Fic: Not a Simple Thing (WiP)

[mycursedface]

Now, Sam Linnfer was many things. He was good-looking, flirtatious, and his sparky, irreverent smile went hand-in-hand with a dry, sharp snark. He was a trickster, little light and little fire who didn’t mean to cause true harm.

He was also still Bound.

This was not a new state of affairs. Indeed, it was a very old state according to the time of the Bar, which admittedly was universally agreed to be warped. Most of the time, he could joke it away. Grab Atton, grab Guppy, grab Shalla or Jack or Matilda or any of the others, and while away hours and days at a time. But sometimes, well, none of that worked, and Milliways was a cage.

There was only one solution to the logical consequences of this (all those bothersome memories that he never could shake off); get utterly and completely smashed.

This wouldn’t actually work in any of his worlds - his body would break the alcohol down too quickly for it do any harm (or good, depending on your perspective) - but he
was in Milliways. Milliways, the Bar at the End of the Universe which could supply her patrons with anything from any where. This included Atlantean.

Yes, Atlantean. From Atlantis. The drink of the gods and all assorted immortals, namely because it was the only thing that could consistently get them drunk.

Sam had taken a bottle and retreated to one of the numerous booths in one of the too-many darkened corners of Milliways. It was melodramatic, possibly even Byronic, and certainly cliché, but he consoled himself no Heathecliffe or Childe Rolande worth his salt would be wearing worn sneakers.

And that at least he wasn’t drinking straight from the bottle.

~

“Immortal or no, I think I am going to have to ask you to share for your own good.” A low voice, lower than Freya’s soprano; the voice was a clear alto speaking English in an oddly British accent with an undertone of hissing that was unmistakable.

Sam looked up and managed a smile (it was a zombie of its former self, but at least it was still there.)

“Hey, Beautiful.”

Medusa smiled back, quick and crooked.

“Lucifer,” and her snakes whispered what he assumed was a greeting. Medusa was still (mostly) playing human – long-sleeved tunic that hit her knees, trousers stuffed into a pair of army boots, her ring on her right hand (a gift from her father, to assume human form and hide her gold wings)…Army boots.

Sam blinked.

Army boots. Handgun on her belt not obscured by the scarf she had tied around her hips. Rifle slung over her shoulder.

“Last time we talked, you were ranting about Muhammad al-Shaykh giving the Spanish Larache…” Year nine-hundred-and-eighty-eight, as the Muslims counted it. Sixteen-ten for Europe.

“Three and a half centuries ago, give or take a few decades.”

“Now?”

Her lips pressed into a line and the green-black snakes tumbled through her blue-black braids hissed low and angry.

“Now…oh, I need a drink. May I steal a glass?”

“Only because you’re so polite.”

Another darting smile and she slide onto the seat opposite him. Only one glass, so Medusa made a face and snagged the bottle. A quick swig, a gasp as it burned down, and another drink.

“…have I mentioned I hate playing Muslimah recently? I do. There is no alcohol.”

Sam looked sympathetic, but knew her enough not to suggest that she move. Medusa, the vilified monster of the Western world, was a guardian with a strong sense of honour and responsibility. He didn’t know if he should be impressed that she hadn’t grown out of it, or worried as all hell.

“What is mine is yours, and all of that.”

“Thank you.”

“The rifle?”

Her dark eyes, always intense, seemed to inversely glow behind her chipped glasses.

“In response to recent nationalist movements and riots due to a famine, the enlightened colons have founded their own terrorist group. The Présence Française. They kill Moroccans. Arabs. Imazighen. Jews. It doesn’t matter who, just.” Medusa took another drink. Sam had propped his chin with his hand and was studying the table. It might appear as if he weren’t listening, but he was.

“Asilah…eeyeh, we are in the Spanish zone, but that is where the Liberation Army has its base, so there is a lot of fighting.” A quick laugh, just as quick as her smiles. “Of course, name me a part of my homeland that does not have a lot of fighting now.”

