necessary_child: (Default)
"An eagle scared of heights." That was how one colleague summed up Sam Linnfer. "Probably has a mad wife in the attic, too."

Like all rumours, in time this comment circulated back to Sam, whose boyish face split in a grin of delight.

If there was one thing Sam liked about working as... whatever he was, he enjoyed the mystery accorded him by other people. It gave him great satisfaction to take the same trains, eat the same meals, wait at the same bus stops, and still be above it all, if only in the wild, fantastical tales told by everyone around him.

Though Sam was indeed different, everybody throughout the university somehow managed to know him. His sparky smile and disregard of authority endeared him to the undergraduates, and certainly he was bored at the very idea of the life led by the dons, as they ambled through a daily ritual whose high point seemed by exchanging Latin puns while dining in hall. But neither did Sam truly resemble a student, for despite his seeming youth he had an air of command, one that came from a long, unsung history.

He mostly wore black- a black coat buttoned up around a baggy black jumper, worn over a shapeless black shirt. Sam wore bad clothes as a kind of protection, which no-one had yet penetrated. People speculated, most of them inaccurately, on exactly what shape he was beneath all those layers. The idea that he wore black from vanity never survived a first meeting: with these clothes went a pair of terrible old trainers, and a scruffy blue and grey scarf hand-knitted for him by some person unknown. The whole effect was finished off by cuffs that were never done up, shirt buttons that didn't match and sometimes a jacket, haphazardly patched, that gave him the look of a fashionable scarecrow.

To round off this character, whose contradictions so attracted other people. He had thick black hair, and eyes so dark that they too seemed black. Not that many had met Sam's gaze for long enough to confirm this, since his gaze was something of unrivalled intensity. Though his voice bore the slightest accent, no one was sure where that accent came from. Some said his speech was northern; others held that there must be a touch of Gaelic in him. At one point he was credited with the ghost of a Welsh accent, so it became rumoured that Sam Linnfer had grown up in the wild Snowdonian mountains. A few who cherished difference in any form said he had to be a gypsy. Sam himself, when questioned on his past, was devious.

~Catherine Webb, WayWalkers

necessary_child: (Default)
Not so long ago he'd helped dig bodies out from the ruins of Dover or London, or kept injured people alive with a touch of his magic. Even if their sufferings weren't due to him, they were the fault of his family and therefore a responsibility passed down to him. Helping these people was what he saw as duty. Sam had been neither born nor bred to this ideal. But, like several other human words, it helped justify actions prompted in him merely by impulse.

[...]

He came upon a crew of firefighters struggling before a burning ruin. They were trying to work their hose before the blaze caught the few nearby houses left intact. Sam stood across the road, gazing at the fire, his eyes distant. As he stared the flames seemed to shrink. Eventually there were just a few burning embers, which died as he clenched his fists. The whole process had taken him ten minutes of concentration.

Ten minutes of standing exposed and dumb.

"Papers!"

A Brownshirt officer, uniformed, his shiny buttons silly in the ruined street. He was holding out his hand imperiously. Sam dug around and produced his papers. The man flicked through them, looking ready for a fight on any pretext. A single flaw in Sam's documents, one look out of place, and Sam might be forced to get mythological. Which would be embarrassing.

But the papers, as Sam had known, were perfect. Unfortunately though, his look of dowdy submission was badly out of practice, and he peered at the Brownshirt with unabashed curiosity.

Sure enough, this made the man angry.

"What are you doing here, just staring?"

"I don't have anywhere to go."

~Catherine Webb, WayWalkers

necessary_child: (Default)
It wasn’t necessary to take off the thermal gear. Tibet and the part of Hell where Sam had arrived were one and the same when it came to winter temperatures. The only difference was that in Gehenna, at least, it was always winter. Seven eighths of Hell burned for sixteen months a year, and he, Time help him, had chosen to come to the one eighth that didn’t.

Gehenna was a city with a lot of history. He knew that, because he was an integral part of that history. He’d built most of the place, after all. It rested in the far north of the planet, and for eleven months a year it saw sunlight for a maximum of five hours. The rest of the world, save for another small patch of ice on the southern pole, could claim the opposite. It hardly ever saw night.

In Sam’s lifetime Gehenna had been a village, then a town, then a city with a castle, then a pile of rubble, then rebuilt, then once more reduced, then rebuilt with city walls and a standing army, and never defeated again, although people tried.

Oh, how they tried.

But he’d been careful. Not only did he now have a resident Prince and council, but a network of spies and messengers. He could hear of an attack months beforehand, and travel Earth until the day it was due, to return to Gehenna in time to lay waste the approaching army with all the fiery tricks of his specialised trade.

Once, he’d ruled full time as king. But in recent centuries he’d become less an administrator and more a part-time emergency worker, as Gehenna, after years of nurturing, had come to do without him except in times of great crisis. He trusted the Prince and the council to manage their own affairs, and reasoned that after thousands of years of Hellish cuisine, and washing in water with bits of ice in it, he’d earned the right to Earth, caviar and central heating. Not being needed any more made him very grateful.
[…]
Climbing a flight of stairs he marched past stony walls hung with tapestries to keep the heat in, towards a wing of the huge Gehenna fortress where the fires always burnt. The tapestries depicted frost demons doing various things to their enemies that Sam didn’t want to look at. He was familiar with them, and they still sickened him.

He came to a large wooden door guarded by two demons, strode up to it and hammered loudly. It opened immediately.

Of the two people in the room, one was very old, one quite young. The elder lounged in a padded chair by a fire, wearing a mild smile that never waned. He’d been playing cat’s cradle, relentlessly patient, moving in and out of shapes with the concentration of a master craftsman. His long blue robe was frayed around the hem, and he wore fluffy slippers over a pair of outrageously coloured socks.

Sam, as he entered, was fixed with the old demon’s unchanging smile, and the same ancient eyes that never showed emotion. This demon’s voice never rose in anger. This demon had never desired the bloodlust of slaughter or killed his own wife for disobedience. This was the necessary demon, who filled the unsung post that the silent thinkers of the world – the children who never wanted to play the violent games in the playground or who invariably handed in their homework on time – always fill: civil servant. Court Vizier. Old Beelzebub. The power behind the throne.

No one knew he embodied such a power, but Sam knew. And Beelzebub knew. They could read the knowledge in each other, through each measured nod, and in each level word that revealed nothing save what it left unsaid.

The younger demon was in every way Beelzebub’s opposite. He didn’t even look up as Sam entered, but continued pacing round a map laid out on a table. Sam saw little wooden blocks with flags in them, and sighed inwardly. A child was playing with his toys again.

This younger demon wore long blue and white robes with trailing sleeves and lavish embroidery that, for all that they made him look regal, also gave the impression of a boy playing with his mother’s wardrobe. Nevertheless, this was that same Prince who had intrimidated many a baron into submission and had won his crown by slaying his brothers in duel after duel. He radiated energy as always, brow crinkled in a frown and fingers drumming up and down his sword.

And yes, he was a good Prince, thought Sam.
[…]
“Ah,” said Prince Asmodeus. “You’re back. Had a nice time on Earth?”

“Mildly interesting.”

Beelzebub was watching, silent as always. “Tell me,” demanded Asmodeus, “do you think I ought to send a demand to Belial, ordering him to withdraw his forces from the Clawed Pass, or should I go for a surprise attack?”

