2007-07-31: Beer and Stitches


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After popping his stitches and deciding that he probably will need to get it looked at, Namir drops by Samantha's again. This time his drinking is discovered. Plenty of wedded bliss to go around.

Dark Future Date: July 31st, 2009

Beer and Stitches

Samantha and Bekah's Apartment

It's late. Bekah has a night shift, and Sam's at home, doing what she does when it's night and she's not on a late shift herself; she's sleeping. On her stomach, Fiyero curled on the small of her back. Moonlight streams in from the window, and otherwise it's pretty quiet.

The major advantage to being able to manipulate sound is the ability to make oneself absolutely silent. It makes breaking into apartments when the occupants are sleeping a lot easier. Namir is taking advantage of his abilities now and manages to get the window in the kitchen open: his usual MO when entering the apartment he used to live in. The window makes no sound when it slides open, and neither do his boots when they hit the kitchen floor. Just as he's about to pass by the refrigerator, he pauses, glances at it, glances at the entrance to the kitchen, then decides that the temptation is just too great. Hence, he silently pulls open the door and withdraws a bottle of beer. It might not be the real reason he's here, but it's convenient.

Seldom disturbs Sam when she's having a good sleep, but there is one thing that will always wake her up. Sam's gotta pee. Irritated, she lifts out of bed, sending Fiyero scrambling in annoyance, and tosses on an overlong DWB shirt as she opens her door and trudges blearily to the kitchen. He doesn't make any noise and she's still wiping sleep from her eyes, so she won't initially see him.

Namir doesn't need a bottle opener, just a convenient counter. Once again, the cap popping off is silent and he takes a good long swig from the bottle — only to realize that the bedroom door has opened. He almost chokes on his mouthful. Even if it were Bekah, it would be bad to be caught tossing back a beer. She would surely tell Sam. In a slight panic, he drops into a crouch and attempts to slide the bottle into a cupboard before Samantha gets over her sleepiness.

Samantha finishes wiping her eyes, feeling an combo of want-to-pee-but-kinda-thirsty. So she goes to the fridge door and opens it up. She frowns. The first thing she notices: there's more beer missing then should be. The second thing? The fridge didn't make any sound when she opened it. Slamming it shut, her mouth forms words, the first of which is 'NAMIR', but of course, she can't be heard as she stalks across the kitchen to flick the light on.

By the time the light comes on, Namir has risen to his feet again and closed the cupboard door. There he leans as casually as he can, coughing quietly into his fist. Surprise has been replaced by his usual steely wariness (which might appear a bit over exaggerated due to circumstances), and he glares at Sam over his fist. The sound slowly comes back up again, the noise of the streets outside leaking in through the open window once more. "You should be more careful," he rasps out a bit more hoarsely than is normal. "I could have killed you if I'd wanted to." Yes, change the subject.

Samantha doesn't respond to his accusation, her focus is on his shirt. "You're bleeding." she comments. "I wonder why I bother stitching you up, when you go out and just proceed to ruin all my work? I'm going to have to remove the first set and re-stitch you. I swear, you're worse then a kindergardener." Without a further word, she goes to get her supplies.

While Sam moves off, Namir drops down again, opens the cupboard door, and steals another gulp from the obscured beer. If he drinks it fast enough, it will never be found, and no one will be any wiser. He's soon popping up again with another wheeze-cough fit and closing the cupboard door. "Pardon me," he grumbles sarcastically as he follows her. "Next time I'll be sure to put in a vacation request at work. I'm sure they'll be able to give me the time off."

Samantha returns with the kit. "So what did you do?" she asks, moving to wash her hands and put on gloves. Imperiously, she points to one of the kitchen chairs. "You know the drill, take off your shirt."

Once again, it's a little painful to strip down, but Namir manages without aid. He peels off first the Kevlar vest, then the shirt beneath, then the tanktop beneath that. All three are dropped on the floor beside a kitchen chair, into which he drops with a sigh. "Cartwheels down third avenue." More sarcasm. Maybe he's just a little bit snappish at having been almost caught. "Did you ever know a Doctor Aileen Kincade?"

"She's a neurologist." Sam remarks. "We don't really run in the same circles." She approaches him and sits down in the other kitchenette chair before inspecting the wound. She also takes a sniff, in the air around him, wrinkles her nose as she reaches for her equipment. Fortunately, the exit wound stitches are still okay, but the front wound is messed up. She breaks out the topical anesthetic.

"Mm." Namir raises an eyebrow suspiciously when he catches that nose-wrinkle. What's she smelling? He showered — here, even! — the day before yesterday. He couldn't have gotten that nasty in that time. Is the wound infected? What is she smelling? What? What? "What?" he grunts tersely, probably far harsher than it rightfully should be.

