she’s seen rage like this. she knows the difference between someone who feels that pain out of love and someone who feels it out of hate, and john luther would love – every single time. anger: it’s an illness. it’s toxic, spreads from the heart and into one’s limbs, one’s fingertips, one’s veins, until finally blood pumps black, and eyes see nothing. she couldn’t will it away, couldn’t make it stop, but she could know better. and she does.
he drops. his eyes sink. luther thinks she’s seen too much, maybe, worries she’s seen too much, maybe, worries she’ll leave, that she’ll pack her bags up and get on the next flight right out – whether to gotham or somewhere in italy, she’s sure he doesn’t know. and he has every right to worry; people these days think anything they don’t understand is worth being feared, don’t they? but the idea of john luther doing anything like what he did to that wall just now to selina kyle was such a laughable idea that, instead, she steps forward, calmly, soft features wearing something a little more comforting than the look of surprise that had just played out on her features only moments before.
slowly, gently, she reaches forward to take his hand out of his pocket – the very one that’d punched a hole in the dry wall, raw and red, a reminder of whatever had just happened at his colleagues’ expenses. what did happen, she didn’t know. what did happen would worry her, until she did know, but she’d hold off. that information didn’t matter nearly as much as he did, in this moment. normally, she’d laugh at him at the slightest hint of anger, giggles escaping her lips at the way his nose scrunched and his mouth hung open, but not today. she presses his knuckles right to her lips, a reassurance.
“If you don’t wanna tell me what happened, I’m okay with that. But –” another pause. the environment isn’t good for him. she glances again at that hole in the wall, thinks it’s going to be a reminder for whatever it was that started this whole thing. “– Maybe we oughta get outta here. You know, get some fresh air. Coffee, maybe. What do you say?”
That’s it now -- she’s seen the bad tempered fit that he’d alluded to over the past few months... although he hasn’t specifically sat her down and explained, he has alerted her that he does in fact have anger management problems. He didn’t want this to be how the actual subject was broached however ;; her first sight upon her returning after a several weeks apart is him mid-meltdown, and he was as sure as anything that it would scare her off. Which is why he’s so taken aback when he feels her hand wrap around his own -- his gaze lifting from downward to watch when she kisses his knuckles. His brows furrow and he’s CONFUSED, but he doesn’t press it... she hasn’t walked out and she’s being affectionate, and it’s a miracle as far as he’s concerned. His fist is painful, sure, but adrenaline is still surging through him... and either luckily or unluckily he won’t feel the brunt of his actions until he’s calmed down.
He’ll tell her ;; has to, has to explain what evoked such a reaction from him. There’s a sigh, free hand running over his face in aggravation, until he nods. He slips his hand into hers and grabs his keys, phone and badge from his desk, putting them into the pocket of his coat. Without a word he leads her into the bullpen and they’re immediately greeted with guilty stares, of which John pretends not to notice lest his temper be reignited. It’s a short walk to the lift and, once inside, he looks sideways at her.
❝ usual place ye? ---- sorry. ❞
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