2007-05-02: Trolling For Angry Doctors

Starring:

Namir_icon.gif Samantha_icon.gif

Summary:

After running into Erica in a bizarre series of coincidences, Namir and Samantha return from their picnic and have it out concerning Namir's bravado in the face of Sylar. They manage not to go to bed mad.

Date It Happened: May 2nd, 2007

Trolling For Angry Doctors


Namir's Apartment

It was a pretty silent trip back to Namir's apartment. The entire way, not much was said. This theme seems to carry on even after the couple have gotten through the door, and it's not until most of the leftovers are put away in the small kitchen that Namir finally decides to address the carrying stillness. As he pours the leftover lemonade into a pitcher for storing, he casts a glance over his shoulder at Samantha, his face expressionless. "Why do I get the feeling you are not happy with me?" he inquires in a level voice.

Samantha gives him a very direct stare. "Because I don't expect you to dismiss a threat like Sylar under the very mistaken impression that the ESU can't handle it. So far, the cops can't handle it, and apparently the FBI can't handle it, and somehow I don't think anyone who isn't capable of something amazingly beyond what either of us can do is capable of handling it, if at all."

Hoo boy. Namir snaps the lid on the pitcher and then turns around fully to face Sam, leaning back with his hands gripping the lip of the counter. "The ESU," he states in that same calm voice, though there is the faintest hint of something steely there, "handles violent offenders every day, Sam. That's my /job/. That is what I /do/. And you would be surprised as to how amazing my abilities can be."

"Violent offenders who are perfectly normal people." Samantha counters. "At least as far as what they're capable of not reaching beyond normal means. This Sylar has been murdering people like us. Apparently with all kinds of abilities. What kind of man is capable of that? You're letting your pride get in the way of reason."

"Not all of them are perfectly normal people," retorts Namir, the steely edge in his tone becoming far more prominent as his face slips into a dark scowl. "That man at the stadium was /far/ from normal, and I neutralized him very effectively." But not effectively enough, otherwise there wouldn't be a search going on right now. "This has nothing to do with pride and everything to do with confidence."

"Not in time for you to avoid shooting Viola Holcombe." Samantha rounds on him. "You know I understand your job is dangerous, but you're being completely unreasonable and what's worse, you're being condescending and dismissive!"

That stung. For several seconds, Namir can only stand and stare — /glare/, even — before he picks up the pitcher and places it in the refrigerator with a little more force than is necessary. Then he turns and sets off out of the kitchen without a word, heading for the rat cage. They need feeding before bed.

Samantha works her jaw, her mouth tightening a bit. "I'll go." she mutters, more to herself, but definitely within earshot. He really -is- being stubborn! And she knows from stubborn. Because she is too.

There is no excessive force or violence in Namir's movements as he quietly feeds the rats. He's very calm around them, actually, knowing better than to frighten them. When he speaks, however, the same cannot be said for his tone, which is still terse: "What?" She may have spoken audibly enough, but miffed as he is, it still caught him a little off-guard.

"I'll go." she repeats, though admittedly this time the tone of it swings upward a little bit, making it a question. Don't go to bed mad, right? So maybe don't go to bed. She's not really sure.

That's what he'd thought she'd said. He places the bag of feed back in its spot and turns once again to face Sam, arms crossed over his chest. "If you want to, fine. I wouldn't want to force you to stay in the same apartment as a cop-shooter." No one could pack more bitterness into a sentence.

"That's /not/ why I said I'd go." She scowls. Now he's being stupid. "I'm angry at you. I really, really think you're not grasping the capabilities of some of the people with abilities out there, to the point where confidence has become arrogance that will get you killed. You've had first hand experience with what someone can do who was targetting normal people, and my God, this Sylar is targeting people who are anything but! I have /never/ tried to caution you about your work, until now, with this, yes. God," she says again, reaching up a hand to tug her hair momentarily in frustration, "You're so damn stubborn! The shooting wasn't your fault, but can't you see it's certainly something to consider in all of this?"

"Had I not been following proper procedure and had I not been hesitant to use my abilities on that man in the first place, I would never have shot Lieutenant Holcombe." Stubborn? Definitely, especially in matters involving his work and his abilities. He's gone over the scenario over and over in his mind, as one tends to do in such situations, and has filled in every little 'what if' and 'had I been' that he could think of. "That is /not/ a mistake I would make with Sylar. I never said it wasn't a danger. I think you are overestimating him and underestimating me." And that is quite rankling.

"Officer Parkman is a perfectly capable cop. And even -he- had the sense to run." Sam sighs. "Just don't die, alright? Can we agree on that? I'm going to take a stand and say that's not allowed."

"Officer Parkman has neither my training nor my abilities," Namir states quite bluntly. So much for humility, though he, of course, would insist that it was 'being realistic', not 'being an arrogant ass'. It's patently difficult to remain angry in the face of that last point, however, and he releases an audible sigh, the glare giving way to a calmer frown. His voice also softens: "I don't plan to die, Sam — but you realize that if something involving Sylar is ever called in, and the ESU responds, I cannot just opt out of it because I think I might get killed. It's my job."

"I know, I just. I know you would have to go, but just be careful. And not just generic, hey-baby-off-to-work-to-take-a-bite-against-crime be careful, the kind I know you know I wish for you in my head every day because it doesn't need to be said. I mean serious careful enough to let it come out of my mouth." Sam takes a seat. "If that makes sense."

Namir can't help but smile faintly at that. It sounds like babbling, but he knows what's behind it. "It doesn't really, but I think I know what you mean." He moves around the couch to take a seat next to Sam and loosely wraps his arms around her, touching his forehead to the side of her head. "I will be careful. And who knows? If this investigation goes on much longer, and if they decide I really am a horrible Muslim traitor, I may be out of a job and you won't have to worry anymore, hmm?"

Samantha frowns. "I don't think that would stop you." she says. "But it won't come to that." Absently her hands curl into his hair. "So, if we're not going to bed mad, let's just go to bed, okay? I have an early shift."

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