2007-04-01: Thinking Face


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Samantha and Namir toss around a few theories about the people and events of the previous night. The subject of familial disapproval for each one's choice in dating partners arises. Samantha will not get Namir out early.

Date It Happened:

April 1st, 2007

Thinking Face

Mount Sinai

There's a meditation garden here at Sinai. Namir's been permitted access, providing a) he stays in his wheelchair, and b) someone is with him. It's Sam lunch break, and so here she is, wheeling Namir into the spring sun and fresh air, in her usual work togs and hair pulled back in a twist. "This better?" she asks as she starts to park them at a bench near a blossoming cherry tree. He's already got a seat, and she parks her butt on the bench.

He doesn't /like/ the seat, but Namir isn't complaining. At least he's out of the bed and there's fresh air, right? Right. Keep looking at the silver lining. He's /almost/ out of here. The Muslim lets out a contented sigh and settles back in his chair, glancing around the garden area with a smile. "Much, much better, thank you. I've been pulled into those silly sudoku puzzles so badly, I was starting to see little boxes and numbers on the walls." Crazy stuff.

Samantha grins. "I can't stand them." she admits. "But so many people I know swear by them, and I just couldn't see you knitting. Perhaps you'll fare better with the crosswords." She leans back, lifts her face, and takes a sniff of the cherry blossom tree, a smile on her face, though it soon settles into something more solemn. "Want to tell me what's going on with Suresh and Parkman and Molly?" she asks quietly.

"I might have been better /off/ with knitting. Seeing sweaters and socks is at least a little saner than blocks and numbers." But as with Samantha, Namir's grin fades at the mention and thought of the odd trio from the other night. He shrugs, adjusting the brake on his chair. "I honestly couldn't tell you much myself. Doctor Suresh and Molly were kidnapped and held by a duo that Molly only referred to as Sylar and Kellie. They are now trying to hide from them. Something about a cure for … Sylar was it? I can't remember which one. Molly referred to 'him' and 'he'."

"Hunh." Samantha says thoughtfully. "Neither name rings a bell. And why would these people want to kidnap Dr. Suresh and a little girl?" A pause. "Well, wait a minute. If one assumes that Dr. Suresh's work was…threatening somehow, and he's Molly's guardian, they kidnap him for their purposes and his foster daughter to keep him controlled. Is that too much of a jump? I mean, why else kidnap him at all?"

Namir nods. "That's usually how such things work. I assume that Doctor Suresh is capable of coming up with whatever cure they were looking for." He finishes adjusting the brake and leans to the left, elbow supported by the arm of the chair, chin resting in his palm. "Though I can't be certain. I don't really know his work, outside of the fact that he's continuing his father's research. Molly, though … I get the impression there is more to her than meets the eye. She might be talented." In the Superhero sense.

"What makes you think they were looking for a cure?" Sam asks, turning her attention to him more fully. "I think we agree it's probably tied to his research. Molly, well she could be talented in that way, but it's not safe to assume that anyone connected to Mohinder Suresh is going to be." She crosses her arms and taps her finger against her lips. "Though the cop…Parkman? If he and Suresh aren't actually life partners, then what would bring an Indian scientist and a New York cop together, muchless to become foster parents to a little girl?"

"Molly said that they were wanting a cure of some sort. I don't know what it was, just that it was something they were obviously willing to go to drastic measures to obtain. Perhaps some sort of life-threatening disease." Who knows? Mohinder works with genetics, so it's possible. Namir considers this line of logic a moment before shrugging and moving on: "I suspect Molly is talented because she … seemed to know things. I would have to spend time with her to be sure, but she knew Doctor Suresh was coming to the hospital with Detective Parkman when I hadn't said such to her. /I/ didn't even know they were coming together until they arrived. Maybe she's psychic." As for how a doctor and a detective come together, well … Namir doesn't rightly know. "Perhaps they worked together on something. Does Doctor Suresh do any sort of police work, or /did/ he in the past, do you think? Detective Parkman doesn't work in my area, so I don't know him."