In that moment, it was easier to see her age. Oh, it wasn’t in her face. Her face was still as youthful as ever; at the very most Medusa appeared to be in her mid-twenties. But it was in her tone, in her eyes, in the way her mouth curved and Sam knew how that felt.

And in that moment, she reminded him of Annette as much as himself.

He reached out and covered her brown hand on the table with his own.

“What is the year?”

“Nineteen…fifty-one, according to the colons?”

“Ah.”

Medusa tilted her head, far more kestrel than human. “Should I ask?”

“Isn’t it against the rules to tell the future?”

“Lucifer,” and she met his gaze without flinching. “My people are dying.”

“You don’t fight just for them, do you?”

A quick smile; one that was nothing of Annette with her quiet, grim resolve, nothing of Freya’s sick-eyed qualms, and everything of Medusa’s joy of the hunt.

“No.”

“Why then?”

“It is my home. My territory. I have seen the Sahara become an Eden of lakes and rainforests only to return to the sand. I have seen conquerors come and go, but that does not mean that I accept them without a fight.

And I enjoy it, which I suspect you know.”

Sam nodded. “I do.”

“Does it bother you?”

He thought for a moment. “No.”

This time, the smile stayed. “Good. Tell me.”

“You have five more years of colonial rule.”

“Not so long, then.”

“It’ll still be rough.”

“It always is.” She topped up his glass. “But, that is me. Gunfights and blowing up train-tracks and tossing grenades.”

“Your sisters approve?”

Medusa laughed. “Stheno joins me. Euryale thinks we should just leave well enough alone, and so stays at the cave. They call me Ra’idah, leader, and Stheno…they are very impressed with her. Ma’isah, walking with a proud, swinging gait. But my other third? Ah, poor Ali!”

He half grinned. “And what name does poor Euryale get?”

“Yamha.”

Sam tried to imagine a Gorgon going by the name of Dove. It didn’t work.

“She prefers Najla,” Medusa added, “but she used that too recently.”

“It sounds like far too much work.”

“It’s…what we have to do. It is not so bad. As we get older, we just become more devout, that is all and we do have a circulation system. Based on whim.”

“Whim.”

“And logic.”

“And logic.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I make fun of everyone, Meda.” He curled his fingers around her hand and lifted it up. Her hand was slightly heavier than normal, a result of solid bones instead of Gorgon hollow, and he lightly kissed her just above her knuckles.

Medusa was dark; black hair, brown skin, dark brown eyes, but it was still possible to see her blush.

“I did miss you, habebitee,” she said then, meeting his eyes. “I do miss you.”

I did miss you, my love, and it always, always made him smile to hear it. Medusa, hurt and skittish and possessed of a fighting spirit greater than that of most armies, was nothing like Freya, daughter of Love, had ever been. But sometimes, Sam thought that he loved Medusa for that if nothing else.

“Stay with me?” He asked, and gently ran his thumb over her knuckles.

“Just for tonight.”

“Sure.”

And Medusa smiled at him, pleased and shy even still.

~

His door came back before she did.

Possibly to be expected - Medusa’s door had ever been a fickle creature – but he was still startled. It had been so long.

He wrote several notes, gave them to the Bar, and left.

~

It was strange, being back in his London flat. Faintly musty as ever, small and slightly squalid with its uncleaned coffee cups and unread mail strewn this way and that, but it was his. Homey.

Sam Linnfer had six months to enjoy it before he arrived back one night to find two policemen in his living room.

I’m sorry about this sir…Freya Oldstock, does that name mean anything to you?
(Freya)
Sorry to be the one to tell you sir…her body…discovered yesterday…
(Freya’s dead?
What should I be feeling?
What should I be saying?
Freya, I’m so sorry…
Who’d do this?)
More questions, growing suspicion. Fake passports, yet all valid. The letter. The letter. Suspicion, try and catch him off guard. Where were you night before last?
Goodnight, sir.

