#00.02 Diego Hargreeves 🔪 The Kraken (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deadlycurves) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
f20202020-09-08 07:05 am
deadlycurves) wrote in f20202020-09-08 07:05 am
deadlycurves) wrote in f20202020-09-08 07:05 am
no subject
Does she mean what people around Krakoa are saying? Does she mean that she's been asked about the subject before discreetly by someone on The Council? Neither would be precisely wrong. But neither is as simple as any of those words she said. Either of them has said.
"I'm not too worried about yesterday--"
She knows herself. She doesn't want to think about it. She will. Later. Every day. Every person. The thought that could have been her. The way it will only score in every single other person had this not when she couldn't do more than long with a quite, biting jealousy, but because she could have and she missed that. She let those happen.
"--if there's a tomorrow." It catches in her teeth, only the second after she says that last word, and it's impulsive. The word that crowds up to her tongue. Her lips. It still feels like reaching, except that it's gone electric. Because he is still pressed, so close his arms, framing her where she's sitting.
Her eyes never leave his. "Tonight."
Does she even have a clue if she means this or more? Would it matter in the slightest? Was there anything she wouldn't give to him, didn't want him already to have? Have had for all those yesterdays? Especially if she didn't have to keep pulling back, keeping reminding herself to think of Claire, and Claire's safety, Claire's happiness, instead of herself.
Getting to have all three feels almost too bigger than she could ever deserve. But she's never done well at letting go of even the things she didn't deserve. And letting go of any part of Luther was a thing she'd refused since at least eleven or twelve, narrowing her eyes at Diego, and arrogantly ending up as the one Luther chose again and again and again, Three instead of Two. Always more hers even if it never crossed that line.
It's always been always. Even tell him not to, she's stuck there, too. She doesn't want to be. Wants to be here. Lets herself tug him closer again to her. Gaze sweeping his face, settling for those just slightly longer seconds on his eyes, on his mouth. Lets herself kiss him. Not a punctuation on her sentences like his had been. Not the way they'd slammed straight front one room to another to this table. Not like that insane leap -- still too much a damn risk of ruin -- with him too close, with her will just crumbling against it.
She leans in and lets her lips touch his. Lets it be. Softer. Slower. Lets it be a statement in itself. Not a question. Not a demand. Not stolen unexpected. Just be those words she said when he gave her to out. Just that she's always loved him. Just that the door, any door, and every door, was open, was his. She was.
end or yours to wrap!
Never in the world had there been two words that could be so simple, yet also promise so much, that could make his heartbeat thunder in his ears and his words catch in his throat and his mouth go dry as he loses the ability to respond. He's still stunned into silence for a second, thinking through the implications, the possibilities.
Then: "'That I have perceived nothing completely, that tomorrow a new walk is a new walk,'" Luther says, and his voice has that gentle rhythmic cadence that she can recognise so well, which means he's quoting... something. That mental archive runs deep and she can usually recognise the classical quotations that he'd memorised from Shakespeare, from Homer, but this particular line of poetry is unfamiliar. But it doesn't matter, because the sentiment's still there, resting on another man's language to get the point across. And finally he's able to muster up two words of his own, and it's just a simple: "Can we," he asks, and she's mouthing Yes against his lips, his mouth.
They could wait. They could take this slow.
But they've waited more than long enough. Over ten years, by latest reckoning. Long past any attempt at patience to hold them back tonight (tonight, and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow). All the doors and windows are slamming open, and Allison's arms are still draped around his neck, and so it's easy enough for Luther's hands to slide down and pick her up into his arms, her legs hooking around his hips. They're still kissing dizzily as he starts walking, barely able to keep their hands off each other — maneuvering through the hallway, Luther stubs his foot on an endtable, swears low and under his breath against her throat while she muffles another laugh, shushing him again, trying not to wake Claire. He's trying to navigate his way half-blind through the familiar muted darkness of Allison's house, over to the unfamiliar muted darkness of her bedroom, the place he's never gone. He nudges the door shut behind them with a foot.
There's unexplored territory behind that door, in her bed, beneath the layers of clothing that they work their way under with roaming hands.
It's the first time, and about damned time — and with years more to come.