"You been stealing my beer?" It's his BREATH, yo. She smirks a little as she swabs the wound, and then picks up her lancet to begin carefully cutting at the ruined stitches.

It is exactly as he had feared: his breath. Namir curls his upper lip in a disgusted snarl. "Don't be ridiculous. I don't drink." He tries to keep his face turned away from Sam, using the observation of her work as an excuse.

Samantha pauses in her efforts, half rising and shifting to face him. Bending down, she…kisses him. Not quite quick, but quick enough, and when she pulls back, she licks her lips and goes, "Yep, that's definitely my Red Stripe."

See, this is why Namir shouldn't take his eyes off Sam for a second. If he'd been watching her, he would have been expecting that. As it is, he's surprised enough by the gesture that he can't initially pull away — and by the time he has the presence of mind to realize what she's doing and jerk his face back, it's too late. He grimaces and swears loudly in Arabic, bringing up his free arm to wipe at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Then you must have been drinking, because I don't drink. Thank you for contaminating my mouth." He starts to rise to his feet, stitching or not. "I need to wash."

Samantha says calmly, "I was /sleeping/, and I brushed my teeth before bed. Don't be a baby, sit down. You're bleeding all over the linoleum. A slight exaggeration, but it really should be tended to.

"It can wait." Namir heads for the sink and runs the tap, scooping water into his mouth with the hand of his uninjured arm and swishing it about before spitting it out again. He is obviously shaken, as his movements are more forceful than they would be naturally. Once he's finished, he returns to the chair again and slumps into it. A glare is shot toward Sam. "Don't do that again."

"It's not my fault I caught you in a lie." Sam says patiently, "And I give about as much of a shit about breaking halal as it takes for me to order a cheeseburger."

"Yes, well, that's the difference between you and me," growls Namir bitterly. Clearly, it's all Sam's fault. If she didn't have beer for him to steal, he obviously wouldn't drink it. Except he doesn't drink it, because he is a Very Good Muslim.

"The fact that I'm honest and you lie, either for selfish purposes or because you assume you know what's best for everyone?" Sam continues to pull out the bad stitching. It's…not comfortable, but she's actually being gentle about it. After all, truth hurts worse.

Namir is handling the removal of the stitching rather well, but then his pain tolerance has risen in the past two years (or perhaps he just doesn't want to let on that he finds it unpleasant). Unfortunately, his tolerance for verbal jabs has really not improved, and it's Sam's words rather than her work that brings a grimace to his face. "Don't," he mutters. "Don't start this again."

"Oh, yes - I forgot this sort of thing is selective and convenient for you." she replies through a grimace. The stitches are out, and she recleans the wound. "Look, I can't keep doing this. This wound will infect if I keep having to restitch it, and it uses up resources every time I do. Promise me you'll take it easy for a few weeks."

His grimace turns into a cold scowl which is directed at the refrigerator. Namir says nothing for a few moments before he inhales deeply and releases it again slowly through his nostrils. "I can't just take it easy for a few weeks," he states in a restrained tone. "It isn't that simple." Another second's pause before he adds, "And it was better for everyone. Would it be better for you if I still lived here and Homeland Security came in during the night and shot us both in the heads?"

Samantha ignores that. She's not without her own brand of selective hearing. "You /can't/ keep doing this." she says to him tersely. "You need to rest with this, and if you don't, it'll hinder you in what you're doing and that's just as bad, isn't it?" Her jaw works, as she opts for a new tactic. Which she's gonna hate. "Please."

That one word makes a world of difference. Namir turns a glare on Samantha when she starts telling him what he can't do, but it eases into more of a stony frown at that last word. He could say 'no'. He wants to. However, he knows that this isn't a tactic she would use lightly. In the end, after a lengthy and tense silence, he glances away again with a soft snort of resignation. Fine. But he doesn't relent aloud.

"You can hole up for a few days here once I clear it with Bekah." Sam says, sounding relieved. "And then go back to your place if you think it's safe. Unless you'd rather go there, but I'll want to keep an eye on you." Because he needs a babysitter.

He does, but of course he'd never admit this. He knows what's best, after all. The suggestion causes Namir to close his eyes and roll his head to the side with a long-suffering sigh. "Sam." He shouldn't stay here too long. He already puts them both at risk by breaking in now and then for beer and stitches.

"You're no greater risk staying put then you are when you keep refusing to use the front door." Sam argues.