Samantha shakes her head. "None that I know of. But having a working relationship with each other isn't the sort of bond that would make two heterosexual men agree to foster a child together, is it?" She pauses and considers, "Unless they'd been through something rather significant together." She eyes him a minute and grins. "Maybe I should have been a detective, huh?"

Namir's thoughtful expression breaks into a grin at that. "Quite possibly. You make a very endearing face when you think hard." Because that's totally the only real qualification that a detective needs. Yeah. "Maybe they have been through something significant, or maybe they are just deeply closeted individuals who don't like to let on about their relationship. It's hard to tell." Funnily enough, he doesn't seem convinced of the "closeted gay men" option. It seems his thought processes from last night are still having an effect on him.

Samantha smirks at him. "You like smart women, hooray." She goes back to musing. "As hurried and hushed as this all seems, would there be anything on 'Sylar' and 'Kellie' that the police might have?" Almost as soon as the words leave her lips, she looks recalcitrant. "This is probably edging into none of my business, isn't it?"

After a moment's consideration, Namir shrugs. "Possibly. Detective Parkman told me to call dispatch shortly after I told him about Molly — he said to tell them to focus their search on Sylar and Kellie now that the two hostages were found. I imagine there's a casefile somewhere." A smirk. "Whether or not either one of us could or even has business accessing it is another story." Namir's already stretched his boundaries as far as detective work goes, what with the soma business — pulling strings to look into a casefile for idle curiosity's sake might just get him canned. But he is now /wildly/ curious.

Samantha gets 'thinking face' again. "Would it be too much for you to simply inquire who's assigned to the case?" she asks. "That's not treading on toes, is it?"

Namir likes 'thinking face'. It makes him smile. "Mm, I don't suppose it is." The idly musing expression becomes quizzical. "Why would you want to know? Do you plan on feeding in a few theories?"

Samantha snaps her fingers and points to him. "See? I have nothing better to offer you as far as an answer besides curiousity. So maybe it's best I let it sit."

Another grin and even a quiet laugh from Namir. "You're not the only one guilty of curiosity." He shakes his head. "You know, Doctor Suresh and company /are/ at my apartment until Thursday. If you want any answers, you might approach them. You've spoken to Suresh before, and it's not as though you don't have business in my apartment." Well … maybe she doesn't really. But she could come up with something without seeming suspicious.

Samantha gives a little shrug. "I think they'd view it as an invasion. I'm fairly certain Parkman thinks I'm meddlesome."

"He's a detective; he's trained to be paranoid." It's why Namir didn't go into detective work — that, and there's not much action in it. The Muslim smirks. "Tell you what: if you can get me out of here early, I'll ask around the professional grapevines about the case." Maybe he'll do it anyway, because it's fun to watch her theorize.

Samantha snorts. "Just because I gave Molly a free pass doesn't mean you get one. And you shouldn't be doing anything more strenuous then your laundry while you're recovering even after you get out of the hospital."

"Mmm, I see now. You and Bekah planned to give me that book. It's punishment for my getting shot and making your life hard, isn't it?" Hey, getting a book like that and being told he can't do anything more strenuous than laundry after he gets out is pretty harsh. Namir's smile takes on a mischievous sort of tone. "You know I am going to walk a mile as soon as I'm out the door, don't you?"

Samantha holds up her hands. "I had nothing to do with that." she says quickly and defensively. "It was as big a shock to you as it was to me, believe me." She has the grace to look very sheepish.

But Namir doesn't look convinced — well, not really. He /is/ convinced, but he's still going to tease, because that's just what he does. "Mm-hmm, sure. You both came into the room at identical times bearing gifts, and it /just so happened/ that I got that book in the mix. Verrrry suspicious, Sam." He regards her with a playfully skeptical look.

Samantha sniffs. "If that's going to be how you are about it," she remarks, not entirely serious, "I'll just leave you here until you freeze and turn into statuary squirrels and birds can take poops on."

Now that's just mean. Namir can't wheel himself due to the strain it puts on his side, hence why any self-mobilization has found him shuffling along dragging the wheelchair behind him. Still, he seems unfazed. "I get pooped on by rats all the time; what makes you think birds and squirrels are going to make me tremble in fear?" Ha. Foiled by Rodentia.