He slammed the door behind them, and only once he could not longer hear their footsteps did he lean against it and close his eyes against the involuntary tears.

~

He didn’t dream.

~

The next day, he dressed for war.

Baggy jumper to hide the dagger strapped to his wrist. Coat with at least three pockets that normal humans couldn’t see. The plastic wrap across his back, narrow and slightly longer than a bag of golf-clubs.

Travel bag.

He ignored the mirror when it showed the faint circles beneath his eyes.

~

Adam had rumours, naturally. He was good at information, and that was why Sam had called him in the first place. Sam would also have to be blind to not notice how Adam reacted to him, but he couldn’t care less right now.

Freya had been killed in her bedroom by a dragon-bone knife. Her bedroom, which meant lover. Freya, Freya, innocent and beautiful Freya loved by all, Freya who had never learnt not to trust.

A neighbour had seen a dark-haired man with dark eyes. Sam had an alibi, but…Adam listed the names of other lovers. Other suspects. The crude turn of phrase made Sam sick, but he just listened.

Daughter of Love, how could she help it? Daughter of Love; only those who didn’t know her could call her whore.

Closed funeral.

~

He attended anyway, and if Odin and the others hadn’t noticed him, well.

That wasn’t his problem.

~

From Holcombe to Hell to Tibet to Hell again, and twenty-four hours later he staggered back into his London flat.

He woke up to a letter from Adam.

The old hammer’s found you. The valkyries took every address I know. Get out. Adam.

After that, Sam didn’t stop moving. Even when Michael (Michael! ) shot him; as soon as his eyes opened, Sam kept going. He kept going to Paris, to Moscow, to Minsk, to Kaluga, to Hell.

Ah, yes. Hell. His Hell, where his brother Seth had stolen his army.

He ran to Annette’s, and when he found that she was still alive, Sam just laughed and laughed. I was afraid they might have hurt you, and the old French resistance fighter (once so beautiful, once so young and full of cold, grim revenge) had smiled. She told him that the police had his sword, his dagger, his crown and a warrant for his arrest, and so he ran again.

He ran to the police station and rescued his belongs, his Time-given gifts. And then he kept on running.

~

The local pub turned into Milliways, and he shut the door behind him quickly. For a moment, and just one, he’d leaned against the door; head back, eyes closed, breath shaking from relief.

It was nice being back at the Bar, getting his heart-rate back to normal and composing his thoughts and burying himself in conversation. He could catch his breath and plan what he was going to do nex-

He was at Medusa’s table in an instant.

“Before you ask,” she said without glancing up from braiding her black hair, “I’m fine.”

“What,” he said, too calmly, “the hell happened to you?”

The little Gorgon sighed and tied a charm around the end of the braid. She had a deep cut across her forehead, deep and long and it wasn’t the only one on her lovely face. There were cuts and abrasions on her hands, too, and all along her right arm. She looked bruised, battered, exhausted. Even her gold wing feathers seemed dull.

“I…got blown up.”

Sam sat down. Hard.

“I do beg your pardon, Meda?”

“Casablanca. Suicide bombings all over the city. I got thrown into a wall by one of the blasts, but I didn’t die.”

“Wonderful news.”

“…Lucifer?”

“Yes?”

“You’re shaking.”

“Charming.” His voice was sounding a little too distant for comfort, and evidently Medusa agreed. She gave him a sharp look, and then crawled over the top of the table to slide into his lap. He wrapped his arms around her, held her close, and wished that she didn’t feel so damn light in her normal form. Her hollow bones made it felt like she would break if he held her too tightly, that she’d shatter in his arms. But given that last time he said this she’d flown into a rather impressive fit of temper, he just healed her bruises and cuts and didn’t say a word about it.

“Hey, Luce…’ash khbarek?” Medusa asked gently, kissing his forehead. Several of her snakes slid against his back in a worried, loving caress.

