#angus002

[sama-not-sam]

who: Sama and @angusbyrne where: the terrace when: after the wake

Sama was exhausted, but restless. She’d been awake far too long and she’d done far too little. Sama didn’t take days off, even when she didn’t go into the office she was always working, but this day, the wake, hadn’t been any kind of work. So now she was wandering around the first floor, one shoe in each hand and swinging them slightly as she walked. And possibly shedding hair pins along the way. She’d taken her hair out of its french twist somewhere around the sunroom, putting the pins in the toes of her shoes since her dress didn’t have pockets.

Sama wasn’t sure what she was looking for. A task that needed doing? A distraction from the memory of her conversation with Alison? Maybe just someone who wanted her here? Or maybe she wasn’t looking for anything, just trying to burn off her leftover energy. If she were still a teenager, or even in her twenties, she might’ve slipped down to the home gym in the basement and the barre Richard bought for her, but her 32 year old knees protested at just the thought. 

So Sama wandered, until she saw Angus out on the terrace. She swung off the door a little as she pulled it open, then jumped when it closed behind her with more force than she’d anticipated. “Who’re you hiding from out here?” She carefully set her shoes on the stone railing, then boosted herself up beside them, swinging her feet slightly as she sat.

[sama-not-sam]

@angusbyrne

Again there was a sense of dissatisfaction, veering dangerously close to disappointment, when Angus let the subject drop. Sama hadn’t been expecting him to challenge her words, to contradict what he’d just said. She knew better than to want to be the reason he did anything. She was not someone who was important to anyone; she’d forced herself to confront that truth head on a long time ago. She was all but inured to it now. 

“So important a point, you need to make it twice.” Sama’s shot at a wry tone veered more toward petulant. She didn’t understand why this seemed to be bothering him so much, and she didn’t like things she didn’t understand. Of course, there had been several things she didn’t like about this day. Thus the vodka. 

As Angus continued, it felt like too small a motion to just roll her eyes, so Sama rolled her whole head. “It turns out there’s this nifty little thing, about yea big, usually shiny. It’s called a flask, and it can be used to bring your own alcohol wherever you want. I’m not surprised it’s a foreign concept to you, noted teetotaler that you are.” She punctuated her glib monologue by reaching out to stroke his cheek as if he was a child.

Angus would take the couch. He very deliberately skirted around the thought that he'd take whatever she was willing to give to him, just as he very carefully avoided watching the way her hands moved. It was an empty, pathetic notion—something he often sought to rid himself of. What use was there in letting his eyes trail after Sama Ali's fingers and imagining himself camped out in her living room? There was no use in any of it.

He could, instead, focus on the matter at hand. Sama had something to drink. Angus knew her life wasn't totally devoid of alcohol, but he also knew that when she reverted alcohol took up much less space in it. On one hand, he felt there wasn't much use in pointing a finger at it. Sama had never been on the receiving end of his invasive fretting. And they'd had a long, stressful day; it was not unheard of for people to turn to vices on long, stressful days, no matter their religion. But on the other hand—

"So you can see why I'm a little surprised," he echoed himself, letting a palm rest on the stone railing. Angus pressed his lips together in a fine line, then continued: "Especially when, as far as I'm aware, the wake was a dry one."

[sama-not-sam]

@angusbyrne

Sama wasn’t sure how she’d wanted Angus to answer her question, but it wasn’t like that. Something in her chest, which she was only aware of insomuch as she was habitually not looking at it, curled in on itself, and she didn’t understand that any more than she knew why he was giving her his politician's smile. Still, she straightened her shoulders and tried to inject some levity into her voice. “Well, I wouldn’t make much of a tour guide for Christian holy sites. And if you’re hoping for free accommodation on your little pilgrimage, all I can offer is my couch.” She looked down as she spoke, tracking the progress of her hands as she finger pressed the hem of her skirt, never mind that it had been laying perfectly flat against the tops of her knees.

The subject change pulled her gaze back up, and her chin along with it, lifted defiantly, as if he was attacking her. Something about him put her on the defensive, the too blank face and overly meticulous word choice. It was, ostensibly, typical Angus behavior, but it wasn’t normal. It didn’t feel normal. “I’m not.” Sama still felt comfortable saying that. She wasn’t much of a drinker. A few mouthfuls of vodka, or a few too many, on one very long day didn’t change that.

The answer to her question was yes. It wasn't a thought he often had, like the way your hand skirted around a hot stovetop, but it was a feeling that resided in the back of his mind regardless. Not always known—gone dormant sometimes, distracted or belittled by other thoughts and people—but relied upon to make a return.

He felt particularly aware of Sama's eyes on his face. A muscle in his jaw twinged, minutely, before he relaxed the subtle grinding of his teeth. "I've been curious to see the site of Calvin's sermons—Saint Pierre Cathedral, was it?" Angus smiled faintly then, suddenly and artificially. "You may be shocked, but I've long forgiven the man for the Protestant Reformation."

With the confirmation of his suspicion, Angus quickly felt the fake expression dissipate. It was back to a blank slate—serious eyes, relaxed jaw, mouth in a straight line. He knew he would have to choose his next words carefully. "That's true. It has been a long day," he agreed evenly, rubbing at his chin as he thought.

It would be easy to overstep, to demand too much information too soon. He'd made that mistake before, if not with Sama then with others. "I guess I'm a little surprised," he settled on, trying to exude an overwhelming sense of neutrality. "I was under the impression that you weren't much of a drinker."

[sama-not-sam]

@angusbyrne

Sama smiled to herself as she watched Angus straighten his tie. The temptation was there to reach out and tug on it again, maybe aim for the knot, make a little game for herself. Because, apparently, she turned into a bored toddler when she drank. But then, she was distracted by Angus’ words. 

