f (foundling) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-01-01 16:47:00 |
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Entry tags: | !ocean's eleven, *log, cristián martin-argüelles, sam alexander |
Log, Ocean's Eleven: Sam A & Cris M
Who: Sam Alexander & Cris Martin-Argüelles
What: talking, &tc.
Where: Ocean's Eleven, Sam's hospital room
When: just after this
Warnings/Rating: TBD
The guy was writing something down in stilted movements, and Cris didn't even look. He was busy ignoring Sam's water-weak orders to go and he was busy ignoring the hired man behind them and he was busy ignoring the night that laid behind his shoulders in asphalt black. He watched the fear grow and die in Sam's eyes, blue and black, a blistering scar of something bad, like the trackmarks that climbed her arms beneath the sheath of flannel. Her grip went vise-like on his shoulder and that fever-damp clung like condensation to skin red beneath blond. He helped her into the bed, dropping the arm down, so it was easier to slide on in. He missed the flick of eyes on him and he didn't react to the familiar farewell bid, Russian thick as syrup on the man's tongue. Fue una gran despedida para una maldita basura. For the first time since showing up, Cris smiled, a timbered, reassuring glint of white as stood next to the hospital bed and pulled up the thin, stiff blankets to cover Sam. He arranged her cords as best he could, then pulled up the chair he'd hauled the other guy from, two hands between his legs to drag it up to meet his calves and sit. "Mejor." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Bullets tumbled in the pocket of his hoodie, and he forgot to take off that ballcap. A shadow fell across his face as the fluorescent light ahead was cut by the bill. Cris rubbed at his chin, rough, with his fingers as he looked at Sam, steady and black. He could tell from the fluttered panic of Sam's heart in her chest, the look in her eyes, that her mind had started tilting with ideas of how Cris had gotten here and what all of that meant. Sweat fringed beneath the palm of his hat, making dark hair darker. Adrenaline kept every trace of exhaustion from his face. "Louis and Neil are here. I know what you're thinkin'. Y lo siento, pero tuve que decírselo." He put a hand out to touch Sam's knuckles, wanting to take the contact as much as give it, and he looked to the monitor closest, waiting to see if the numbers would stabilize. He tugged at his scarf with a finger as heat climbed through his layers. The tension in his shoulders eased some and, like the smile moments before, it was a first since that first locked entry earlier in the night. Yeah, Sam was hooked up to all kinds of things and she looked like hell, but she was here, tangible, and that was something to a guy like Cris. He had to stop himself from going overboard and asking her to let him sit by her, so he settled for gentle touch, and he moved some of her hair from her face. Restraint wasn't his thing, but he worked for it. "Se puede dormir," he said, dry, but earnest. There was fondness in the mild joke, like there had been that first night at the hotel and he'd asked after her shoes. "I won't draw you." |