Re: Venetian penthouse: Sam & Cris
He was fucked-up. However he saw it himself, in Sam's mind that was what it was, and she had enough fucking experience with that shit to know. It wasn't some term scribbled by a shrink in a leather chair, yeah? It was broader than that. It was a knowing thing, because the man she'd met at the All Saint's end of October wasn't tear stained and ripping off an inoffensive blue shirt like sin was clinging to every red fucking dot on it. She knew fucked-up, because she carried it behind her. It fucking trailed everywhere she went, and she wasn't blind, and it didn't matter how many times people told her that shit wasn't on her. Yeah, ok, so maybe she didn't bring the chaos, but it circled her like vultures and made everyone she fucking cared about carrion, yeah?
During that trip to her door, the club in Miami, he'd been trouble and a Cuban barrio smile. He'd been those fucking boys that made all the girls crazy in parties under swaying lights in the Jersey summer, when they roasted the pig before the ground got too hard for the caja china. Now, he was devastated or whatever, and it didn't matter that he hadn't taken a bullet, because it was what it was, and it came with her. Ok, so Lou was his partner or whatever, and Lou had shit going on, but this wasn't Lou. Even without remembering exactly what the fuck it was, she knew it wasn't Lou.
She was too dulled for resolutions, though, and that shit would come later. Right then, she was too much cotton and not enough girl, and she had no fucking idea where shit went from here, but she wasn't thinking about it either. Sedation, and it would pass, but she would remember or whatever, and it didn't matter if he thought he was fucked or not. In her mind, he was. Like Lou, running crazy in Vegas with a gun, and like Neil with a bottle to his lips, and like Daniel in a hospital room looking terrified at what he saw on the bed, and-
He turned.
He tugged her up, and like marionette she went. The bed was familiar territory now, and she should probably make sure they changed the sheets before she left. And she thought about that, the fucking sheets, instead of the bloodstains on the floor. From the doorway, Abuelita tsked her displeasure, and Sam didn't give a fuck. "Tell her no more sedatives," she managed, as he curled around her, nose against her nape and she didnt' get why that was important. She was watching the old woman in the doorway, and she knew her own request would fall on deaf ears. This was a pretty fucking prison, but it was still a prison.
He was crying behind her; she could tell, and that was just more rain on her shoulders, guilt in her hair, and she turned with a swivel of hips after he touched her face, her throat, like he was making sure she wasn't some corpse he was curled around in a coffin. He curled tighter, yeah, and she had to fight that to look at him, but he was repeating shit that she didn't understand, and that she didn't remember, and she needed to see his face.
Her fingers were callouses on his chin, rough, like always, and very much belonging to someone alive. Slow, sluggish, but still her, and she looked at his face as she settled on the pillow facing him. She tried to make sense of the shit he'd just said, and her body caught on before her mind did. Tremors and fucking tremors, and in the end asking questions just wasn't fucking important, yeah? Her fingers moved from his chin up his jaw, and she put pressure there like someone really fucking young would. "Estoy aquí. Estoy bien. No era yo." She kissed his jaw, and she kissed his cheek, and she repeated the words again. "Estoy aquí. Estoy bien. No era yo."