2007-04-10: Workaholic World

Starring:

Namir_icon.gif Samantha_icon.gif

Summary:

After dealing with the outbreak at Mount Sinai, Samantha comes home to a little sleepy discussion about recent events, future plans, and how complicated women are.

Date It Happened: April 10th, 2007

Workaholic World


Samantha's Apartment

So Sam had a night shift, and coming off of that, she went in the next afternoon, hoping to be only a few hours. She even had a date planned with Namir. But it turned out there was some excitement which involved her calling him and begging him to come feed Fiyero and invite him to apartment sit for a change of scenery - though she wouldn't blame him if he didn't wish to abandon his beloved xbox. All things considered, it was about 2 am when Sam crawled in, and Namir present or not, clambered into bed after shucking her clothes, pulling on a sleepshirt, and falling face first on the mattress.

But the phonecall was urgent enough to alarm Namir, and so he did agree to feed Fiyero and apartment-sit. He even brought the XBox with him — it's some sort of sign, as the XBox never leaves his apartment. As such, he /is/ present in the bed when Samantha makes her appearance, and he's sleeping pretty soundly until there's a body flopping onto the mattress nearby. It's enough to rouse him and he lets out a grunt of half-protest, half-surprise. Rolling over, he can make out the dim outline of somebody there, and he squints groggily. "Sam?"

"Mrph." is the reply. "No, it's the Hannukah Fairy." she mumbles. She smells like she's recently showered, even her hair is damp. She probably did so at the hospital. "Sorry for being so late. We had a bit of a crisis."

Crisis? Namir blinks a few times, then squeezes his eyes shut as he completely rolls over onto his opposite side to face Samantha. He can smell that she's showered recently, and reaching out to rest a hand on her back, he happens to touch her hair and feel that it's damp. Odd. He doesn't remember hearing the shower running. "What crisis?"

"Quarantine." she says. "Don't worry, I wasn't in the infected zone at all. But I had to suit up to stick people. You'll never believe who's stuck in the ER right now, waiting on test results to find out if he can go home." She blinks at him blearily, laying on her side to study him.

When Samantha moves onto her side, Namir lets his arm slide off of her and drop onto the mattress between them. "Quarantine? For what? And who is stuck in the ER?" The word "quarantine" is enough to send his heart shooting up into his throat for a brief moment, but it calms again when she says that she wasn't in the infected zone. Of course she wasn't; otherwise, she wouldn't have been able to come home. He knows the procedure.

She sighs. She's had to repeat variations of this all afternoon and into the evening. "Hantavirus. We had a patient come in who presented initially as flu, but one of the doctors realized it could be something much worse. We ended up having to shut down the ER entirely, and since I was upstairs, I wasn't stuck there, but I did have to put on a biohazard suit, go in, and organize the blood draws. I'm sleeping on a comfy bed, and Nathan Petrelli is sleeping on a cot. Serves him right, he gave me some crap. Man, I'm petty when I'm underslept."

Wow, Nathan Petrelli. It may be dark, but even still, Namir is noticeably surprised. "What was he doing in the hospital in the first place? And what sort of crap was he giving you?" The last question has an edge to it. People giving Samantha crap don't particularly sit well with him, though he's hardly a vindictive sort.

Samantha puts a hand on his back to calm him. "It wasn't much. Going in to the whole thing there wasn't a lot of information. I wasn't going to draw blood from all those people until I knew who the patient zero was, had seen their chart, and knew who called the quarantine. We've had our little stint with the phony doctor, and a quarantine is disruptive enough for someone to try and pull something else like that. I had to tell him that ten minutes of my finding out what was going on was worth the chance of him getting to live immediately and he dialed it back." She crooks a grin. "I'm not so vindictive as to hurt someone when I stick 'em, but I did give him the brightest colored band-aid this side Greenwhich Village." She sounds terribly pleased with herself at that.

Namir grunts softly, contemptuously. Politicians. Sometimes, they just can't see past their own egos. He can't help but grin at the story of the band-aid. "Mm, well I'm glad you've never been angry enough at /me/ to make me suffer the indignity of a bright band-aid." One hand comes up to cup Samantha's cheek, and his tone becomes a little more serious. "They're not making you come in again tomorrow, are they?" The medical profession can be agonizingly cruel, but surely no one is /that/ cruel.

