Re: Dinner: Cris/Lou/Sam
If Louis thought there was anything to be afraid of, there was no question that he wouldn't be in the house. Not now - not ever, especially not around an infant. There was no agreement between himself and the entity that had threaded through him, as attached and embedded and intrinsic as a cancer. There was, however, acknowledgement that everything would be easier for it if Louis went along, and threats of violence weren't going to produce that sort of harmonious cooperation. As far as Louis was concerned, nothing ever would. But it (It?) was patient, as things that didn't die could be.
He also had every intention of ensuring no one in his family ever saw it firsthand again. There had been that once, with Sam, but he was determined that would be all. If no one ever saw it, that meant Louis was doing his job, and it meant the threat was that much more distant. Maybe, eventually, it even meant he could go home.
He almost felt bad for interrupting them, considering how intimately wrapped up in each other they were before he stepped inside. Then Sam pounced, and that worry dissipated into thin air.
He hadn't realized how nice a hug would be just now. He tended to forget, since they still weren't something he was in the habit of. Sam had so much to worry about, and he felt that old dull surprise that she was happy to see him, regardless of whatever trouble he might bring into her home. He hugged her back, tightly.
He thought he was doing a good job, so far, putting on a good face. Better with Sam than with Cris, obviously, who seemed endlessly frustrated by Louis' initial resignation when swamped by this old problem. Make no mistake, though, Louis was scared, and angry. The old dead thing was a violation going back years now, its presence in his life a daily reminder that what happened to him on a dark street one night wasn't over now, might never be over. Hugs from his sister made all of that a little better. Very novel. "I know," he said, when she said he looked tired. He would keep going anyway. If there was a flicker anywhere, it was when he saw the bruises, thought of what Manning had said, and worried. There was always plenty of worry to spare for Sam.
He finally released her. She smelled vaguely like fruit, but mostly like cooking spices and sweat. "Absolutely," he said. "You sit down right now, both of you." Cris shouldn't be standing, let alone serving anyone. "The least I can do is fill your plates." Cris brushed by and squeezed the back of his neck, which tickled a bit, and he smiled reflexively. "I thought that was a constant," he said. He'd never bothered with a tan once in his life. Not much of a possibility where he grew up, even if he'd wanted one, and he was always too busy doing things indoors to bother with baking in hot sunlight. It was his lot to be Scotch pale no matter where he lived.
He didn't look unhealthy, but he did look thinner in a different way. He couldn't get much skinnier than he was now without being utterly gaunt, cheekbones did that to a person. There was no question he was stretched thin metaphorically, if not in the flesh. Cris looked tired too, he thought, and hurting, he suspected. He also looked contented and perfectly at home, and that was something worth preserving.
"I'm not calling you sir," he said, over his shoulder. Yes, he caught the butler remark. He loaded up plates and carried them back to the table, generously portioned with everything Sam had cooked. A corkscrew, too, produced from the bag with the bottles in it, then glasses, silverware. "Don't get too much spit in the rum," he advised. "I'll want some after I'm done with my first glass of wine, and I won't want it watered down."