Sam wandered to the table and looked down at the map. “If you send a demand to Belial,” he replied evenly, “he’ll refuse it as an act of stubbornness.”

“A surprise attack, then?”

“I doubt if it’ll be a surprise. Belial has been looking for the right opportunity to invade for years. I don’t advise giving it to him.”

“Hum.” Asmodeus strode round to the other side of the map. “The Clawed Pass protects one of the best slave routes. The desert beyond is relatively undefended after his damned fort – the slave raiders would have a wonderful time if they can only get there.”

“I won’t help you take slaves.”

“No, you probably won’t,” he said sourly. “You don’t seem to do anything, do you? You’re never here.”

That’s because I’ve given up on you, my boy. “Would you rather I was here? Ruling as once I ruled? Wearing another crown?”

Asmodeus glanced to Beelzebub for help against this attack on his status. But the old demon had frozen over even more than usual and was staring into the flames. Though the Prince struggled to find a suitable answer, none came. Angry, with embarrassment making him more so, he strode towards the door, mumbling something about ‘state business’ as he went. As childish a tantrum as Sam had ever seen.

“Don’t provoke Belial to more war,” warned Sam, but Asmodeus had already closed the door.

Sighing, Sam sank onto the fireside chair facing Beelzebub, folding his legs up so that his chin rested on his knees and he was no larger than a child. “Why did we crown him?”

“Because demons acknowledge physical strength only. Because they want for Prince someone ruthless enough to kill his own brothers, and because we too want a man ruthless enough.” He was giving the answer Sam had heard many times before.

The old demon added, “You’re spending longer and longer on Earth. Are you finally giving up on us?”

“I don’t know. But I’m sorry anyway.”

“No. I am the sorry one.”

They sat in silence a while longer.

“Bubble, there may be bigger trouble coming than we thought,” said Sam finally. Bubble was the name he always used, partly to infuriate his companion, partly out of fondness, partly because he’d worn so many names himself he’d got into the habit of applying different ones to others.

“Bigger than Asmodeus waging another futile war on Belial?”

“Much. My family is at war again.”
[…]
Beelzebub looked worried, a flicker across his otherwise serene face. But even a flicker was so unusual that Sam was immediately alarmed.

“What is it?”

“Oh – anxieties. I’m growing old, you know. Perhaps it’s only me, but Asmodeus is becoming hard to control.”

“Do you control him?”

The demon gave a knowing smile, sharing in the secret that only they knew. So obvious was this secret, so blatant and so simple, that no one else had seen it. Sam had often said that the best place to hide was in the open.

“Of course not. I… influence his decisions.”

“And it’s becoming harder?”

“Yes. Half of my influence stems from you, and you’re not here.”

Sam felt a start of guilt at this simple statement. “I will be. All I need is a little time to deal with whatever Freya wanted me to do.”

“At least,” said Beelzebub with a smile, “doing what she wanted was never a problem for you.”

But you, old demon? thought Sam as he trudged the last few steps up to his flat. In twenty-four hours he’d been to Devon, Tibet and Hell. Returning to London had a sense of homecoming, and it was with relief that he unlocked the door. Have you got time? Sometimes I forget how soon you people die.

But he didn’t forget now. As he lay down to sleep he remembered things he’d rather not. He’d been arrogant in misusing the years, when he was younger. He’d let everything move at a snail’s pace, forgetting that by the time one flower bloomed, the other would have withered.

He didn’t forget. Remembering Annette and others, he thought, Mortal child, why did you have to grow so old?
~Catherine Webb, Waywalkers
necessary_child: (Despair- sometimes there's nothing you)
The illusions meant nothing to Odin, who would see through them in a second. But to the valkyries, with eyes less tuned to the otherworldly, they were as real as day. So it was that the valkyries attacked every Sam except the real one. And Sam, plain, quiet little Sam, little light and little fire with his boyish smile too rarely seen in recent times, brought his sword crashing down hard on Odin's upraised axe.

In that second of impact, when Odin’s arms seemed to move in a blur to parry Sam’s reckless swing for his head, Sam knew he didn’t stand a chance. Odin had gone from static to straining in the blink of an eye, a reaction that Sam, with all his years of hard practice and cold showers, could never replicate. Against a Son of War, and in the terms of battle, Sam could not win. Around him swords were cutting through illusion like the air and mist they were, and by a process of elimination the valkyries were turning towards their one real enemy.

Sword and axe locked, Sam found himself staring straight into Odin’s wide grin. “What are you doing?” hissed Sam.

“Pathetically ignorant,” repeated Odin.

Sam gave an inward shrug. “Then I guess I’ll die ignorant. And dishonourable.”

Odin, for all his supremacy as a fighter, had not expected to be kneed in the groin with such savagery. As he staggered, Sam broke loose. He ducked a sword aimed for his head, brought his own blade down and across to draw a line of blood across a valktrie’s thigh, drew his sword back to parry a blow- and in that instant he let go with his left hand, to bring it sweeping up.

The air moved. The valkyries staggered in unison, like an unrehearsed ballet. Sam was already running for the door. He cleared the the valkyries in his path with a graceful flick of the hand. In response to his gesture the straw in the barn ignited as if soaked in petrol, scattering them in panic. Sam himself wasn’t worries about the oddly coloured flames. A well-placed silver axe in the back would kill him. But not fire.

Just inside the doorway something caught his arm, spun him around. He looked into Odin’s eyes. By firelight they looked more crazed and terrifying than ever. Sam almost cried aloud as the butt end of Odin’s axe struck his wrist and the pain, then numbness, swept through his arm. He heard the clatter of his dropped sword, saw Odin’s axe sweep towards his face, staggered back and fell. The fire was all around. Its heat was incredible. The pain in his arm was extraordinary too: a dull throb that was somehow worst in his shoulder, while almost impossible to feel where the axe had struck.

Odin loomed. Better than most, Sam decided. If ever he’d been asked to aware a sinister-gleam-in-the-eye prize, Odin would have been right there on his shortlist. He wondered what spells he had that Odin couldn’t shake off. He felt fire stir inside him. Cold, white, blinding fire. He saw the great axe rise. The thought came… Ah, what the hell. It’s only torture.

He let the fire rise, and burn, and build. Closed his eyes. Opened his hands.

He'd never really understood the nature of the Light. No one had ever felt obliged to tell him; it was as if, by possessing the thing, he'd immediately understood what it was and how to use it. But he knew that it shaped itself to his thoughts, for as long as they stayed coherent, and that when it reached out to feed on more thoughts it seized, not the hearts of men, but their minds.

So, fallen down in a burning barn, a lone figure with black hair opened his hands and let out the Light. It expanded around him in a blinding circle of energy, making onlookers shield their eyes in pain. It erupted through walls as if they weren't there, passed through the mind of Whisperer and leaped onwards across the Parisian countryside in an ever widening circle of power.

And where the light touched minds, they responded to Sam's own fear. Thus it whispered to them of dark corners and unseen snakes and the empty street late at night and the figure half-perceived in the lamplight who was gone when you looked again. It took the fear, fed on it, became powerful on thought.
Sam could feel his control slipping as the Light encompassed so many other minds.

