Re: Marvel: Cris & Sam
Cris had hair matted black and slick to the back of his skull, with blood dribbled along his collar, bloodshot eyes, fingers stained and scrubbed raw, and exhaustion printed bold across his face. He didn't look normal either. He wasn't tweaking or coming down, but he looked like shit. What did he care.
He caught the glance of Sam's white, twitching fingers behind her ear and Cris just wished he could turn back the clock on the day, back, and he never woulda said a word to Neil, and then they wouldn't be here.
Fucking Neil.
Idiota.
Him too—Cris.
If he was gonna bash in anybody's kneecaps, he'd have to include his own.
"Lo siento," he told the girl next to him as they walked. It didn't really matter what for. For everything. For the spiral of events from the moment he picked up the phone to talk to her and he fucked it. She'd been in such a good mood. But, it was obvious, whatever it was—or had been, it was fragile, her 'okayness,' something that couldn't take strain, so maybe this had to happen sooner or later. Maybe it would be good for her to have a place she could think, really think, without Neil there to cry at her, or Louis to do his superior thing, or Cris to pressure her. He squeezed Sam's shoulder reflexively.
He wanted her to feel what he felt. He really, really did. But he couldn't make her. She didn't. Maybe she couldn't. Not now. Maybe not ever.
At the doors of the hospital—across the blare of the emergency lane and into the ER, he walked her through. If she hated him after this, fled or wanted nothing to do with him, he'd get it. That's what he told himself anyway.