Re: Motel 77: Cris & Sam
"Sí, es así." Simple assent in warm-globed Spanish, like bulbs behind wolf's teeth, and Cris settled into the shuddering touch of la farera, the chemical lacea her fingers blanching alabaster against shirt raised on skin, white almost visible in the utter darkness. And he remembered, 'bout the fight with Meredith. 'Course he did. Everything was present, just there on the lobea his mind, and maybe that was dangerous, but for right now, it was what was needed, and nothing tipped. Nothing fell. He held it together. And he was careful not to lean back, not to jostle or anything, not knowing the extent of damage done either by or to the girl all tatted up against him. He soothed her with long fingers to lank, sea-shower hair, with lips against her ear in a flitted kiss as her shoulders shook with her hiccups. "Teresa's good, cariño. We're good."
It was all he said for a long moment, there, in the dark. The water went almost icy on the raw meata his knuckles, though they were gauzed over in medical white, as he worked, blind, to get those sunglasses off Sam's head after fingertips ran into them. Practice with a six-year-old getting stuff stuck in her hair, and several sisters, and he could do it easy enough without ripping anything up by the root. So, he did that, and Cris always felt better when he was doing something, even if it was small. It grounded him—and right now, place like this, it was easy to float away, to forget everything else existed outsidea cold, wet black, some forgotten womba the universe gone cold with time.—When he got the things free, he set them aside, uncaring that the water washed against 'em hard enough to scrape them toward the drain.
Even under the deluge, his tongue wet his bottom lip, habit, and he started to shift, taking Sam with him, bundled against his chest.
"Ven, mami. I wanna get you warm, okay?" He had a small handtowel in his bag and he was gonna use that on her—nonea the motel stuff was gonna be... good, if they even had anything. It'd be oily terrycloth, used to clean up sólo Dios sabe, other people's bodily fluids the leasta your worries.—And he'd come prepared, 'cause he always did. All that rushing around, and he had a little bitta food, water, clothes for the botha them, Sam's medications in myriad capped orange. He brought some first aid stuff, rubbing alcohol, medical tape and gauze. Hell, he even had hotel-sized shampoo stuffed in there among the cash he'd gotten a couple weeks before—an errand that led him to this door, to Ocean's Eleven, and to Gotham. He had money to spare. Not much, but enough that he got it in his head to buy stuff, TVs, iPods, whatever, and resell 'em in the other doors, just so he could have a little something if he needed it. Like now, everything paired and pared in overwhite envelopes, names scratched on them like wads meant to be split by kids working the corners—here's your 'change' for the day. Bring it back in surplus.
Cris managed to get outta the shower, and to reach in, to take Sam. She wasn't much in his arms, and he kept going careful, careful. If he was thinking stuff, anything about all the stuff she said, about being damaged, about hurting him, about anya that, it didn't show. He was present, immediate, his skin hot even after the shower, and he set the soaked Sam on his jacket, not caring about whether it'd be ruined or not. Quick, on his knees again, he snatched that towel out and he started rubbing it on white skin, Sam's bicep, like he was trying to get warmth back in her—and it was like the lighthouse, wasn't it? Him saying he wasn't going nowhere, palms against ocean-clammy skin, and her shaking, shaking, as the light looked out.
"I got money, hm? Let's get you dried off and go somewhere else." Steady, calm, like the ongoing pounda waves in the ocean she heard coming from that rusted faucet. "That sound good? You okay to move?"