Sama had never invited anyone to visit her in Geneva. She had a laundry list of excuses, but, she was just drunk enough to acknowledge, they all covered up the simple truth that if she never asked, no one would ever say no. Angus was busy, with a job that wasn’t just objectively important, it was important to him. Sama understood that, because she felt the same way about her work. And Washington DC to Geneva, Switzerland was a long way to go for just one person. She’d used a similar excuse to get out of attending Celia’s wedding. If she didn’t ask, he wouldn’t say no. “Do you want one?” She stilled, head tilted like a child, watching him. 

Sama shifted when he asked if she’d been drinking and shook her head. “Just a little bit at the wake.” Then, she reconsidered her words and amended them. “That was the idea. I might have…” She mimed what she was trying to say with her hands as sifted through her still somewhat fuzzy brain for the word. “Overshot, a little bit.” 

Sama rolled her shoulders and sighed. After a moment of silence, she added, “It’s been a long day.” It wasn’t an excuse and she wasn’t saying it as an excuse. Any mistake she might have made by drinking at the wake was between her and Allah, and if she needed to make any excuses or apologies, she would make them to Him, not Angus. But, maybe, she wanted a little confirmation that she wasn’t the only person who’d struggled today.

Angus pressed his lips together as she spoke; they twisted a little to the side—ne pas bien. That was easy enough to understand. What was less easy to understand was the way she then tugged on his tie. The movement made him blink, his shoulders pulling back even further. He was at full attention. Angus' hand passed over the tie after, half to straighten it again. "I've hardly received an engraved invitation to Geneva, have I?" he rebutted, almost too formally—constant compensation.

If it were anyone else, he would not have waited for any kind of invitation; if it were anyone else, they'd either receive a request for their work schedule or, at the very least, a warning. It seemed a dangerous path to tread, and an even more discomfiting topic to broach. So he decided to focus, instead, on addressing the thought he'd been having for the past 5 or so minutes. In a sudden change of subject, he asked: "Have you been drinking?"

[sama-not-sam]

@angusbyrne

Looking back on their teen years at Woodrow House, it seemed like Angus was never alone. He was always checking up on the newest arrival, or helping one of the younger wards with their homework. It was the choice he made, once he got over being rude and hostile to anyone who had the misfortune to cross his path, and Sama had no reason to think that had changed. Privately, she was glad to have found him alone; she preferred when she could have him to herself. Even if, at this particular moment, it meant he was bound to realize she was a little bit drunk sooner than later.

Sama was not a fan of poker, but she could bluff with the best of them. So when Angus gave her an out, she grabbed it with both hands. “Maybe it is, how would you know? Parlez-vous français? Ne pas bien.” She remembered him taking French in high school, probably because of a girl, but she didn’t remember it going anywhere. She reached out and gave his tie a playful tug. “And you’ve never been to Geneva.” It was a statement of fact, without any bitterness or venom. Sama hadn’t expected anyone to come all the way to Switzerland to visit her, although Celia had threatened to on more than one occasion. There was a reason she lived in a one bedroom flat.

Was Angus avoiding someone? Would he even have to hide from them? He could count the people at Woodrow House who'd most likely willingly and purposefully seek him out on one hand, maybe even on less than 5 fingers. From the moment he met the bulk of the wards, he'd established a dynamic of him coming to them, and often it felt a lot like cornering.

Most felt like siblings and, though he didn't often use the word, he loved them in a way that frequently hurt—on both sides. And when he held on too tight, several had the tendency to turn into water in his hands. He wasn't sure Uncle Richard's death was enough to undo all of that, to make someone with some old reason to be wary to try and find him late at night. So no, there was no single person he hid from. Not tonight. And perhaps that in and of itself was something to avoid.

But it didn't matter. Sama's flub was enough distraction. "Erso... Is that a French word I haven't heard of before?" he asked pointedly. With her closer, the high flush in her cheeks became more obvious. "Something colloquial in Geneva?"

[sama-not-sam]

@angusbyrne

Sama was used to Angus’ particular brand of attention, intense, penetrating, looking for a problem that needed fixing, something he could help with, and focused more particularly on her because she didn’t need his help. Not counting the times she called him when she first moved to Geneva, which was just from the unexpected stress of it all. By and large, Sama worked very hard to make sure she didn’t need anything from anyone. She was independent. Too independent, if you asked her exes. 

Sama shook her head, in response to what Angus said or maybe to disrupt her train of thought. “It’s too cold to be enjoying the fresh air, erso, you’re hiding from someone.” She frowned when she realized how she’d mixed up her words. It was too much to hope that Angus wouldn’t notice.

Angus didn't start when he heard the sudden sound of the door opening behind him, but he did turn quickly to see who entered the terrace. All the better to calculate how to hold himself, if he ought to escape, what face he was meant to wear in the interim. It was Sama. His back straightened, an almost bemused expression superficially playing on his features—there and gone. The first thing Angus noticed when he assessed her was how undone she looked. Her shoes off and her hair down, pulling herself up onto the half-wall railing with youthful carelessness for decorum. Every detail pinged on his radar like a pinball hitting all manners of buttons and levers beneath its glass case. It was difficult to not think about how pretty she looked. It was equally difficult not to notice the flush on her face. "Now what would make you think I'm hiding?" he posed, briefly looking over her shoulder toward the darkened lawn. It was better to observe the blueish-black swaying trees than to focus on where the hem of her dress stopped. He realized, belatedly, that he'd rarely ever seen her in one. "I'm enjoying the fresh air."