"I'm on call." Samantha confesses. "But I can deal with some of the research data I've been working on here at home and let the assistants handle the labs. Oh, I forgot to mention - my ER hours are cut back a bit, I got tapped to do some research for the FDA. It'll only be a couple of weeks, but the pay bonus is fantastic and I can use the findings for grant submissions."

"Mmm." It's a sympathetic, disapproving sort of sound. Being on call is at least better than actually being on duty, though. "No rest for the wicked, mm?" There's a smirk on Namir's face and in his voice, which once again disappears when he addresses the next bit of information: "FDA, hmm? That's big."

"It's only one project." she assures. "I do need to keep up with my grants if I want tenure eventually. But I don't know, maybe next year I might want to go back to Africa for a month or two."

"Africa?" Namir has been slowly drifting off during the conversation, which becomes fairly evident now by the startled note in his tone now. He recovers quickly enough: "That's … good. You would do a lot of good there." He sounds almost puzzled, unsure, and he absently withdraws his hand from Samantha's cheek.

Samantha sees his reaction. "It wouldn't be for a long time." she says. "And I've done it before. And I'm not even thinking until next year. Don't panic, alright? I'm not going anywhere." She lifts her chin, lashes at half-mast. "Unless you know, some Arabian prince sweeps me away to join a harem where all I have to do is eat bonbons all day and shag all night. That is how it works, right?"

"I'm not panicking." It's true: Namir no longer sounds shaken. He's gotten it back under control. He shifts over onto his back and extends his arm to encourage Sam to come up against his side. Snuggling makes sleep come faster. "Though I /would/ panic if you were swept away by an Arabian prince who imprisoned you in a harem with bonbons and all-night shagging. You wouldn't be happy there. I would have to come and rescue you and bring you back to your workaholic world." His tone is playful, amused, lacking entirely in sarcasm.

"Now see, that sounds like the sort of trashy romance I'd actually consider reading." she giggles, and shifts herself closer, pressed up against him. "How was your day? Have you heard from Dr. Suresh lately? They've disappeared, but then I guess that was the plan to begin with, right?"

When Samantha is settled, Namir wraps his near arm loosely around her and tips his head to the side to rest his chin against her forehead. "Hmm-mm, I haven't heard anything from them, which I suppose means they succeeded in disappearing — hopefully in the good sense." He can't say he hasn't worried about them a little, but then he tends to be distantly concerned with a lot of "cases". Speech is interrupted by a yawn, then a kiss to the doctor's brow. "Aside from not hearing from Doctor Suresh and nearly starting your cat on fire— " is he kidding? Hard to tell "— my day was extremely uneventful. I took a walk, I played XBox, I read a book." A momentary pause. "Incidentally, I have come to the conclusion that you women are overly complicated."

"No wonder Fiyero looks so put out." Sam says mildly. "Thank you for avoiding barbecueing him. And how exactly are we complicated?"

"/Supposedly/, it takes an application in triplicate, two forms of picture ID, and booking a month in advance to get you in a mood conducive to enjoyment," Namir exaggerates, not specifying just what he is talking about, though the implication ought to make it obvious enough. "Do you know what it takes to get us men in the mood?"

"I remembering hearing somewhere the only time you couldn't get a man in the mood is the seven obligatory minutes per year when he devotes himself to contemplating something like linoleum." Sam says, with a laugh. "I'm certainly willing to devote myself to the excercise - and hey, there /is/ that book report you owe me…but I can't promise I won't fall asleep afterwards."

"Mm-hmm. Now you can understand how frustrating it can be to be a devout Muslim man." Even worse after straying once or twice and then abstaining for years. Namir snorts softly, tucking his free hand behind his head and yawning again. "You couldn't guarantee that you wouldn't fall asleep /during/ either. Better to wait until you're more conscious and can offer helpful hints." Besides, he's tired too. Changing the subject, he adds, "You ought to sleep in tomorrow as much as you can. I'll worry about breakfast."

"That sounds like a good idea." she murmurs, "French toast, please!" And with that, off she drifts.

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