Re: In-person: Cris/Sam
[It don't necessarily follow that she put the stamps on herself, to Cris' mind. It's entirely feasible to write straight on an envelope, if you got it up against the edge of a table, so the orientation's down, even if you can't see. Again, to Cris' mind. But, now that Sam's said it, the more it seems like maybe the obvious things are wrong. Maybe, unlikely as it is, she can just see again. It wouldn't be unhearda.—It ain't even the danger thing that makes Cris not want the gringa to see. It's that she can look at him, without his permission. She can fit him into her mind and do whatever she wants. Even if she swears she won't, she could, and that's almost more than the guy can deal with.] D'you think she can still hear thoughts? [Cris blinks at the mention of a hitman.] Nobody's killin' her, mami. Maybe Lou's feelin' angry. I don't think he'd do anything like that, not really. [Maybe the guy would say it and mean it, but doing it was still different.—Cris tries to believe that if people are nasty to Meredith she'll leave. He tries to believe that's something that can happen, even if, as sheriff, he shouldn't be entertaining that kinda thought.] We'll see. I think I just gotta get over it. [It feels bad. Worse, now that she can see, and he falters a lil bit, but he don't really got a choice. Sam's more worried 'bout Lou, the hitman, 'bout not being bad to Meredith. He's got his own head in his ass, he gets that. He nods at nothing.]
We try to figure it out. We try to figure out what options we got. There's a lotta weird stuff 'round here. There might be somebody that knows something. I think it's just a mattera lookin' at alla it. He'll do better if he feels like it's bein' taken seriously. He gets cowed 'bout stuff and cries, so havin' him here'll help. He can stay however long. I don't care, as long as he lets us go into the bedroom at night, huh? [He smiles a lil bit, tapping under Sam's chin.—He don't care 'bout Iris living with Manning, so he makes a sound like interest, but he's more worried 'bout those bruises.] Well, ligatures are things used to tie stuff up. In strangulation, stuff like rope and alla that, and the marks are the bruises left behind. Bruises, burns, tears. All I mean is, I got experience in lookin' at marks and matchin' stuff up. I can tell you I didn't make those.
[He wishes he could take a few days in bed too, huh? But, he ain't seriously thinking about it, 'til she looks at him, asking him.] I can do that. [Prolly. It'd be hard as fuck, but not impossible. He's thinking on it, brief, when she kisses him hard like that. He gives it back, hand falling to her waist and the other cupping her cheek. When she pulls away, he nudges at her with his nose.] You ain't fine. You're terrified. And me? I'm allowed to worry 'bout you bein' terrified. [He nips at her throat. Thoughtful, he pulls back to look at her, lifting his chin.] Whadday do, nena, in a situation, where you're hurt and somebody else is hurt? What's the first thing you do?