“‘What’s happening?’” He repeated, and then laughed. It was a hollow, bitter sound that made him wince. “I’ve…had a fairly shitty week.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“My sister is dead. My family is at war. I…” He tried to think of something else, but his mind was nothing but a fog of broken words and fragmented sentences.

“Take a break, habebitee. It will be easier to think, once you step back from it all, yes?” Medusa said. “My sisters are not home, you could stay in my cave for as long as you needed. If you want to.”

Sam shut his eyes and rested his head against her. “That…sounds good.”

~

Medusa called her home a cave. This was somewhat akin to calling Buckingham palace a house; correct, and yet missing all the essentials. Medusa’s ‘cave’ was a cave-system that rabbit warrened a seaside cliff on the Atlantic coast of Morocco, and over the thousands of years in which the Gorgons had lived in it, they turned it into their own palace. They had chiselled new doorways, smoothed down walls and covered them in beautifully patterned mosaics (zellij, to use the proper term). There were skylights, windows, alcoves for lamps in the walls, and even a large, open courtyard with a fountain. There was also magic. Layers upon layers of protection magic, spoken as spells and carved as symbols, and it created a mesh so intricate and complicated that not even he could see how to unravel it. It was, in fact, as far away from being a cave as one could be, and still classified as a cave.

Sam was in the kitchen, eating a piece of pita bread and watching Medusa chop tomatoes. He had, in fact, little choice in the matter. When he couldn’t come up with answer as to when he’d last eaten, Medusa’s mouth had pressed into a line. Leaving him in the cavern-turned-courtyard without a word, she’d reappeared with a plate, some pita bread, a small dish of hummus, and had placed it on the low table in front of him. Eat. Now, she had ordered.

An hour and a long, hot shower later, he was seated at the kitchen table and watching her wield a large, wickedly sharp knife at one in the morning.

He pointed this out.

Medusa’s wings shrugged. “I was making the harira anyway. I only arrived home four hours ago.”

“And you found the time to make bread?”

“I had a very stressful twenty-four hours. Kneading makes me feel better.”

“Bread?”

“Saves me from making it tomorrow morning,” she pointed out, carrying her cutting board over to the glazed earthenware pot on the charcoal brazier.

“You know, there is such a thing as a bakery, Meda.”

“Yes, I know. Where do you think most Moroccans do their baking? Most of us don’t usually have ovens.”

“I meant, you could buy the bread.”

“Don’t blaspheme.” Into the chicken soup went the tomatoes, tomato purée, lentils, red pepper, cinnamon, and then she stirred it all through before putting the heavy lid back on.

“Fifteen minutes simmering,” she said thoughtfully, more to herself than to Sam. “Then the vermicelli, and another fifteen minutes and we’ll be able to eat.”

“…I am eating.”

“No, habeb. What you are doing now is making sure you don’t collapse from hunger. I couldn’t possibly dignify it with the term ‘eating’.” This did not stop her from stealing the bread from his hand and eating it herself. As she chewed, she frowned. “I did cheat with the bread, though.”

“I knew it!”

“It really was too late to use the oven. So, very, very hot frypan. I’ll have to make a proper batch tomorrow.”

Sam eyed her. “You’re serious, aren’t you,” he said at last. Medusa glanced at him.

“Ye-es,” she replied, slowly. “Of course I am. I like food.”

Privately, Sam began to think that maybe her soup would turn out edible after all.

~

It didn’t.

~

‘Edible’ was entirely the wrong word to use. He’d had worse in award-winning, waiting-list-months-long restaurants. It wasn’t even anything new. Harira, the rich soup that Muslims used to break Ramadan, and the last time he had had it had only been twenty-five years or so. Chicken harira with pita bread and washed down with mint tea and Sam ate far too much.

“Medusa,” and her eyes widened with the use of her full name, “I think you should be officially kicked out of the immortal club.”

“…you didn’t like it?”

“No. I didn’t. I did, however, love it.”

She slapped his arm. “Idiot,” she muttered, and then grinned at him. After a moment, though, her expression faded into confusion. “And…why am I getting kicked out of the club?”

