Re: Capital: Sam & Cris
Cris had a lotta 'shoulds,' but even though he was a responsible guy, attuned to duty and alla that, his emotions were stronger than alla that. His heart moved lightyears faster than his brain, which was how his fist ended up pulped and he and Sam were bundled together on the floor of a hospital stairwell with cloves caught like dandelion fluff in their hair. Her medicine was dripping somewhere nearby and it was almost enough to make him get her up, but she talked first, her nose to his chest, and he held his hand to the backa her head, stroking there.
He didn't say nothing while she talked, though he did nod when she pulled back to look at him. What she said was logical, but Cris wasn't logical. He shoulda been past what was in him and he wasn't, and that guilt wasn't something any shrink was gonna tell him was unnecessary. He knew he should be better about his stuff than he was, valid or not.—And he was okay, listening, sniffling, 'til she said she didn't know if she was strong enough—to... do what? His brain was sluggish in the broila blood. To take carea him? To give him what he needed? He frowned. Why would she say that? It sounded like a bell tolling and that was worse than the gunfire. It was a funeral dirge and Cris, who was being lulled by her words before that, went pale.
"¿Qué? 'Strong enough'? For what?" He wanted to tell her it was okay to whine, but he couldn't swallow the sentence before that. "What're you sayin'?"