Another sigh from Namir. He purses his lips and shakes his head slightly before finally muttering, "All right." His overdeveloped sense of survival is screaming all sorts of profanities at him, but there's another part of him that can't deny he's missed living here, and he's really just too tired to argue. "I'll bring some of my things here in the morning." After another brief pause, he adds, "Where will I be sleeping?" It sounds like a subtle jab.

Samantha snorts. "The couch, I suppose." Yeah, that'll work for five minutes. "Do you need things from wherever you're staying? Anyone you need to contact?"

"I can go by the labs in the morning too and take care of things." Because that's not workaholic in the slightest and doesn't put him at risk of picking up One Last Mission or anything. Namir casts a glance toward the living room, brow furrowing. "If it's the same couch, I'd rather sleep on the floor."

Samantha gives a little shrug. "Suit yourself." She continues stitching him, and finally finishes. Reaching for a bandage to cover it, she notes, "I'm not kidding about this wound, Namir. If you don't give it a chance to heal…" She trails off as it occurs to her that Bekah can take care of it. Oddly enough, she doesn't vocalize that realization.

It's something that's already occurred to Namir. It occurred to him last night after he'd popped the stitches, and it occurred to him briefly when Samantha started suggesting his staying in the first place. However, like her, he doesn't mention it. Maybe he doesn't want to Bekah's help …

… because she's already got enough on her plate. Yes. That's why.

Namir grunts softly and bobs his head in the manner of one who has heard the lecture before (he has!). "Mm-hmm, so you said." A moment's pause before he squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. "I need my— " he trails off with a gesture of his free hand, then drops it. "I can use a towel." It wouldn't be the first time he had to improvise for prayers.

Samantha bites down on her urge to be all 'you still pray?' and instead just nods. "If you're staying someplace that's public and known, I can go pick up some things for you." she offers. "And this still all pends Bekah's approval, though she won't mind for just the night."

"You shouldn't know where I live," Namir states. Not only for security purposes, but also because it's not exactly the Ritz, and he doesn't want her to see his current living conditions. "I'll just get them in the morning." He smirks in a wry sort of way and adds in a snort, "When has Bekah ever minded my staying the night?" It's not as though he hasn't done it before.

Samantha gives a shrug. "For a night? She doesn't mind. But we're looking at a bit longer than that for the moment. I don't think she'll mind, but it's best to ask."

"Mm." There's just something that rubs Namir the wrong way about having to ask to stay in his own apartment (or what was once his own apartment). He doesn't mention this, but the displeasure shows. Some silence passes before he starts to rise again. "I'm assuming you have some extra pillows and a blanket."

"Don't you want to finish your beer?" Sam asks. Zing!

Oh snap. Namir pauses halfway into a standing position and frowns at Sam. "It's not my beer." Oh wait, what beer?

"I know. That makes you drinking it without asking first even more heinous." She smiles sweetly, and starts washing up. "Don't worry. I'm going to head back to bed and you can continue to not drink it after I do."

Namir grunts as he bends to pick up his tanktop from off the floor. After easing it over his head and arms, he tugs down the hem. "And you wouldn't want to join me, hmm?" He bends to pick up the T-shirt next.

Samantha can't help smirking. "For a beer? Sure, I'll have one, at least before you steal them all." She heads for the fridge adding, "I don't know why you're so goddamn smug about it. We're married, even if you make me want to kill you, and you clearly don't find the prospect repugnant."

After getting the shirt over his head, Namir decides that trying to get his arms into it just isn't worth it. It hurts an already sore spot, and he'll be getting dressed down to go to bed anyway. So he just keeps the shirt hanging around his neck and retrieves his beer from the cupboard. "I make you want to kill me, hmm? That's ironic, because you make me wish I were dead. Maybe you could do us both a favor." It's spoken deadpan, but he is joking. That's a first.

Samantha snags her beer from the fridge, unscrewing the cork with the opener magnetized to the fridge. She walks forward and lifts the shirt over his head, tossing it on the table and holds her bottle out to clink against his. "L'chaim." she says cheerfully adding, "If you like, I can make yours a cocktail with some Drano."

"Fisehatak." Namir clinks his bottle with hers before taking a swig from it. "Appetizing, but I'll settle for a painkiller." With the alcohol, it would have much the same effect, right?

"You'll need to wait a bit." Sam cautions. "Alcohol -is- painkiller, and isn't to be combined with the real deal drugs."

"Are you saying that to keep me away from your painkillers, or to keep me away from your beer?" Namir takes another deep pull from the bottle and shakes his head. "You know, I only started drinking this because you stopped making egg creams." So his drinking is still Sam's fault, obviously.

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