Fic: Casablanca
Nov. 7th, 2007 08:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mycursedfaceSamgar had decided that he was in shock. It was, quite simply, the only rational explanation. He was sitting on the edge of a road, holding his jacket against his head to soak up the blood, and he wanted to laugh.
A bombing was a good excuse at being late to the work conference, wasn’t?
“You’re taking this well,” came a woman’s voice to the left of him.
“Oh, I’m not.”
She laughed, softly. “A screaming wreck in a few hours?”
“I think it’s more than likely,” he replied, looking at her then. A short woman, that much was clear even from them both sitting down. A curvy one, that much was obvious even with the conservative cut of her white tunic and tan trousers. Well, once-white; blood and dirt have a tendency to show up, after all. Even her tinted glasses, wire-framed and expensive, were chipped, and she’d never get the stains out of her tan hijab.
A beautiful woman, even with the dirt and scarf pressed to her cheek.
The woman offered him a smile. “I’ll be the same. Or my sisters will do the screaming for me.”
Sisters. Family.
Samgar groaned, and she looked sympathetic. “My mother,” he offered by way explanation, adjusting the jacket, “is going to go into hysterics.”
“My condolences. I personally think I’ll never be allowed out of the house.”
“It’s not even that I meant to be late for work.”
“I just wanted a holiday.”
“And look what happens-”
“Bombing. Car?” He shook his head. “Groupe Islamique Combattant,” and in her lovely mouth the words were a curse.
“Do you think so?”
“Yes,” but no sooner did she get the word out of her mouth when she looked up. His ears still ringing, Samgar couldn’t hear what caught her attention, but he could see it.
It. Well, her.
A leggy woman about the same age as his companion, with the same nose and the same jaw and his companion wearily got to her feet in time to get hugged.
‘Tackled’, perhaps, would be a better word for it.
They talked fast in a language Samgar couldn’t understand, but when his companion gestured to him, he offered a wave. She made a face.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Sam,” Samgar offered.
“Sam?” She said, with a delighted smile while her sister (what else could she be) rolled her eyes.
“Sam!” The sister said. “You and men called Sam!” She turned to him. “Her boyfriend is called Sam. She could be on the moon and find a man called Sam.”
“There is nothing wrong with the name,” Samgar’s former companion protested.
“Khadija, your boyfriend is the Devil. And he is English.
“The Devil?” Samgar couldn’t help but ask. The sister nodded.
“The Devil. I’m sure he has horns.”
“Bilquis,” his former companion, Khadija, said in the low tones of a warning, “can I go home now?”
“Fine! And trust you to get bombed.”
“It wasn’t my fault!”
The two walked away from the chaos, arguing in Moroccan Arabic until he lost sight of them.
“You didn’t have to tell him that Sam was the Devil, Stheno.”
“What? He didn’t believe me.”
“That’s not the point!”
“Tetchy-tetchy-tetchy.”
A bombing was a good excuse at being late to the work conference, wasn’t?
“You’re taking this well,” came a woman’s voice to the left of him.
“Oh, I’m not.”
She laughed, softly. “A screaming wreck in a few hours?”
“I think it’s more than likely,” he replied, looking at her then. A short woman, that much was clear even from them both sitting down. A curvy one, that much was obvious even with the conservative cut of her white tunic and tan trousers. Well, once-white; blood and dirt have a tendency to show up, after all. Even her tinted glasses, wire-framed and expensive, were chipped, and she’d never get the stains out of her tan hijab.
A beautiful woman, even with the dirt and scarf pressed to her cheek.
The woman offered him a smile. “I’ll be the same. Or my sisters will do the screaming for me.”
Sisters. Family.
Samgar groaned, and she looked sympathetic. “My mother,” he offered by way explanation, adjusting the jacket, “is going to go into hysterics.”
“My condolences. I personally think I’ll never be allowed out of the house.”
“It’s not even that I meant to be late for work.”
“I just wanted a holiday.”
“And look what happens-”
“Bombing. Car?” He shook his head. “Groupe Islamique Combattant,” and in her lovely mouth the words were a curse.
“Do you think so?”
“Yes,” but no sooner did she get the word out of her mouth when she looked up. His ears still ringing, Samgar couldn’t hear what caught her attention, but he could see it.
It. Well, her.
A leggy woman about the same age as his companion, with the same nose and the same jaw and his companion wearily got to her feet in time to get hugged.
‘Tackled’, perhaps, would be a better word for it.
They talked fast in a language Samgar couldn’t understand, but when his companion gestured to him, he offered a wave. She made a face.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Sam,” Samgar offered.
“Sam?” She said, with a delighted smile while her sister (what else could she be) rolled her eyes.
“Sam!” The sister said. “You and men called Sam!” She turned to him. “Her boyfriend is called Sam. She could be on the moon and find a man called Sam.”
“There is nothing wrong with the name,” Samgar’s former companion protested.
“Khadija, your boyfriend is the Devil. And he is English.
“The Devil?” Samgar couldn’t help but ask. The sister nodded.
“The Devil. I’m sure he has horns.”
“Bilquis,” his former companion, Khadija, said in the low tones of a warning, “can I go home now?”
“Fine! And trust you to get bombed.”
“It wasn’t my fault!”
The two walked away from the chaos, arguing in Moroccan Arabic until he lost sight of them.
“You didn’t have to tell him that Sam was the Devil, Stheno.”
“What? He didn’t believe me.”
“That’s not the point!”
“Tetchy-tetchy-tetchy.”
no subject
Date: 2007-11-07 10:00 am (UTC)Sam objects to being characterised as the devil, but more importantly as English. Ew. ;) Although that could be the mun talking there.
One small point- it's a hijab, not a hajib. I Wiki'd it because I wasn't sure, and apparently a hajib is a kind of givernment official. I don't think Medusa would wear one of those. ;)
no subject
Date: 2007-11-07 10:11 am (UTC)Stheno, I think, will be highly, highly suspicious of Sam, and thus he is the English Devil. And I have things! About timing! Which I may need to talk to you about. Yes.
...dude, I totally wrote hijab. I DID. *stares at text* silly thing.