“Because you can cook, love. Automatic disqualifier.” He grinned at her, and the expression was nearly back to itself old boyish self. Medusa smiled back, and brushed one of her braids back from her face.

“I like cooking,” she said then. “My sisters and I eat large amounts of food because we fly, and so why shouldn’t we enjoy it?”

“Because you’re immortal.”

“And?”

~

He dreamed.

He dreamed of Freya with ivy in her hair, walking down a forest path. He dreamed of Whisperer, talking with Jack Harkness while the universe ends. He dreamed of Michael and a bullet travelling through fire, and woke up gasping.

Letting himself fall back against the bed, Sam brushed his hair away from his face and took a deep breath. And then another, and another, and his hand reached out although he knows he’s the only one in the bed. From the coolness of the sheets on Medusa’s side, he’s been alone for a while.

Her room was a nice one, of that he could see in the daylight let in by the half opened doors (wooden, exquisitely patterned). No windows, just that arched doorway, and it’s all curved lines and walls. A large cedar wardrobe, a curved bookcase double-stacked more from use than lack of room, and as Sam slowly returned his heart-rate to normal in her large bed carved from stone and hugging the wall, he lifted a hand and called light to study the ceiling. The ceiling was doomed, unevenly so, but she’d covered it in a mosaic of stars and moons in a deep blue night. The geometry was oddly comforting, and very beautiful, and that made him smile faintly.

If one was bound at home, then you might as well make it beautiful.

~

Dressed in clean clothes (not the ones he had brought with him, and he suspected that he saw the hand of the Bar in them), Sam padded out of her room and into the central courtyard. Again, there was the theme of blue and night, but though he could hear the wall fountain, he couldn’t hear anything else. Or anyone.

“Medusa?”

“Up here!” A lag, and then she stuck her head over the over the low wall surrounding the top of the open cavern. It was hard to see her face in the sun. “Upstairs, gardening. Want me to come down?”

“I’ll come up. Stairs?”

“To your left. If you miss them, I’ll send a search party!”

“Of how many?”

He thought he saw her stick her tongue out before her head vanished.

~

“Sleep well?” Medusa asked, after giving him a smile and a good morning wave. He slid his hands into his pockets and strolled over. The area they were in was large, with a well and low wall around what Sam assumed was the courtyard below (no sense in letting the chickens and dirt fall in). A few trees, mostly fruit but the cypresses were large and ancient. Low hedges divided everything up, but mostly it was open, and completely encircling them was a tall wall of peach-coloured stone, against which roses and sweat-peas grew.

“Well enough.”

“Good,” she stood up on her toes to kiss his cheek and several of the snakes followed suit with their tiny, flickering tongues. He kissed her forehead, and then glanced around.

“I know you mentioned gardening, but this…”

“Oh, this is just the kitchen garden.”

“…how many do you have?”

“Two. This one, and my pride and joy. I do not think the rest of the property counts, does it?”

“Probably not.” Sam sounded amused. “Take much work?”

Dryly, “Lets say that it fills in my spare time nicely and leave it at that, shall we?” Then she smiled, grabbing his hand. “Let me show you the proper one. My Riad Na'ima. Please?”

“I’m yours.”

“Charmer,” but she bit back a smile as she said it, and led him through an old wooden door.

~

The first thing Sam noticed when he walked in was how cool it was, far cooler than the kitchen garden behind him. The trees were all tall, mature and they cast long shadows, but also adding to the sense of cool was the deep, glowing blue walls and the water. Four canals, tiled in blue and edged by narrow walking paths, all led from the walls to a centre fountain that owed everything to Islamic geometry instead of the baroque business he was used to.

Medusa shut the door behind them. Still holding her dirt-stained hand, Sam slowly walked forwards.

It was hard to concentrate on anything in particular – all the flowers and trees harmonized with the tiles on the ground, and his gaze just flowed from one to another without anything catching.

“Your pride and joy?”