He tried to rein back his mind, but it was hard to remember that he was Sam, not Jean-Paul nor Jeanette nor Julien, hard to remember that he was afraid of being consumed by the Light, rather than of the spiders in the garden and the rats in the sewers and the figure who was gone when you looked again, and the corners and the darkness and the minds and the fire…

He caught hold of something inside his own mind that felt as if it were hot to the touch. Mentally he closed his fist around it and thought of the pain in his shoulder. His shoulder, something to centre on, his heart, his mind, his desires.

Somewhere in the distance, the running white line of light slowed, paused, and began to contract in on itself, racing back towards the centre, growing brighter as it did. It struck Sam, who lurched as if physically hit. For a second all was darkness. Odin was reeling, blinking away tears. The valkyries dared to look in Sam’s direction again… What next?

Sam’s eyes opened. The black irises were pure white, and the thoughts that before had given such life to his face were lost. There were simply too many other minds competing for room.

There was a brief silence. Then, with the distant smile of a madman, Sam raised his hands and opened them. A beam of white light shot towards Odin, struck, spun him around like a puppet. The full force of a thousan people’s fears passed through Sam and out again, filled the barn with the chitter of insects coming to kill, the howl of wolves in the forest, the buzz of the broken lamp on the darkened street that for a second showed the half-perceived figure in the gloom…

Odin had rarely been heard to scream. When he did, it wasn’t a particularly impressive sound, caught as it was between a gurgle and a gasp. Now, however, for a second he was rooted to the spot. Then he turned, stared at the fire as if he’d seen death in it, and ran. The valkyries fled too, charging into each other in their haste to escape whatever unseen demon pursued them.

Somehow, Sam moved. He got to his hands and knees, tried to rise and half fell again. His face contorted as he squeezed his eyes shut and put his hands over his ears against the roar of all those minds.

~Catherine Webb, WayWalkers
necessary_child: (Default)
"Well? What kind of a name is it?"

"Sam. Derivative of Satan."

"And Luc derives from Lucifer? Which one do you prefer?"

He shrugged. "Lucifer is the name I was given at birth. Satan is what they dubbed me, when they found out what my real name meant. Bearer of Light is hardly a friendly way to describe the soul of darkness, evil incarnate, the great deceiver." He spoke bitterly, his mind cast back to things he'd tried to forget.

"But what do you prefer, of your human names?"

"None. They're necessary, that's all. Luc reminds me of what I truly am. Sam reminds me of the disdain of my own brothers and sisters- who threw me out of heaven for being what I am. The bastard son. The necessary one, where all of them were clearly not necessary. And though Time passed bitter judgment on me, still he gave me a crown. Still they think he favoured me."

~Catherine Webb, WayWalkers

necessary_child: (Default)
He’d remembered Michael as an honourable soul. They’d been good friends, but Michael had always put duty before all things. If he’d been ordered by Jehovah to kill his own mother, he would have done it.

But it was also true that in some sense he owed Sam his life, a debt that had been repaid in Kaluga after almost five hundred years of neglect.

In the year of Our Lord 1582 Sam Linnfer had been pressing his weary way through an endless, dense forest complete with wolves and bandits. Stopping in his tracks, he found himself staring at the avenging angel ahead.

Sam was wearing a black woollen cloak, and old boots that were in constant battle with his feet as to how fast blisters could be caused, and leading a horse that if anything looked worse than he did. And no matter how good his regenerative abilities, they hadn’t worked fast enough to banish the extensive bruising down one side of his haggard features. His clothes too were torn, as though slashed by the claws of a bear, and when he took his hands from the horse’s bridle, they trembled.

“They tried to burn me,” he called. It was neither an accusation, nor a plea for help. It was a statement, warning the other away from him. The implication behind it was clear. If they couldn’t burn me, don’t think you can.

“I’ve been sent,” Michael said. He was wearing his archangel’s white.

“I can tell.” He was still shaken, and Michael could see it. Even Sam struggled when fanatic mortals tried to burn him at the stake. “Are the others nearby? They’d have to be, if you intend to wear that daft white robe everywhere.”

Michael had begun walking closer, his sword already drawn, the edge gleaming with fire. “I was sent to find a witch. You’ll do.”

Sam watched him approach, his hands not once moving towards his sword. “They tried to burn me,” he repeated. “Don’t you find that ironic? They say I live in boiling pits of fire, and yet they think they can burn me.”

Michael took up the guard position a few feet from Sam, sword ready.

Sam didn’t move. “Why do you have to fight me? I know Jehovah can’t bear my name, because I was right and he was wrong, and his grand Messiah plan failed. But why do you, you, have to fight me?”

“I’ve been sent.”

Sam sighed, and gently slapped his horse on the rump. Obediently it trotted away. He turned his full attention to Michael. “Tell you what,” he said, “you put the sword down and stop being an idiot, and I won’t tell your master. How does that sound?”

Michael was lost in his own world – or one of Jehovah’s making? “You. A Son of Time, a Prince of Heaven, a Waywalker. I worshipped Waywalkers, thought they were almost… godly. And I trusted you, called you my friend. Do you know how I argued with Jehovah when he demanded your death? How I begged him to reconsider – even though he is my master, and not you. He no longer trusts me, you know, because I argued for you. I was cast out of his favour, all because you were my friend. He’s the Son of Time, the Prince of Heaven. You’re just the exile that I thought I knew. I would have given anything to be a Waywalker. And yet you… you…”

His sword whirled, but Sam was already there. His hands moved in a blur, and the silver blade was up as he ducked below Michael’s blow. Expertly he swivelled, swinging his blade up and across as he exclaimed, “These many years on Earth and you learn how to survive, old friend.” A thrust, a parry, an easy spin in which he stuck out an ankle to trip his opponent, who fell, then rolled clumsily out of the way of a tauntingly leisured down-stroke.

“I studied survival in China, in Africa, in France and now here and, you know, I feel really confident with myself,” Sam went on as Michael got to his feet. “Did I tell you about the latest developments in Hell? I’ve actually managed to convince them of the wonders of plumbing. The fact that the temperature is always below zero is a minor difficulty, but, as we say, Time conquers all.”

He ducked another thrust, danced nimbly away from a counter-stroke and in the riposte brought his sword swinging round and down in an elegant arc that pinned Michael’s sword to the ground and locked them each inches from the other’s face.

“You don’t want to be a Son of Time, Michael,” he warned softly. “It’s not worth it.”

Michael broke free, jabbing with his knee at Sam’s gut. But Sam was already spinning away, and used Michael’s off-balance to deliver a ringing sideways blow with the flat of his blade.

“Archangels have it so much easier,” explained Sam in a louder voice as they whirled and thrust across the path and between the trees. “Being created to serve somehow gives purpose to your life. When I was created to serve, things were so much easier. There was none of this self-doubt, none of this agonising over what it’s all about. It’s so simple to have your loyalties, faith, belief and hope grounded in one fairly safe bet. But we still gamble with our souls – every day, Michael. And for every day we lose, a little more of our soul is stolen from us. After a few thousand years of gambling, that’s a lot of debts to pay.”

Sam had only one hand on his sword now. Too late Michael tried to scramble for cover while, palm out, Sam’s free hand came across and up. As it rose, so Michael rose until he was pinned, helpless and motionless in air, his wild eyes and fast breathing the only proof that he was alive.

Below, supporting his involuntary flight, Sam wasn’t smiling at all now.

