Re: In-person: Cris/Sam
[He knows too, huh? Cris knows these are the moments that kill progress, that kick people back into the hole they're trying to crawl outta. (A visual he really don't like right now. A spikea fear strikes up his spine.) These are the kinda things that knock you off the wagon, how 'bout that? He knows she must wanna hit, 'cause he wants hot metal to his skin, he wants to feel somebody's bones snap under his fist. He wants Sam over his desk with the kinda ferocity he knows has to come from control, coping, a frantic grabbing that's more selfish than it ain't. It's why he brought that damn bag in here. It was his healthy out. He's trying as hard as Sam is to keep an even keel, but the boat already needs some bailing out. 'Cause she ain't wrong—things are stacked up, ready to topple.
He takes comfort in her touch, leaning into it like flame to fuel, greedy.] Alright. [Her hands to his shoulders, and he goes. He grabs the nearest chair, swings it out, away from the fronta the desk, so he can sit. It's an awkward drop to not bend his knee, but he does it. His skin sticks immediately to imitation leather. It's hard to sprawl when you can't really use your leg, but he tries.
Cris wishes he could help her see all or nothing was bad here, huh? Thinking everything must be going to hell or nothing was. It was a dangerous fucking line to walk, too easy to trip up. He grits his teeth, but laces his fingers in Sam's, their palms forced into a sweat-soaked kiss. His other hand shores up over the backa her hand.] We can get through this, nena. I know it don't feel like it, pero, we can. Everybody else will too.