== (wants) wrote in repose, @ 2016-04-20 22:50:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, cris martin, sam martin |
Log, Central & Main: Sam A & Cris M
Who: Sam Alexander & Cris Martin
What: probably snotting
Where: near Main on Central (in Cris' car)
When: directly after this
Warnings/Rating: I'm guessing, but: blood, mentions of sexual assault and homicide, swearing, and lots of tears and feels
He was supposed to be listening in on the shit with Iris, but that thread was long gone, lost to everything else, like a buoy in a typhoon. It was being recorded, the interview, so he could come back to it, but the guy wasn't even thinking about that. He wasn't thinking 'bout nothing like that.—He'd been in the bathroom for a long time now, the door hedged and locked, and him sitting on the tiles with his head between his knees and his phone dying in his hands. He hadn't meant to lose it public, huh? But, Meredith's post had showed and the fact that she had been so CLOSE without him realizing it made Cris panic. It was ugly and it was messy and he was almost fucking certain he was gonna lose his job, but he couldn't stop himself. He hadn't forgotten Sam though, or nonea that. There was just so much going on, and last he knew, she was sketching in his office. Stupid, he assumed she'd been doing that all along, just keeping herself calm. If he'd really been thinking, he woulda told somebody to watch the door to his office, but he was losing details in the overwhelming delugea shit that was his life right now. He wasn't drowning, 'cause it wasn't like before, but he was stretched too thin with everything—with Iris, with Sam, with telling Sam, with Lou, with Lou's hints at Daniel, then Meredith, when all he fucking wanted was to be upstairs in bed with Sam. But, wishing for that was pointless, 'cause it sure as hell wasn't gonna be happening now. Sam was gone. He'd come back to his office after Meredith's stupid fucking comment to find Sam's phone on his desk, open to the conversation and her pencil and paper discarded. His keys were gone. It was only 'cause he was a paranoid fuck that he had a GPS on the car—and thank God he did. 'Cause it meant his panic didn't explode into full on terror. She was coming back this way, his phone told him. Cris didn't stop to tell nobody what the hell was going on. The deputy was still in the room with Iris and he couldn't do nothing anyway, so he grabbed his jacket and he grabbed his phone and his gun, and he ran out the door, his knee screaming with each footfall. He didn't stop running. Everybody had already seen him—how fucked up he was—on Meredith's post, how weak and everything else, so who cared if they watched him sprint down the street to do something else stupid? Tears were surging down his cheeks, his eyes bloodshot and raw, he tasted snot on his upper lip, but Cris didn't care. He ran, skidding onto Central, sprinting across the street without fucking checking for any cars coming (none were), and when he saw his car coming toward him, he went ahead and full-out ran toward it. His mind was blank, buzzing white. He wasn't thinkinga nothing, notta what he might find, what Meredith meant by blood—he could guess there, huh? He already had. Sam had gone to do what she'd wanted to do in the first place—he wasn't thinkinga what that'd do to what people thoughta her regarding the self-defense thing. Nothing. He was just running—he was just running toward Sam, that was all he knew. It was enough. |