“They tried to burn me,” he murmured again. “Do not seek to be a Son of Time. Do not seek to see everything you hold dear pass away, to be replaced by new hope that, again, passes away. Do not seek to see as clearly as Time makes his Children see. If you had seen the things that I have seen, or the things that I must see before I die… well, no more of that. You see what you want to see and, while it lasts, that is a marvellous blessing. If we saw what was really there, who would be able to face Time with a steady eye?”

He released Michael from the spell, and the archangel fell to the ground with a heavy thump. Sam brought his free hand slicing through the air, and the effect was like an iron fist to Michael’s face, who slumped, hands opening around his blade and voice giving no cry.

“They tried to burn me,” Sam whispered.

~Catherine Webb, WayWalkers

necessary_child: (Johnny Depp as Sam)
Behind Sam's door there are, as predicted, several dozen very unpleasant people with guns. If they look like soldiers, then that's because they are - some kind of mercenary, anyway. Beyond them, they appear to be in some kind of laboratory or medical facility: everything's white and steel, with a prominent scent of disinfectant.

Sam, his normally expressive face hardened and almost blank, his jaw clenched, forcibly shoves them backwards with magic that sends them sprawling into each other like dominoes, moving them just far back enough to allow one of the other two to shut the door.
necessary_child: (The morning after the night before)
It took them a while to find Jack's room, in the end - too many distractions - but they got there eventually.

They've been there for some time now. Finally they're still, or close enough, breathing heavily and curled tight around each other in a shared warmth that's more than bodyheat.
necessary_child: (Default)
17th October:
catslash33 (01:32:37):HA.  <3  Cal would totally want Sam along for moral support, too, though he'd never ask.
herworldsonfire (01:33:14):Sam: More like amoral support... *eyedart* Anyway.
catslash33 (01:34:05):Heh.  Yes, that too.  As long as Cal knew he wasn't alone.  It would help.
herworldsonfire (01:35:13):Aw. *pets him*

Sam: Also, your mother would go batshit crazy if she saw her son kissing a guy. *whistles* Just saying...
catslash33 (01:36:53):Cal:  *looks alarmed*  I'm trying to scare her, not *kill* her.
herworldsonfire (01:37:13):Sam: Teasing, Cal.

...Mostly.
catslash33 (01:37:56):Cal:  Yeah, it's that last part that has me worried.  You're never *completely* kidding.
herworldsonfire (01:38:18):Sam: *halo?*
catslash33 (01:39:22):Cal:  *not fooled*
herworldsonfire (01:39:28):Sam: *pout*
catslash33 (01:39:39):Cal:  Nice try.
herworldsonfire (01:39:56):Sam: You're no fun, Cal Chandler, you know that?
catslash33 (01:40:52):Cal:  I'm plenty of fun.  Just on my terms.
herworldsonfire (01:41:16):Sam: *grin* Prove it.
catslash33 (01:42:20):Cal:  I said *my* terms.  *smirks*
herworldsonfire (01:42:44):Sam: So what, you can't prove it?
catslash33 (01:43:44):Cal:  I'll prove it when I'm ready to prove it.
herworldsonfire (01:44:37):Sam: *teasing* Suuuure you will.
catslash33 (01:44:51):Cal:  When you least expect it.
herworldsonfire (01:45:25):Sam: Promising, but still.
herworldsonfire (01:45:28):Sam: :P
catslash33 (01:46:04):Cal:  What, are you in a hurry?
herworldsonfire (01:46:23):Sam: Believe me, I've got all nigh- I mean, all day.
herworldsonfire (01:46:45):Sam: I was just born sceptical.
catslash33 (01:47:41):Cal:  You'll just have to trust me.
herworldsonfire (01:48:27):Sam: *sighs* My life is so hard, sometimes, you know that?
catslash33 (01:50:07):Cal:  You poor thing.
herworldsonfire (01:50:31):Sam: You have no idea.
catslash33 (01:51:13):I'm sure I don't.
herworldsonfire (01:52:26):Sam: So I suppose I'll have to teach you about that, too...
catslash33 (01:52:53):Cal:  If you like.
herworldsonfire (01:55:25):Sam: I'll make a project of it.
catslash33 (01:56:18):Cal:  *looks wary*
herworldsonfire (01:56:55):Sam: *pets*
catslash33 (01:57:41):Cal:  *cheers up*
herworldsonfire (02:00:08):Sam: *smug*
catslash33 (02:00:28):Cal:  *content*
herworldsonfire (02:04:38):Sam: *pets more* ...Seriously, you thought you were straight all these years how, exactly?
catslash33 (02:07:21):Cal:  *looks confused*  What?
herworldsonfire (02:07:38):Sam: ...Never mind. *pets*
catslash33 (02:08:05):Cal:  No, what?
herworldsonfire (02:09:48):Sam: You seem to be making a habit out of lying on a sofa with your arms around another guy, that's all.
catslash33 (02:11:09):Cal: . . . just you.
herworldsonfire (02:12:31):Sam: I always knew I was special. *pets him*
catslash33 (02:13:42):Cal:  *agreeably, as petting tends to have this effect*  'Course you are.
herworldsonfire (02:16:30):Sam *laughs*
catslash33 (02:17:35):Cal: - what?
herworldsonfire (02:22:44):Sam: Nothing.
catslash33 (02:23:20):Cal:  You keep saying that,
herworldsonfire (02:24:27):Sam: Well... You made me laugh. And no, not in a bad way. That's all.
catslash33 (02:25:04):Cal:  *accepts this*  Okay.  *pause*  Just checking.
herworldsonfire (02:25:44):Sam: *strokes his hair* It's okay, Cal.
catslash33 (02:26:59):Cal:  *embarrassed*  I know.
herworldsonfire (02:28:12):Sam: Shh. *pet*
catslash33 (02:29:34):Cal:  *quiet, leans into the petting*
herworldsonfire (02:33:53):Sam: *snug*
catslash33 (02:34:51):Cal:  *relaxes after a minute or two*
herworldsonfire (02:38:51):Sam: *approves of this* Did you get to talk to Atton in the end?
catslash33 (02:39:24):Cal:  *blinks, forgot about all of that in the Angst that followed*  Oh.  Uh, no.
herworldsonfire (02:43:51):Sam: Don't worry about it. Atton's my best friend, as you probably gathered from all the insults. You'd like him, I think.
catslash33 (02:44:54):Cal:  *chuckles, remembering the note*  I think I will.
herworldsonfire (02:45:40):Sam: *solemnly* He's so mean to me.
catslash33 (02:47:13):Cal:  That must be why you like him.
herworldsonfire (02:49:27):Sam: My masochistic tendencies are well-documented, it's true.

He also cheats at pillowfights. D:
catslash33 (02:51:20):Cal:  *pauses*  How do you cheat at pillowfights?
herworldsonfire (02:51:59):Sam: With scary Jedi super-strength powers.

*pause* I totally don't abuse magic to get my own back, you understand.
catslash33 (02:55:01):Cal:  Oh, of course not.
herworldsonfire (02:55:27):Sam: *virtuously* I'm just not that kind of guy.
catslash33 (02:59:04):Cal:  Strictly fair.
herworldsonfire (02:59:20):Sam: Very strictly.

