#miindmoved

@miindmoved​ | morning after | accepting

❝ i’m not leaving you by yourself. ❞

Pain isn’t new to Luther. Even on his best days, his body creaks with pains. Sprained muscles. Bone-deep bruises. Cracked knuckles. Scabbed-over skin.  He’s durable and he heals fast but he’s never been invincible. The meat-grinder of training and missions has taken it’s toll on him. And every single new mission takes just a little bit more.

Failure isn’t new to him, either. The disasters of missions that leave him so broken and battered he can barely climb out of bed in the morning. In fact, they’d become increasingly more common since his siblings left. Since it’s just him.

This is new, though. Sophie sitting on the edge of his bed long after Dad had ordered Mom and Pogo away. He’s stabilized now; he’ll be fine soon. There’s no reason for someone to waste their time watching him over like this.

It takes all his energy to push himself upright to make himself slightly more presentable. He ends up leaning against his pillows instead of actually sitting up. His arms shake and he pulls the blankets up to cover the bruises on his torso. Cracked ribs were always messy. Sophie didn’t need to see that.

shitty horoscope starters // accepting !

He claps a hand to his chest in half-mock affront, looking at her as though she had just told him his goldfish had finally kicked the bucket. 

" Moi ? " 

Truthfully, he hadn't been expecting that. More so, he doesn't expect it to feel so accurate, which is doing a wonder for his general sense of self-being. He chalks it up to it sounding like the subtitle of a forgotten self-help book in a shitty rehab ‘library’ and shrugs it off.

Even as much as Klaus would like to blame the dear, departed Reginald for each and every bad decision ( which he could, rest his rotten soul ), he knows there's no use in blaming a dead man. He's not entirely sure who to blame yet, but he's sure there's someone he isn't thinking of.

“ you can talk to me, or not talk to me, but i’m here. ”

Luther shrinks back a little when Sophie sits next to him on the worn couch in the corner of the kitchen. He doesn’t mean to, exactly. There’s no reason she shouldn’t be in the kitchen, shouldn’t be sitting next to him. But he still feels uneasy, deep in the pit of his stomach. Maybe he’d gotten too used to being alone and left to his own devices.

“It’s late,” he says, softly. Deflecting a little from her offer. Because it is late. He’s sure she would rather be sleeping, or doing anything else but sitting with him. “You don’t have to. Be here, I mean.”

im. ............