"Have you noticed how irregularly statuary gets cleaned in New York?" Sam counters. "There's occaisional rat pellets, and then there's getting crapped on by New York's finest pigeons." But already she's rising and preparing to wheel him in.

Namir can't help but laugh at the mental imagery. He unlocks the brake to make the wheeling part easier, grinning all the while. "Sausages and pigeon poop," he utters in a retrospective fashion. "You may be the most frightening woman in New York."

Samantha snorts delicately. "What does that say about you?" she points out as she pushes him along. The wheels on the chair go round and round…

"It says that I'm a good Muslim who observes halal," Namir retorts with a smug sort of smirk that is not at all /truly/ smug, "and anyone who tells you that they are not afraid of pigeons and their fecal matter in large groups is a liar." Even New Yorkers.

Samantha snorts. "If you were that good a Muslim, you'd be praying three times a day and you certainly would NOT be dating me."

Namir holds up a finger flippantly, half-turning his head to regard Samantha … 's stomach over his shoulder. Ah, 6'2" belittled by a wheelchair. "Five times." His arm drops again, folding with the other over his chest. "And I blame you for that last one."

"Five times? Really? Don't you think that's excessive? I mean, three's the Hebrew limit, last I checked." That close, she smells like soap, tending to avoid perfumes while at work. She lets out a wry laugh. "I would think I count as halal."

He /could/ make a cruel remark, but Namir doesn't hold to the thought for long. "It can get harrowing, I'll admit. That's why I don't practice salah often." That makes him a very bad Muslim, really; salah is the most important form of worship. Craning his head back to smirk up at Samantha's face, he adds, "You are, when you don't have wine or other alcohol on your lips."

Samantha blinks. "I would think it counts when I do." she says, and sighs. "My mother's going to start asking why I've stopped going out on dates. And when she inevitably guesses I'm seeing someone, she'll want me to bring them to a Friday night dinner."

"Alcohol is forbidden. I can't kiss you until you rinse with egg cream." Such is The Way. Woe. Namir angles his head quizzically at the mention of Samantha's mother and Friday night dinner. "So long as it is kosher, that wouldn't be a problem." Unless there's the whole resistance to dating a Muslim thing. That might make a few problems.

"You are missing the point." Sam affects a quavery old lady from Queens tone. "Oh, he's so handsome! A police officer, well he makes good money. Treats you like a queen, and Israeli? I'm veklempt - wait, what do you mean he's Muslim, are you trying to kill me?'" She resorts to her regular tone. "And that about sums that up right there."

Namir inwardly winces at that, and his smile becomes slightly pained, though it's mostly dryly humored. So it /is/ the Muslim thing. He rights his head once more, staring forward. "Mmm, I see." A moment's pause before he's tilting his head back to stare up at Samantha again. "I can't say my family would be too keen on your being Jewish either. I simply told my brother that you weren't Muslim, and I thought that alone was going to get me hit in the jaw." His brow furrows in thought. "Though Mother would probably be a little more open-minded. Fahd is … devout." A smirk. "I would be willing to brave the wrath of 'Ima' Applebaum if you are." The implication that he doesn't want to cause too much trouble for Sam is there, however. He wouldn't want to be the source of a fight between Mama Applebaum and Doctor Applebaum if that's something Doctor Applebaum would rather avoid.

"We'll just…worry about it when it happens." Samantha resolves. No, she's not ready. It's safe to say that Samantha, brave enough to work in an ER and brave enough to face down terrorist armies in South America and Africa, is abjectly terrified of her family's reaction to Namir. Not so brave, it would seem.

This is an answer with which Namir is apparently content, for he smiles a little wider, gently, and nods. "Of course." He doesn't attempt to correct the 'when' with an 'if' — such a thing is inevitable. Instead, he tries to twist his head far enough to the side to kiss the back of Samantha's hand and, when that ultimately fails due to the fact that his bones are not made of rubber, he grunts wryly and instead settles for reaching back with his left hand to pat one of her own. "Meanwhile, let's just worry about how you're going to get me out of this hospital early." Relentless!

"Dream on." Samantha sweetly advises him. Apparently Thursday is the day, whether he likes it or not.

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