19th October:
catslash33 (02:06:43):And then he'll be like, "Did I just say that?  I sound like Grahame."
herworldsonfire (02:10:45):Sam: Pfft. Somehow I have my doubts on that front. I don't think you're anything like Grahame.
catslash33 (02:11:59):Cal:  *looks highly conflicted*  You'd - be surprised.
herworldsonfire (02:12:39):Sam: I doubt it.
catslash33 (02:18:01):Cal:  *still looking conflicted, as persisting in the idea would involve saying bad things about Grahame, which Guilt does not permit, BUT*  He - is a lot smarter than I am.
herworldsonfire (02:19:01):Sam: *shrugs* Smart isn't everything. Not by a long shot. And you're nowhere near as thick as you think you are, anyway.
catslash33 (02:20:25):Cal:  *laughs a little*  Well, it's not exactly beating myself up to say that.  Uncle Grahame's smarter than most people.  His IQ is something ridiculous, I can't remember what.  He's literally a genius.
herworldsonfire (02:23:39):Sam: *grins* So're lots of people, round here. Including at least one six-year-old. Smart doesn't actually count for anything except test scores, with most people.
catslash33 (02:25:08):Cal:  *shrugs*  Grahame can figure out just about anything.  It - made all the difference.  In the family.  Him and Mother kept things running smooth after my grandparents died.
herworldsonfire (02:26:35):Sam: And yet he still sounds pretty damn fucked-up, as far as I can tell. Most people don't develop crushes on their teenage nephews, Cal.
catslash33 (02:29:16):Cal: . . . he didn't get out much.  I told you he was crippled, right?  Polio.  It kept him inside a lot.  He was sick of people staring, unless there was some kind of PR event.  I guess that'll fuck with anyone.
herworldsonfire (02:31:05):Sam: *shrug* Plenty of people on crutches manage to get by without that sort of thing. It didn't hurt FDR that much, for starters.
catslash33 (02:32:52):Cal:  That was a long time ago.  *thinks a minute, trying to remember what it was Grahame had said about that*  Before TV, I think, so people couldn't judge politicians on appearance quite so much.  It was just radio and stuff.
herworldsonfire (02:34:23):Sam: He used it as a reason to vote for him, actually. "Look what I overcame! American dream!" and all that crap. Pretty much everyone knew about it.
catslash33 (02:36:30):Cal:  *shrugs*  That was what Grahame said about why Dad ended up being the politician instead.  Dad was better-looking and healthy.  More appealing to the public.  So he went into politics and Uncle Grahame ran his campaign instead.  It worked, too, Dad got into the Senate years before I - would have.
herworldsonfire (02:47:11):Sam: *plays with Cal's hair* He developed a crush on his nephew, Cal. Being crippled is not an excuse for being that fucked-up.
catslash33 (02:49:17):Cal:  It's not his *fault*.  He fought it so hard.  He wasn't, you know, like the creepy dirty uncle.  He never touched me.  I didn't even know until Dad let it slip.
herworldsonfire (02:49:52):Sam: That's as may be, but it's not your fault either, and he fucked you over at the same time.
catslash33 (02:50:39):Cal:  *flatly*  What I did was my decision.
herworldsonfire (02:52:22):Sam: I wasn't talking about that, actually. You were plenty screwed up before that happened, as far as I can tell.
catslash33 (02:53:15):Cal:  *pauses*  That wasn't . . . all his fault, either.
herworldsonfire (02:54:14):Sam: He sure as hell didn't help.
catslash33 (02:54:42):Cal:  Yeah, well, neither did I.
herworldsonfire (02:56:55):Sam: *just shakes his head*
catslash33 (02:57:47):Cal:  You can only go so far blaming other people for shit in your life when you never did a goddamn thing to save yourself until it was way too late.
herworldsonfire (03:01:56):Sam: Which is a fair point, and you're brave as hell for saying it. But. There's 'not blaming all your fuck-ups on someone else' and then there's 'not admitting that your fuck-ups aren't exclusively your own fault'. I'm not saying you're perfect, Cal. You're just not as bad as you think you are.
catslash33 (03:04:26):Cal:  *shrugs uncomfortably*  I try not to be.  I, I'm better than I used to be.  Not that that's very hard.  *uneasy laugh - saying something positive about himself is difficult*
herworldsonfire (03:05:57):Sam: Pillock. *pet*
catslash33 (03:07:58):Cal:  *leans into it*  Not taking responsibility got me killed.  I mean, letting things get as bad as they did.  It's a hell of an incentive to change my ways.
herworldsonfire (03:10:38):Sam: *nods* I'll bet.
catslash33 (03:13:07):Cal:  *looks distant for a moment, then gives a tired sigh and pulls himsef back*  Anyway.  I'm not saying Grahame was my favorite person, but he couldn't have - pushed me around if I hadn't let him.  Takes two and all that shit.
herworldsonfire (03:15:14):Sam: *pets more* Mmm. Some things are hard to unlearn.
catslash33 (03:15:55):Cal:  *confused glance*
herworldsonfire (03:18:44):Sam: Not that you shouldn't probably have stood up to him earlier, but if he's been pushing you around since you were a kid, then it's harder.
catslash33 (03:20:33):Cal:  *shudders*  What I did was not standing up to him.  It felt like it, but it wasn't.
herworldsonfire (03:23:51):Sam: Once again, Cal, I'm not talking about that. Believe me, it's nowhere near as... central... to what I think about you than it is when you think about you.
catslash33 (03:25:02):Cal:  *quietly, looking away*  When I think about him.
herworldsonfire (03:27:41):Sam: ...Oh, Cal. *pet*
catslash33 (03:28:33):Cal:  *silent, curling closer to Sam*
herworldsonfire (03:30:05):Sam: *pulls him close*
catslash33 (03:31:34):Cal:  *lays his head on Sam's shoulder*
herworldsonfire (03:34:31):Sam: *strokes his hair* It's all right, Cal.
catslash33 (03:35:24):Cal:  *very quiet*  It's not.
herworldsonfire (03:38:03):Sam: ...No, I don't suppose it is. But it'll get better.
catslash33 (03:39:59):Cal:  For me, maybe.
herworldsonfire (03:42:02):Sam: *slides his arms around him tighter* Maybe not just for you. You'd be amazed at how good humans are at bouncing back, eventually.
catslash33 (03:44:16):Cal:  He couldn't even look at me.  I've never seen him not be able to look someone in the eye before, no matter how bad something was.
herworldsonfire (03:49:04):Sam: Nonetheless. *hairstroke* And whatever happens for him, there's nothing you can do now.
catslash33 (03:51:25):Cal:  He moved out the day after.  I never saw him again.  I thought about trying to visit, but I don't - I don't think he would have even opened the door.
herworldsonfire (03:54:32):Sam: Shhh, Cal. *pet* It's out of your hands now.
catslash33 (03:57:03):Cal:  It always was.  You can't apologize to someone who doesn't want to hear it.  Who - who *can't*.
herworldsonfire (03:59:06):Sam: Oh, Cal.
catslash33 (03:59:54):Cal:  *trying hard for a lighter tone*  Hey, at least I don't have to beat myself up for not trying.
herworldsonfire (04:01:26):Sam: *smiles, a little bit* Come on, subject change.

*pauses* Chocolate is good.
catslash33 (04:02:30):Cal:  *pauses, then laughs a bit shakily*  You're a fan?  I wouldn't have guessed.
herworldsonfire (04:04:03):Sam: *solemnly* I'm a big fan.

