Re: quicklog, fast & the furious: louis d, neil d, & cris m
[It would be like Louis to be coming to conclusions about somebody—the person who wasn't Sam—as to their hand in the situation and how mucha the fault was theirs (alla it), before even getting to the hospital. Cris didn't care so much what had happened or who had gotten them there, outsidea the fact that there were guys who'd taken the paira them, Sam and MK, as working girls and had attempted to assault them. He knew MK had reacted, her powers overloaded, and the potential was there for her to have hurt Sam worse than she was, but that didn't matter. 'Cause she hadn't. And if taking out the block was how she stopped something even worse from happening to them both, he couldn't fault her for that. If anything, he knew Sam knew Miami better than the other gringa, and she shoulda known not to be driving around, two young white girls, in the barrio. Not that he blamed her either, really—just—it was more than 'somebody did something to Sam again,' even if it always played that way in Lou's head.
Cris looked up as Neil walked into the quieta the waiting room, pastel paints intended to be unoffensive and calming and ending up looking more like mild, milky vomit spread on the walls. Dark eyes narrowed, especially on the worry that winched tight on pallid Scottish features. He was sicka Neil dogging him, doing nothing and ending up confusing Sam more until she didn't know up from down, until she forgot all the bad stuff this guy brought her the years they were together. He hadn't seen him since before the motel thing, and looking at him now, somehow made it worse in his head. It made his stomach turn, 'cause he could imagine the scene with more clarity than he ever wanted, and who'd want somebody with eyes that gaped and blinked with all the heat of a dead fish? Imagining Sam trying to get the guy hard, even desperately, drunk outta her mind, was enough to make him glare, undulled, unglazed—open dislike on dark face.
Too much adrenaline was moving through him. He couldn't feel anything coming from his elbow, even as the blood touched wet against his sleeve, dripped down to the tiles he paced over, and Lou—Lou's words, that Scottish accent more grating now than ever—had him looking down with some surprise. There were teeth marks, clear, gouged into him, and anybody with eyes could see the guy hadn't fallen, but the nurse was gone and he could feel those eyes on him—both pairs, blue. Both pairs, cold. And not for the first time, Cris missed his family. He missed people who talked and looked like him, and he hated feeling outta place in his own skin. But he did, even livewire.
He shoved his palm across his chin and bottom lip. His tie was long gone and his blue shirt gaped, throat open, untucked from dress slacks. But the rage he felt, the anger, it sat low insidea him. He mighta glared at the gringos, but it was almost calm.] I told the nurses 'bout Sam bein' sick. I tried to explain it, what she was takin', so stuff wouldn't interact—[He turned away, looking toward the door as the nurse appeared in crosshatched window.] Sam seized out after I talked to her. I think it was just panic and pressure. She ain't hurt. MK, I dunno. She went into a fit, I guess, and they had a hard time gettin' her outta it, some kinda seizure. [That was all he said just then, his smile turning on at nurse as she came in. She was prolly a lil older than he was, and he knew she had to be cubana.]