Re: AHS: Sam A & Cris M
Six months. He was at the end of that, and maybe the sharpness was gone, the stick between the ribs that came from waking up alone every morning in a cold bed, but the ache of it hadn't lessened much. He nodded at their shared confession, no Sacrament of Penance here, no safe, little booth, but a nearness, and, he felt at least, an understanding. Her poppy red grin came rueful, the tail-end of some reminder of sadness he felt bad for alerting her to.
"You? Trouble?" He feigned surprise, mild and good-humored, the sort of thing that let the subject die easily, better forgotten than exhumed. Her eyes on his fingers and he withdrew them, back to the safe fold of his tie, readjusting the strip of fabric idly.
When she spoke next, it felt like she'd changed something around in her head, some of the brazen, bold-faced honesty from before subdued, like lipstick that faded with each traded kiss. The groan was more than enough to seal the suspicion, and Cris just looked at her, not even curious, so much as present. He thought of the girl as he'd found her in his mundo de ensueƱo and recognized some resemblance, a jittery thread of nervousness tying her knees together as she pressed against him. She was much younger then.
"No asking. Got it." He left it at that, choosing instead to focus on the taste of the tobacco and smoke.
Another splash of ginger and rum, ice painfully cold against his teeth. Her description of going back made sense, though it wasn't promising by any stretch of the imagination. It probably should have occurred to the Special Victims detective that he had no business touching the girl, but the sex had given him latitude in personal allowance, and he reached again, this time to set a hand on one of her knees near his stomach.
"You know what institutional syndrome is?" Cris shifted a bit, scratching at his chin with the cigarette between his fingers. His question was open. "Happens to people in prison. They're in so long, they can't get used to life outside the walls right. They're isolated, sick. Some of 'em, they don't make it back."
He didn't think he had to explain what that meant. He blinked at the tip of his cigarette as smoke curled skyward before his eyes slid to meet Sam's.