f (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} foundling) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} rooms, |
Picnics in parks weren't the kinda thing Cris did a lot, if ever. He took Teresita to the park a lot and the two of them would toss a ball around, play frisbee or, if a court was free, play one-on-one basketball (where he had to help lift her to the hoop, as was only fair). Sometimes they'd just walk or he'd push her on the swing—or, more recent, he'd sit and watch her, since she wanted to do it by herself. But picnics not so much. No one wanted to sit on the still-wet ground of newborn spring. That, and there were hotdog stands everywhere, and they were a treat the both of them earned after all that running around.—Sometimes people would get together from work—before all this door stuff—they'd play touch football or square up against another precinct in baseball. That was the kinda stuff Cris was good at. He was competitive and he was athletic, and working up a sweat always made him feel better.
Picnics... were debatable.
But, he was gonna try, for Sam. He had a bag of stuff she'd asked for—charcoal, starter fluid, a frisbee, and, wishful thinking ahoy!, a football. It was heavy over his shoulder, but it didn't bother him. T-shirt, backwards NY cap, and jeans, he walked the short hike through the dry heat of Vegas to the park, trying to find the grill under some sprig of shade that would have a hot blonde gringa looking nervous and probably smoking like a kretek chimney.
He probably shoulda been more worried about this than he was. It really could go sideways fast, some accidental long pass of a glance, a brush of contact he deemed inappropriate, all that, but he wasn't. He had a list in his head of all the stuff he could do if he felt stressed or if he felt some well of anger coming on, courtesy of too many fucking anger management classes, and he was determined to behave for Sam's sake. This was gonna be rough for her, and all he could hope was that his presence would be a positive, even if it niggled at him un poquito that it hurt her feelings so much to see the guy with someone else. But, only a little bit. And he got it. Like he'd said during their video call thing, he got it.
Plus, he was still keeping his promise about not doing a damn thing 'til after this whole spiel, and he'd probably be pleasantly distracted by the sight of Sam running around chasing a frisbee more than anything else—hopefully. He was working on those feelings of inadequacy too, and he thought he was doing okay. He thought he'd managed to separate the stuff in his head good enough that he got that she could still want to be with Cris himself and still feel the way she did about Neil without those feelings needing to be expressed as something more physical. It took a lotta deep breathing, but he'd got there. He was gonna try to make this date thing as smooth as he could. He had to. He wanted to.
Of course, that didn't mean he wasn't still competitive, and it didn't mean he would n'tkick whoever's ass in frisbee, cute or not. 'Cause he would. With gusto. He grinned, almost lazy, when he saw Sam pacing, the invitation of cloves on the sickly-thin breeze drawing him up to her. She looked good. Nervous, yeah. He could feel that coming offa her, but she looked good, belt of skin low between flowers and denim. There was dark-blooming warmth in his gaze and in the slip of his hand low around her back, palm too hot on that strip of skin.
"Hey, mami." He gave her a kiss, if she let him, a little lingering, a little evident of dearth of contact, that hand low pressing her close. "You look good." He brought the bag around until it hit her in the ass and smiled. "Got your stuff." And then he kissed her one more time, reassurance there in part of lips. He managed to bring fingers up between them, to her chin, where he tapped once smartly as he pulled back with some reluctance. "It's gonna go good, hm? Les prometo a mí mismo me comportarse."