== (wants) wrote in repose, @ 2015-12-05 20:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, cris martin, iris morgenstern, sam martin |
Crust & Crumb: Iris M, Sam A, & Cris M
Who: Iris Morgenstern & Sam Alexander & Cris Martin
What: reuniting after the fog, calm and collected
Where: above Crust & Crumb
When: at the end of this
Warnings/Rating: language, sads
There was no hiding anya it, even in all that wool-pulled fog cottoning close—Cris was covered in blood, with piss on his shoes. The blood sprayed up from his feet, and it had been wiped away from his face with the backa one hand, but nothing more. It dried tight in spit on his cheeks, above his eyebrow, and it itched. His knuckles were grazed, with bruising like the ringsa Saturn, haloing out in a purple under dark skin. The swelling wasn't too much, but it was clear he'd hit somebody or something. Hard. His eyes were raw, tear-red and there mighta been some kinda snot or something dripping from his nose. He didn't bother wiping it away 'til it got too annoying, then he used his sleeve. But, there was no hiding anya it. He looked like hell, police blues speckled with grit, his jacket wrenched uncomfortable, and hair coal black brambles. If he'd been thinking clear, he woulda stopped to clean himself up a bit. Least got ridda the blood. But, he wasn't. Nah, his head was nowhere near clear right now. It was as gauzy as the world outside. Focused? Yeah. Focused on getting to Sam. But, he wasn't thinking as practical as he ought, huh? It was emotion and adrenaline that strung him along to the doora Iris' bakery without stopping for nothing—not for the anemic, weightless voices that called out among white. Not for nothing at all. 'Cause he knew where Sam was, and he needed to get to her, and that was far as his mind went; it grabbed on to that singular fucking thought like a drowning man did rope. Like he'd die if he didn't. And like he was real desperate. Maybe later Cris would think about how everything fell apart so fast too, housea cards tossed to the wind, when stuff had been going pretty good. Decorating the tree, bickering, then this, with all that stripped back and gone so easy, so fast, and he was crawling on the sidewalk, beating the shit outta Sam's dealer, shoving a gun to the kid's stomach. Maybe he'd think about it later. But, for now, he just groped for the knob to the bakery as it rose from the clutchesa the mist. He just hadta get to Sam. For her sake, and his. He tried that knob. It didn't budge. There wasn't a pause for consideration. There was nothing telling him he should maybe knock. The guy just saw an obstacle in his way, and he fucking tackled it, head-on. He slammed his shoulder into the door, all his weight behind it, and it came with yearsa busting down perps' doors—he knew right where to hit. And if the thing didn't fold the first time, didn't splinter from jamb—he just did it again. And again. 'Til it gave. |