Want some?
catslash33 (04:04:31):Cal:  Sounds pretty good.
herworldsonfire (04:05:22):Sam: *small chuckle* I always do. *waves for a waitrat and orders*
catslash33 (04:06:13):Cal:  *sits quietly, looking a little steadier*  *does not seem to be in any rush to disentangle himself from Sam, though*
herworldsonfire (04:07:03):Sam: *perfectly happy about this* *feeds him chocolate*
catslash33 (04:07:34):Cal:  *laughs, relaxing*
herworldsonfire (04:10:09):Sam: *kisses his cheek* Pillock.
catslash33 (04:11:26):Cal, smiling:  Is that my nickname now?
herworldsonfire (04:12:08):Sam: Why confine myself to just one?
catslash33 (04:12:59):Cal:  So I don't get confused?
herworldsonfire (04:13:37):Sam: But that wouldn't be fun. Anyway, the other's Motor Mouth, so I think you can manage to remember two.
catslash33 (04:14:02):Cal:  Okay, but that might be the limit.
herworldsonfire (04:14:48):Sam: *laughs* There you go again, spoiling my fun.
catslash33 (04:15:20):Cal:  It's my favorite thing to do, you know.
herworldsonfire (04:15:41):Sam: Well, you're very good at it.
catslash33 (04:16:16):Cal:  I practice.
herworldsonfire (04:16:49):Sam: So I notice. *sorrowfully* My life is a never-ending trial.
catslash33 (04:17:17):Cal:  Yeah, with the chocolate and the cuddling.  You poor bastard.
herworldsonfire (04:18:12):Sam: *smirk* Shurrup and eat chocolate, Motor Mouth. *feeds him more*
catslash33 (04:20:40):Cal:  *silent, on account of chocolate*  *smirks instead*
herworldsonfire (04:21:56):Sam: *sticks his tongue out* *licks his fingers*
catslash33 (04:22:24):Cal:  *swallows and snorts*
herworldsonfire (04:22:47):Sam: *smirk*
catslash33 (04:23:35):Cal:  Oh, what?
herworldsonfire (04:24:30):Sam: *lightly* You.
catslash33 (04:25:38):Cal:  What about me?
herworldsonfire (04:28:17):Sam: You're being you.
catslash33 (04:30:13):Cal:  In a good way, I hope.
herworldsonfire (04:30:47):Sam: Of course.
catslash33 (04:31:09):Cal:  *looks pleased*  Just checking.  *pause*  Sam?
herworldsonfire (04:32:11):Sam: Yeah?
catslash33 (04:33:03):Cal:  *looks at Sam*  Thanks.
herworldsonfire (04:34:28):Sam: Welcome, Motor Mouth.
catslash33 (04:35:20):Cal:  *smiles and rolls his eyes, sitting up enough to reach up and ruffle Sam's hair*
herworldsonfire (04:35:52):Sam: *ruffles right back omg!*
catslash33 (04:36:52):Cal:  *just laughs*
herworldsonfire (04:38:40):Sam: ... *tickles!*
catslash33 (04:41:59):Cal:  *squeaks (totally all manly-like) and tickles back*
herworldsonfire (04:43:08):Sam: *totally doesn't laugh at the squeaking!* *no really you guys!* *tickles MORE!*
catslash33 (04:43:47):Cal:  *energetic tickling of DOOM*
herworldsonfire (04:44:47):Sam: *tickles EVER MORE OMG*
herworldsonfire (04:44:50):*even
catslash33 (04:47:07):Cal:  *eventually has no choice but to surrender*
herworldsonfire (04:47:45):Sam: *grins down at him* I win.
catslash33 (04:48:22):Cal:  *grinning back*  I can live with that.
herworldsonfire (04:51:34):Sam: Oh, good. *kisses Cal, then flops down again, laughing* Mmm, chocolate.
catslash33 (04:52:11):Cal:  *chuckles a little, watching Sam*
herworldsonfire (04:53:47):Sam: *slides an arm around him*
catslash33 (04:54:06):Cal:  *leans against Sam and closes his eyes*
herworldsonfire (04:57:02):Sam: *strokes his hair again*
catslash33 (04:57:24):Cal:  *smiles a little*  Mm.
herworldsonfire (04:58:44):Sam: *softly* Mmmm.
catslash33 (04:59:57):Cal:  *murmurs*  One of these days I'll pay you back for everything, I swear.
herworldsonfire (05:01:05):Sam: Shh. I'm hardly keeping tabs, Cal.
catslash33 (05:02:06):Cal:  I am.  *that's totally how friendship works, right?*
herworldsonfire (05:04:14):Sam: ...Seriously, that's not how it works. If you're going to insist on 'paying back', you can buy me a drink later and call it quits.
catslash33 (05:06:46):Cal:  *opens his eyes and looks at Sam*  *for once, changes his mind about what he was going to say in favor of saying the (relatively) less stupid thing instead*  Whatever you like.
herworldsonfire (05:08:34):Sam: Shush. Go to sleep, Motor Mouth, you look like you could use it.
catslash33 (05:09:16):Cal:  Not really.  *closes his eyes again anyway*
herworldsonfire (05:10:39):Sam: *quiet; pets him* The kind without dreams, anyway.
catslash33 (05:11:12):Cal:  *murmurs*  Have to get there first.  One step at a time.
herworldsonfire (05:12:55):Sam: I can be really, really boring, if that helps.
catslash33 (05:13:28):Cal:  *laughs a little*  Somehow I doubt it.
herworldsonfire (05:13:56):Sam: *chuckles* One of the these days I'll teach you not to bet against me...
catslash33 (05:14:54):Cal:  What, you don't like winning?
herworldsonfire (05:15:23):Sam: *smirk* I'm always winning.
catslash33 (05:15:39):Cal:  What do you win?
herworldsonfire (05:15:51):Sam: Everything. Ever. *nod*
catslash33 (05:16:25):Cal:  I can't believe you just missed out on innuendo.  I think that means *I* win.
herworldsonfire (05:16:44):Sam: *snicker* What do you win, then?
catslash33 (05:17:29):Cal:  A nap, apparently.  *pauses, then - nothing*
herworldsonfire (05:19:36):Sam: *slides both arms around him, happily* *thinks* Then I think we both win.
catslash33 (05:20:49):Cal:  *curls in comfortably and drapes an arm over Sam*  *definitely feels like he won something*
necessary_child: (Sam and Atton: Totally Platonic. Honest.)
Sam has a bed, and a TV. The TV has a waist-high stack of DVDs piled next to it, and another slightly smaller stack of games. The TV has a console attached; it's probably a PS2, but Sam has no idea. At any rate, it has two controllers.

Sam leads Atton in, grinning. Between them, they have all the requisites of the perfect indoor picnic: drinks, popcorn, pizza, tubs of ice cream, and chocolates.

"You realise I'm going to kick your arse at this, right?"

Is it can be... gametiems nao?
necessary_child: (JRM - laughing on bed)
If you catch it from the corner of your eye, Sam's room practically dazzles with the protective wards he's put on it, so thickly has he laid his magic. And Sam Linnfer, the not-so-lucky Lucifer with the bright boyish grin and dark, dark eyes is justifiably paranoid, in some ways, so it's here that he and Ianto Jones ended up, last night.