She nodded, glancing up at him with her faint smile. “Eyeh. You approve?”

“Eyeh,” he echoed back with a smile of his own before tugging her down to sit on the shaded grass. “Paradaida, paradeisos, paradise…isn’t that what they try and achieve?”

“Yes, for heaven is a garden in the desert.”

“I gathered as much.”

“Really?” Medusa raised an eyebrow and her golden wings shifted and unfurled as she settled herself.

“Been around for a while.”

“True.”

“Never quite got the details, though.”

“The Arabs were a desert people, always hunting for an oasis. So they created them with beauty and symmetry. Everything has to match, meld in to create harmony. Four by four, with at least four canals. And water. Always, always water, in an Islamic garden.”

“And the trees?”

“Shade, fruit. And with the flowers and the canals…Milk, honey, water and wine.”

“The geometry?”

“The emptiness frightened them,” Medusa said, simply. “You look out over the dunes, and you see eternity in heat and barrenness. And being mortal, mirrored on the gods, they sought to control it, wall it away.”

“Why do you like them? This?” Sam asked, voice soft. Her eyes dropped slightly.

“The gardens? This garden? It is my refuge from things. I come here, it calms me down. I can forget things. It is peaceful, when the world is full of bloodshed and fighting. It is harmony, when there is so much strife.” She glanced up, and her smile was self-mocking. “Even a Gorgon can become sick of it all, yes?”

He reached out and brushed her cheek with their entangled fingers. “Ah, Meda.”

Softly, voice husky with things unsaid, “What?”

“I do love you.” It wasn’t what he had been thinking, but it was still true enough. This time, her smile was soft, and she leaned forward to kiss him.

~

“I have an idea,” he said sometime later, thoughtfully playing the spaghetti straps of her top and bra.

“Mmm?” she replied, not even bothering to lift her head from his shoulder.

“It’s brilliant one.”

“Yes?”

“You’ll like it.”

“Lucifer?”

“Yes?”

“Tell me, or I’ll move out of reach.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Try me.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Lets never leave. I mean, there is water enough, you’ve planted enough fruit trees, if you really got hungry for meat there is your tortoise-“

“Leave Abdul-Sabur alone!”

“Just a suggestion.”

“Besides, have you have had tortoise? Ugh.”

“But do you like my idea?”

Medusa moved then, putting her hand on the grass on the other side of him to balance herself. She tilted her head as she looked at him, and smiled softly.

“I do. It is a very nice idea.”

“And yet…you are hunting for your glasses.”

“I’m restless today. Forgive me.”

Sam propped himself up on his elbows and then reached out to cup her face. “Nothing to forgive,” he said gently, running his thumb over her cheek.

“Do you want to talk about things? Your world?” She asked, almost hesitantly.

“I don’t know…but not here.”

Medusa slid her expensively nice glasses on, and studied him. “Sure.” Then, “Care for breakfast?”

“You haven’t had yours yet?”

“Hardly be fair if you haven’t.”

“Meda…”

Her smile turned sunny. “Crepes sound okay?”

~

Sam told her later, after breakfast and after lunch. He told her later, as he sat at the kitchen table watching her make couscous. More specifically, he watched her hands as they rolled the granules of wheat through flour, as they shook the sieves and poured the couscous into a deep bowl and started all again.

As he watched, he told her. He told her about the murder, about the Waywalking to Hell and back. He told her about the research, and Cronus and the Pandora keys. He told her about Whisperer, and Freya’s helper Andrew. He told her about fighting with Valkyries and he told her about Moscow. He told her about Michael and a debt repaid, and he told her about Seth stealing his demons. And he told her about Freya, beautiful, trusting Freya; his sister, his former lover who could never help it, and who left him for love of her House only to be slain in her bedroom.

He told her that he’d go back, soon, for his own pride and revenge to play out the war, and as he told her he just watched her beautiful brown hands.

He had no desire to see what was written across Medusa’s all too-open face.

~