Re: Sonrisa: Hunter R & Cris M
He wasn't new to the idea-a being regulated to the sole identitya cop. Not cubano, not Latino, not even really human, just badge, gun, and blues. It didn't bother him when the kid glowered, and he'd already figured him for sober from that first minute—had it confirmed when he was tackling the kid and holding him. He knew the signs, and Hunter didn't have nonea 'em. So, yeah, Cris knew he was sober. He knew he was in bad straits too, huh? Didn't even take a detective to figure that out. Even without everything that had happened before, that glance toward heat and kitchen, cast longing, was enough.
Two menus in sticky plastic were pulled from the lil holder where the table met the wall and Cris passed one to the gringo.
"Go on and pick somethin', so we're ready when the waiter comes, huh?" It was undoubtedly paternal, the tonea his voice, and he didn't even look up to deliver it. His dark gaze was moving over clustered letters, even though he wasn't focusing for shit. It was a cursory going-over, and the Sheriff folded his menu back up and slotted it away. He leaned into his elbows on old, stained formica, his coat still on, and he laced his fingers together, black eyes honing in on Hunter with a precise bead.
He did at least give a smile at that puzzled look and at the question. "Nah." Easy, huh? "You ain't my type." The guy bent forward some more over the tabletop, trying to look at the gash, wherever it was. "This is why people like takin' the door." He gave an impatient invitationa fingers, c'mere. "Lemme see it."