But that was last night, and Sam has ever been a light sleeper, so he wakes up as the light begins to stretch tentative fingers through the curtained window, and looks at Ianto sprawled asleep beside him, and grins.

That was fun.









[OOC: Adult content in thread.]
necessary_child: (Sam and Freya - moonlit nostalgia)
Considering he's lived in it for the last six months or so, Sam's room is surprisingly tidy. This is, admittedly, mostly thanks to the Oompa Loompas.

But he's not really thinking too much about that, much more about the girl in his arms, as magic opens the door for him and pushes it inwards. He's careful as they move through the door (she's incredibly light, but the wings), and gentle as he puts Medusa down on his bed.
necessary_child: (Monsun as Sam- screaming)
When Sam dreams, he dreams of slamming doors.
Our Father, who art in Heaven...
And when he wakes – or seems to wake – he’s stranded on a strange street where the doors are all shut and barred against him, and still he hears them slam.
Hallowed be thy name...
He picks up a paper from a deserted news stand, and it’s a few seconds before he registers the headline.

GO TO HELL.

Unnerved, he flicks to the next page.

YOU DESERVE IT. ALL OF IT.

Half-sickened, half-fascinated, he picks up another paper.

LYING LITTLE LIGHT AND FIRE.

The next:

WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE.

And the last:

GO TO HELL, LUCIFER!

Sam drops the paper as if scalded; it flutters insect-like to the pavement and indeed, when he raises his hands to his ears to block out the sounds of slamming doors, he sees that they are red and blistered.
(Slamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslam!)
And Sam runs.
Thy kingdom come...
He runs, though he knows not where to, afraid through he knows not what of, running blind and disorientated through the empty blackened streets of LondonParisBerlinNewYorkLondon, running anywhere, only to escape the sounds of slamming doors.
Thy will be done...
He’s not sure how long he’s been running for, air fetid and viciously sour in aching lungs, doors still slam-slam-slamming at his back like daggers, when he catches a flash of long blonde hair and laughter, and he’s not quite sure how he knows who the owner is, but he twists and wrenches an ankle and ignores it to run after her.
On Earth as it is in Heaven.
After Freya.
Give us this day our daily bread...
He follows her laughter and her swinging, sun-bright hair through a labyrinth of shadowy alleys and sidestreets, gaspingchoking for glass-shard air, until eventually he stumbles and almost falls into her back, Freya who is standing rigid and immobile with her back towards him as though she’d never moved at all, like a Greek statue.
And forgive us our trespasses...
Sam stops dead – just – and approaches her, warily.

“Freya?”

She slaps him.
As we forgive those who trespass against us.
And when she slaps him, Sam, white-faced and black eyes like the ending of the universe, feels not skin sting his cheek, but cold bone that cracks his face and slashes his skin until the blood drips crimson.

He backs off in spite of himself, scared wide eyes in a bleeding face, as Freya (nails as claws, hair ragged, face gashed and vivid with hate) runs at him, screeching like a harpy with her bones all showing.

“Fucking bastard! Treasonous son of Time, fraud! Never a prince, nevereverever a prince, just some lying bastard scum...”
And lead us not into temptation...
Sam raises his hands to ward her off with magic, anything to make her stop, to try to understand, but nothing comes flowing from his fingers; his magic has abandoned him.
(Slamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslam!)
Sam runs, mad dead Freya’s curses still flying at his back like bullets (“Loved you? How could anyone ever love you?”), and under it all still he can hear the sounds of slamming doors.

---

Sam runs alone, back into the dark dank labyrinth of alleys, until even Freya’s mad rantings fade away and there’s only a faint rustle that might be voices surrounding him.

But still the sound of slamming doors.

At some point, however, Sam becomes conscious of a presence, somewhere behind him. It’s not in the sound of footsteps, nor in the sound of someone else’s breathing, but nonetheless he knows the feeling of another’s eyes on his back. Curious in spite of his unease, he halts, resisting the urge to shield his ears against the reverberating sound of slamming doors, and turns around to see him.

Michael. Archangel.

Sam’s old (lover) friend is (apparently) unarmed, his dark head lowered to stare at the ground, still as stone.
But deliver us from evil...
“Michael?” Sam asks urgently, coughing spots of blood onto his hand. “Michael, where are we? What’s going on?”

“What?” Michael finally raises his curly brown head to offer Sam a view of blue eyes running with blood and a red gash of a mocking grin. “You’re not having fun?”

His robes, Sam notices, skittering away unnerved, are filthy with gore.

Through numb lips: “I don’t understand.”

“Poor little Lucifer,” Michael croons, blood drip-drip-dripping slowly over his cheeks. “Little Light and Little Fire never did understand why we all hated him so.”

“You said something very different, once,” Sam reminds him, unable to look away from Michael’s sickly-dripping gaze. “Or so I recall.”
(Slamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslam!)
“Nothing more than you deserve, Little Light and Little Liar.” The archangel advances, painfully slowly. “Never worth anything more than lies, were you, Lucifer?”

A gory blade appears in Michael’s bone-white hand; the archangel’s voice is as cold and implacable as the sea.

“And you were a pretty shit fuck, too.”

Michael takes another step forward, sword raised; Sam turns and runs.
(For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory...)
And as he runs, the whispers that he’d barely noticed before (too soft; too loud the sound of slamming doors and clashing locks) seem to rise and rise until they’re a crescendo around him, a cloak that he cannot throw off, until the whispers are a roar that takes on a life of its own.
(Slamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslam!)

Or rather, a death.

The ghosts (ghouls) of former lovers, former loves, former friends of Sam Linnfer, Sebastian Teufel, Luc Satise, Lucifer swarm around him in a mob, whisper-screaming foul things as they clutch and tear at his clothes, at his hair, at his skin.

“You left us.”

“You left us.”

“You failed us.”

“Why did you let us die, Lucifer?”

And Sam can only run, runningrunningrunning with his eyes wide as black holes and his face, arms, chest running with blood (dripdripdrip) as all his thousand ghosts rip and claw at him and all his old wounds and as they scream muffled obscenities and as they spit at him, spitting spitting spitting drip drip drip.

And all he can do is run.
(Slamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslamslam!)
When Sam dreams, he dreams of slamming doors, and wakes with a scream.
(Forever and ever, Amen.)
Fin.
necessary_child: (Sam and Atton: Totally Platonic. Honest.)
Paris is loud and noisy (Parisian drivers/car horns= OTP) and smoke-filled and chattery and sunny, today, and somehow very distinctly not-London. The architecture is much brasher and over-the-top, and many of the statues and bridges around Sam and Atton, as they emerge from the metro station in the middle of Paris, are decorated with gold leaf.

"So!" Sam grins at Atton, towing him a short way forwards, to an ornate bridge over the murkyglittery Seine. "This is Paris."
necessary_child: (Default)
I've got no AIM right now; comment here if you want me.
necessary_child: (Default)
Waywalkers: A Sam Linnfer Playlist

1. Theme for Sam/Sam and Jehovah: Almost Human by Voltaire
What did I ever do so wrong
That you should cast me from grace?
Though I love to rule in Hell here,
How I miss the taste of Heaven
Its soft and cool embrace…
If I were a big boy I wouldn't cry,
But since I'm not a big boy
I'll have to close my eyes
And picture what it's like…

2. Theme for Buddha: Nature Boy by David Bowie
There was a boy,
A very strange, enchanted boy
They say he wandered very far, very far, over land and sea
A little shy and sad of eye, but very wise was he
And then one day, one magic day he passed my way
And while we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this he said to me:
“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn
Is just to love
And be loved in return...”

