Re: In-person: Cris/Sam
[He hates. And maybe it's robbed him in some ways. Maybe it's corroded whatever moth-eaten humanity he was born with, but he don't mourn it. It'd be hard to be a cop if he did. To be who he was. He don't really want that for Sam, no, pero... sometimes, that black hatred is a fucking reasonable response. And sometimes it's self-preservation. Cris is a big believer in redemption too, huh? In second chances. But, there are some people who don't deserve 'em, and Ian and Micah and Meredith are all in that category in his mind. There are some unforgivable sins, and if it makes him less human—humane—to feel that way, he don't mind. He prolly wouldn't even know the difference.—Now Sam is young. She's young and she's bright and she's good—not in an impossible way, or a pedestal way. She's just good. And maybe Cris should be more worried 'bout the anger that hatred takes and how that might take root in Sam, especially under his care. But, then again, maybe he just ain't a good enough person for that.
Her punches snap at the bag, once, twice, before she gives up and resorts to the uncontrolled smasha bones, tendon, and muscle to vinyl. The standing bag is pretty old, huh? It's pretty beat up. Cris had first had it dragged outta some store room for everybody to use, before he coopted it for his office earlier. But, even when he was breaking himself on it, his training kept him from losing the threada himself entirely. The times he hit the way Sam was now were the times he nearly killed people, the times, some might argue, that consumed his humanity piece by piece. If he lost it like that, the bag wouldn't be enough.
But, it is for her—for the moment, and he's glad. It ain't pretty and she'll prolly bruise herself up, make her muscles sore and strained, but it's an outlet, huh? An outlet that don't come from the nose of a needle.—Cris stops giving his directions. Behind Sam, he just holds onto her, her elbow coming back to hit at him a lil, her back to his chest.—She slows, and he lets his grip go firmer, firmer, 'til she's leaning back.—And his knee is hurting him, but he's gotten kinda used to the pain now. Not in that bullshit way, where people say they can forget about it, 'cause the human body? It don't forget pain when pain's happening. But, he can bear it.
He pushes his palms to Sam's belly, drawing her back more, if he can. Sweat's darkened blonde to honey at Sam's temples, and underneath, curled to nape, where it traps heat, and he pushes his nose to the crowna her head, then his lips. He trails down to her ear and cheek and jaw, twining over her to reach, his skin rough against hers, skidding on salt.—He leaves his cheek pressed to hers, looking forward. Blonde catches in the wick-whitea camiseta. Gentle, he reaches for onea her hands to help her get the glove off—tender, small movementsa long fingers. He does the other, if she lets him, botha the gloves peeling off and falling to the floor.—The still-damp padsa his fingers find the bruises on her wrists, brown over blue over white, and he turns 'em over, and he looks.]