Re: Marvel: Cris & Sam
He cared about her hands. He saw her staring at the shirt, at the mess of his own making, but Cris just kept doing what he was doing. It did make him feel better, because he hoped it would make her feel better, even if that was a grasping, useless thing. He didn't blame her when it came to Sofia. How could she have known, in that moment?—If a part of him was angry with her for the fact that she only felt bad because he'd seen, it didn't bubble up now.
"Lo sé," was all he told her, once, and that was it.
Because he did. He knew she wasn't cruel. He knew it was the high and crash and the pressure and everything coming down at once that drove her to that curb, and she didn't know he was watching her—and he knew. It wasn't worth hashing out now.
The work of panic exhausted him as much as her, and when Sam folded against him, boneless, Cris couldn't even feel bad about it. He knew she was acting out of guilt. He would never want that to be a reason for her to do anything. Normally. But, here, right now, his selfishness overcame the need for authenticity and choice, and he held her there to his drumming heart that had hurt for her.—He took the shirt when she pushed it back at him and he propped it between head and wall again.
Sam's tears seemed to come in a storm, something terrible, but she let the guy hold her, and she balled up close, his shirt wet in her mouth. He didn't say anything when she told him she was glad it wasn't him. He brushed his thumb along the curve of her tear-ruddy cheek, following its shape, to the bow of her bottom lip, her chin. Her hair was still sex-heavy, the stink of burnt plastic, and where Cris leaned into her, he was sweat and panic, and together, they were a mess, black on white on red.
If he was surprised about Joey's heart and the ice, that didn't show either. Instead, he asked, soft as he could against the Midas touch of Sam's hair to his nose: "¿Qué es lo que quiere hacer con él?"