Starring:
Summary: After shooting at Elijah, Namir makes a mistake that gets him booted out of the apartment.
Dark Future Date: August 2nd, 2009
Cross the Line
Samantha and Bekah's Apartment.
He doesn't live here anymore, but Namir's occupying the apartment for a few days, and if he's going to do it comfortably, some things need to change. Hence why he's rearranged the furniture to allow for optimal cover and hiding places in case of intrusion, and why guns have been hidden in easily accessible places for those who know about their locations. It's late and the household is asleep. Bekah's in her own room, and Namir is in Sam's room, dead to the world for all appearances. Except he's only in a half-dozing state that he's perfected over the past year, and the hand of his uninjured arm is gripping a gun beneath the pillow.
There's the sound of the door in the front of the apartment being pushed open, and then closing again. Shuffling about, a bump into furniture placed in an unexpected spot. Sam had a late shift, which may or may not occur to him.
It is something that occurred to him, and with the other incident involving an unexpected entry into the apartment, this is probably what saves Samantha from having to dodge a bullet. As soon as he hears the door open, Namir is awake and up out of the bed. By the time the sound of someone bumping into furniture is heard, he's at the bedroom door and slowly pulls it open, the pistol in his hand preceding him out into the rest of the apartment. It's dark, but his eyes have had time to adjust to it. Spotting a murky shape in the dark, he growls, "If that's you again, Eli, I am going to be shooting to kill this time."
"You fired your gun in my apartment?" comes the icy tone of the woman who married him. "What do you mean 'this time'?" The dining area lights are flicked on, and there's Sam, clad in scrubs, looking tired like she does so many nights after work when she's come home late. When it was still good and they would each have their occaisional late shifts, they'd greet each other with cups of cocoa or egg creams and the offer of a backrub. Now late nights are greeted with the potential for gunfire.
How times have changed. That voice is all the identification Namir needs to know that it's not Elijah. He blinks and squints when the light in the dining room comes on. Even though it's not directly in his face, it's still a shock from the darkness that the apartment was seconds ago. Though he now knows it's Sam, the pistol remains trained on her. "Is that really you, Sam?" he inquires. Why yes, he is really that paranoid.
Samantha's voice is thick with sarcasm. "No, I'm the boogie man, only female and with perky boobs." With that, she hangs her bag on one of the chairs, turns, and heads for the kitchen, where kitchen sounds are thusly made.
Namir follows, but he keeps at a distance, just in case she tries to jump him or some such nonsense. He's not laughing. Even if her boobs are indeed perky. "I'm serious." Then, as an afterthought, he spouts off a bit of Alliance code — essentially the sort that would be asking for identification.
"If you're going to treat my house like a fortress and act like you need to be put away from paranoia, this isn't going to work." Sam roots through the fridge, pulls out some Tupperware and just gives him a -look-. And then, because she's hungry and tired and her husband is irritating her, throws in giving him the finger. Because she's so mature right now.
Maybe he does need to be put away for paranoia, but at least he wouldn't be dead. Namir's dealt with too much over the past year to just let that one fly. He raises the pistol a little higher and growls, "Answer the question." It would appear that he's all ready to fire the gun in Sam's apartment again.
It's not that Sam's got an objection to guns. After all, she carries one now, because he taught her. But something about that raised weapon pointed at her, and the person doing the pointing - for a second it puts her back in the Sudan. So she opens her mouth - and what emerges isn't an answer. The speed of sound is pretty fast, and Sam's abilities have a way of being almost visual, like a rippling of the air. Even the sound isn't particularly piercing, it's almost like the sound of tv snow. But the point is, what happens to the gun, because it pretty much falls apart in his hands. And only then does she speak, because she looks - well, she looks angry and sad and something unnamable, but nontheless she hisses, "Get the -fuck- out of my apartment. NOW."
Well, it's not code, but it's proof enough. And now he's short one gun. They're not exactly cheap or easy to find. As soon as he notices what she's doing, Namir attempts to defend himself with his own powers, but it's not enough to save the pistol. It at least keeps him from getting knocked out himself, however, and once he's given that order, he hesitates. His expression is stony for the most part, but it's shaken enough to let a little bit of something else through. Too bad it's difficult to define. Shame? Guilt? Fear? Who knows? Whatever it is, he turns away without a word and heads back into the bedroom, where there are soon sounds of dressing and packing.
Samantha starts putting away the food and then quietly goes to one of the cabinets. That's where she finds the bottle of Arak, an Israeli liquour of about 180 proof. Pours herself a shot, and then rethinks it, pours herself a double. Quietly she goes into the dining area, sits down and stares at her drink. Takes a swallow, and puts a hand to her mouth so Namir doesn't hear her cry.
It's deja vu all over again. Only this time, when Namir emerges from the bedroom dressed, face obscured with his typical headscarf and with a packed duffel and his assault rifle slung over his shoulder — this time he doesn't plan to leave through the front door. Too risky. So instead, he heads for his typical entrance and exit these days: the window in the kitchen. This involves passing through the dining room, and when he spots Sam, he pauses in the doorway. "… I'll come back for the rest of my things in the morning," he mutters.
Samantha quickly wipes at her eyes. He didn't see that, right? Right? "Yeah," she says in a voice she hopes doesn't sound to choked from her indulgence of tears.
… was she crying? That's the impression that he got. She was wiping at her eyes and her voice doesn't sound right. Despite everything, Samantha crying still has the power to really tear Namir up inside, and he remains rooted in the doorway to the dining area. After another pause, he utters very quietly, "I'm sorry." Not exactly something one hears every day.
"I don't think so." she says stiffly. "Because if you were, you wouldn't do that ever again, and I know that you'd still do it again. So you might be regretful, but you're not sorry." She takes another drink.
"I do it," Namir replies in a low and somewhat irritated growl, "because if I don't, then I will wind up dead. It isn't like it was before, Sam. Now they have people like us working for them — people who can do things that make normal security measures far inferior. And whether you like it or not, I am one of the people they want dead. That means I have to be careful." Even if it means pointing a gun at his wife.
"They don't know who you are." she replies. "Which isn't surprising, since I don't know who you are anymore. I let you stay because you need to recuperate; that doesn't mean you get to point guns at everyone who walks in the door."
"Do you think I like pointing guns at the people I know and love? Because I don't, Sam." Namir keeps his voice low and level — it's his typical response to such situations. However, he's not doing a very good job of it, because some ire is definitely leaking out. "And I don't like living in a hellhole with rats for company because it's not safe to remain anywhere remotely public for long. But I do it because it keeps me alive. Are you going to protect me if they show up here disguised as someone we know?"
Samantha shakes her head. "This isn't going to work." she says tersely. "I can't - I won't have you pointing a gun every time someone comes home. If that's how you have to live, it can't be here."
So that's it, then. It would seem Namir's run out of arguments. He could try to stay, try to fix things, promise to reform and never do it again — but he doesn't. A part of him still believes that he has to live this way, and if it means separating himself from those he loves, then that's just the way it will have to be. With a shake of his head, Namir heads for the kitchen window. "Goodbye, Sam," is all he says before he slips out into the night.