AHS: Sam A & Cris M
There was no bull, no horns, none of that. Sam A, for Alexander, was the only person he knew in this cluster of newness—and maybe he didn't know her, not for real, but, more than he knew anyone else at the moment. His friends, his familia, his partner, his wife, all of them, every last one, gone overnight, replaced or spots left vacant in this bald-faced alternate reality that Cris still didn't know if he was buying, at least not wholesale. But he was here, and if it was some messed up dream inside a dream, he hadn't woken up. So he'd go through the motions, until he decided it was staying or the bubble burst and he landed back in his bed, the world outside his front door the one he knew. Not some superhero knockoff, una fantasiá runaway.
At least he had Teresita. Elena would be rabid, she would be going out of her mind with worry, but he couldn't think about it. He hadn't gone to look for the payphone, and even if he called her, Cris knew there had to be an Amber Alert out, him, the suspect in a case that would normally fall to his desk. Dios mio, he couldn't bother with wondering what everyone thought. He didn't know what he thought.
Teresa was left with a sitter after mass, a girl recommended by his (apparent) new partner. After years undercover, Cris knew how to blend in. Maybe all the material of his suit wasn't just right, but it looked the part—1950s cut, single-breasted, bespoke jacket with a waistline, dark, pleated trousers. If he was worried about stepping into a time not so great for non-whites, he muted it well, his expression its usual: placid, black-browed. A Cuban man in Florida shouldn't be too shocking.
Of course, there was the competing fact that he'd had sex with this—woman. A stranger. Young. He knew she didn't expect shit from him, but he... ay. Close to 40 and he'd never fucked anyone he wasn't involved with. It was unexpected and foreign, but it gave him some kind of handhold in this place, and he'd take that. Plus, as little as he knew her, Cris liked her.
He went through the door. Yeah, he went through a door, walked into a hotel, and through another into another time and place, and, you know what? He just didn't think about it. Because... era imposible.
So, yeah, when the sun bit down, almost summer-bright, he blinked up at it, hand over his eyes. He placed his new (yeah) straw hat, coconut brown, over his head with the slightest black line of a frown. Cris didn't know who he was looking for, so he kinda strolled along the blurred edges of the background until he saw the woman in the black skirt and white top, lips gobsmack red, smoking in the doorway of a trailer. He looked at her for a long, hard minute, catching the way it didn't fit her just right, the bareness of her feet on the Florida dirt. She was young, a bonita gringita with hair that reflected the sun, instead of soaking it up.
He approached her, no hands in his pockets, because, ah, you never advance with your hands unseen. For the first time, he smiled, an expression that broke the strict mold of his face.