybe ]
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Are you sure we're talking about the same Diego? Taller than me?
Black spandex and shitkicker boots? All heavy stride and woeful vigilante poses?
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And yet, our living room is nothing like a roof top. It's incredibly well lit even.
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Trying to get a bottle open without breaking it
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Don't keep your audience in suspense, Luther.
Did the bottle at least make it?
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The second one didn't.
[ Super-strength, inebriation, and the delicate act of extracting a cork did not mix well. ]
no subject
I'm assuming the floor and the third bottle survived?
no subject
The floor's kinda sticky and needs to be cleaned up from the cocktail spill, but. It survived.
no subject
And. Fine. It was maybe just the smallest bit cute. Stupidly.
Picturing Luther and Klaus surrounded by a field of donut boxes, drinking. ]
Me? Have faith in you?
Where would you ever get a silly idea like that?
EPISTOLARY • adjective, formal. involving or consisting of letter writing.
Nothing ever happens.
It doesn't mean the threats aren't out there, though. So Luther keeps neat and orderly notes. A daily log. There are notebooks and notebooks, and measurements and measurements to pin down, to keep himself busy — and even then, there's not enough to fill up all those hours. He reads. He works out in the low gravity, as best he can in that tight and cramped space, trying to keep his muscles from atrophying (he doesn't entirely succeed). He reads. And reads.
And after a while, he starts to repurpose some of those notebooks for something other than their intended purpose, and starts to write.
Among the men and women the multitude,
I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,
Acknowledging none else, not parent, wife, husband, brother, child, any nearer than I am,
Some are baffled, but that one is not—that one knows me.
Ah lover and perfect equal,
I meant that you should discover me so by my faint indirections,
And I when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you.
— "AMONG THE MULTITUDE", WALT WHITMAN
A,
How's LA? It looks like you're taking it by storm these days — Pogo sends me copies of your interviews sometimes. Seeing you in magazines again reminds me so much of the old days, so I guess some things haven't actually changed that much. Pogo and I caught the first Love on Loan before I shipped out, and watched it together; it was really funny.
You looked niThe mission goes on and on. I haven't given interviews in a while, but that's because there honestly isn't that much to report. Guess no news is good news when it comes to alien invasions though, haha—
I know we haven't spoken in a while, and I don't really know anything about your life out west. But I'd like to, if you want to tell me about it.
I don't know if you actually want to answer this. But if you write back to the house, Pogo ought to be able to get a reply up to me in the next supply shuttle. It's quiet up here; it'd be nice to read your words for a change, instead of all these books.
I miss you.– L.
( Unfortunately, by the time it arrives she's already moved on to a larger house in a better zipcode, cutting her teeth on an even larger paycheck. The letter returns to the Academy mansion two weeks later, post-marked UNDELIVERABLE: RETURN TO SENDER. )
Thirsty Thursday
Vanya can't sleep. She's going through that time of life where no matter how hard she tries, she can't fall asleep before two or three in the morning, even when Dad insists on waking them all up at six. It's miserable.
She can't practice violin in the middle of the night, so Vanya has taken up walking around when she can't fall asleep, ghostly wanderings through the empty mansion. But tonight, she sees light in the attic. Vanya frowns, figuring that it's probably Klaus smoking again, but lacking anything else to do, she goes to investigate.
What she doesn't expect to see is Allison all alone up there with a lamp, surrounded by magazines.
"Allison?" Vanya mumbles as she climbs into the attic. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust, but then she sees the covers of the magazines.
Oh.
Vanya's cheeks turn red, her eyes lingering on the covers. Beautiful men and women naked, bearing themselves to the photographer with their lips parted just a little.
"S-sorry," Vanya says. "Am I disturbing you?"
Five-Aged-Up-Post-S2 AU
Allison. I need your help. And also wine.
Mostly wine.
no subject
I can definitely make that happen.
Are you looking at like a "we need to go out for this" upscale/downscale wine drinking or like "bring me as many bottles as fit in your purse" kind of wine share?
no subject
I am in my apartment. No boys allowed.