3. Theme for Sam and Annette: Here’s To The Night by Eve 6
All my time is frozen motion,
Can’t I stay an hour or two or more?
Don’t let me let you go… (Don’t let me let you go…)
Here’s a toast to all those who hear me all too well:
Here’s to the nights we felt alive
Here’s to the tears you knew you’d cry,
Here’s to goodbye: tomorrow’s gonna come too soon…

4. Second Theme for Sam: All These Things That I’ve Done by The Killers
When there’s nowhere else to run
Is there room for one more son?
These changes ain’t changing me,
The bold-hearted boy I used to be…
I got soul but I’m not a soldier…

5. Theme for Sam and Freya: Berliner Star by Robbie Williams
[Sam and Freya first meet in WWII Berlin]
Auf wiedersehen Berliner Star,
You run like a bastard, plastered,
You should have seen her;
Everything we did was wünderbar
Til God came between us, and you fell for Jesus,
You were everything, everything, everything to me…
(I still love you, I do)

6. Second theme for Sam and Jehovah: Vindicated by Dashboard Confessional
And I am vindicated,
I am selfish, I am wrong,
But I am right, I swear I’m right
Swear I knew it all along
And I am flawed,
But I am cleaning up so well,
And I am seeing in me now the things
You swore you saw yourself…

7. Third Theme for Sam/ Theme for Moondance: Willing To Fight by Ani DiFranco
The windows of my soul are made of one-way glass
Don’t bother looking into my eyes: there’s only one note
Just ask…
Tell me who is your boogieman
That's who I will be
You don't have to like me for who I am
But we'll see what you're made of
By what you make of me

8. Theme for Sam and Seth: Fool On The Hill by The Beatles
Day after day, alone on a hill,
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still
But nobody wants to know him, they can see that he’s just a fool,
And he never gives an answer, but the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head see the world spinning round…

9. Theme for the Fall: The Boxer by Simon and Garfunkel
I am just a poor boy, though my story’s seldom told,
I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of marbles such are promises:
All lies and jests til the man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest
When I left my home and my family as no more than a boy
In the company of strangers in the quiet of a railway station
Running scared

10. Fourth Theme for Sam: Changes by 3 Doors Down
I'm running, shaking
Bound and breaking
I hope I make it through all these changes
Now I'm going through changes, changes
God, I feel so frustrated lately
When I get suffocated, save me
Now I'm falling apart, now I feel it

11. Theme for Freya: Woman by Maroon 5
Leaving her smell on my coat,
Leaving her taste on my shoulder,
I still fail to understand, fail to understand,
What it is about this woman

12. Theme for Sam and Michael: One by U2
Did I disappoint you, or leave a bad taste in your mouth?
You act like you never had love, and you want me to go without
Well it’s too late, tonight, to drag the past out into the light…
We’re one, but we’re not the same,
Well we hurt each other and we’ll do it again

13. Fifth Theme for Sam: Complicated by Bon Jovi
I'm complicated, I get frustrated
Right or wrong, love or hate it
I'm complicated, can't sedate it
I heard that song, but I won't play it
It's all right, and it's okay- you wouldn't want me any other way
Mama, keep on praying, cause I ain’t changing:
I'm complicated

14. Second Theme for the Fall: Exile by Kate Rusby and Kathryn Roberts
I’m searching rumours with my hollowed glance,
When all I wanted is what’s mine;
I’m lost and lonely in this foreign land,
I’m left too far behind the lines…
A million spaces in the Earth to fill,
And here’s a generation waiting still,
We’ve got year after year to kill,
But there’s no going home. No going home.

15. Second Theme for Sam and Freya: Who Wants To Live Forever? by Queen
So touch my tears with your lips,
Touch my world with your fingertips,
And we can have forever, and we can have forever,
Forever is our today,
Who wants to live forever, who wants to live forever,
Forever is our today…
Who waits forever anyway?

16. Sixth Theme for Sam/Theme for Sam and Time: Feel by Robbie Williams
Come on, hold my hand,
I want to contact the living;
Not sure I understand this role I’ve been given…
I sit and talk to God, and he just laughs at my plans
My head speaks a language I don’t understand

17. Theme for Sam and Magic: The Great Beyond by REM
I'm breaking through,
I'm bending spoons,
I'm keeping flowers in full bloom,
I'm looking for answers from the great beyond

18. Theme for the Light: Run by Snow Patrol
Light up, light up
As if you have a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice
I’ll be right beside you dear
Louder, louder
And we’ll run for our lives
I can hardly speak; I understand what you can’t raise your voice to say

19. Seventh Theme for Sam: Can’t Take Me by Bryan Adams
Don’t judge me til you know what’s inside,
Don’t push me, I’ll fight it
Never gonna give it, never gonna give it up, no
If you can’t catch a wave then you’re never gonna ride it,
Can’t come uninvited
Never gonna give it, never gonna give it up, no
You can’t take me, I’m free

20. Second Theme for Freya: Goddess On Wheels by The Sound And The Fury
Here she comes and she's walking kinda Hollywood
They say she's looking for me
And everyone's watching everyone else
Wondering why she's swanning over to me
I'm getting nervous, kinda nervous, feeling nervous
Kinda finding it hard to breathe
She said, "I'm the one, the only one,
Would you like to take a ride with me?"

21. Theme for Freya’s Death: Jenny Was A Friend Of Mine by The Killers
We took a walk that night, but it wasn't the same
We had a fight on the promenade out in the rain
She said she loved me, but she had somewhere to go
She couldn't scream while I held her close
I swore I'd never let her go
Tell me what you wanna know... oh come on, oh come on, oh come on
Ain't no motive for this crime
Jenny was a friend of mine

22. Eighth Theme for Sam: I Ain’t Scared Of Lightning by Tom McRae
I ain’t scared of lightning
Come on and do your worst
If they gave degrees for cheating destiny
Then man, I got a first
No I ain’t scared of lightning
It's the same old empty threat
I've been standing proud beneath the gathering cloud
And man, I ain't dead yet
necessary_child: (Despair- sometimes there's nothing you)

It was a much longer time, this time, before Sam opened his eyes to blink painfully into the bright artificial light. Not that he knew that; with no windows, and no clock, it was impossible to guess how long he’d been out for. All he knew was that he was cold, and thirsty, and thoroughly confused. And, not that he’d even admit it to himself, somewhat scared, this time.

He tried to sit up, but the heretoforth-forgotten manacles dug into his wrists, holding him fast and forcing him to lie back down with a faint groan. The sound seemed to trigger some kind of alert, as immediately he heard the sound of the door opening and someone hurrying in.

“And Sleeping Beauty awakes at last,” said Trixiebell’s voice, as the doctor moved into Sam’s line of vision. “I make that four days, seven hours, twenty-nine minutes and eighteen seconds.”

“Good to see you’re paying attention,” Sam rasped; he was even thirstier than the last time he'd woken up. “Don’t suppose I get a drink of the non-poisonous variety this time, do I? Possibly I should have specified, before.”

“Ah, yes, of course. You’ll have to forgive us. It’s an easy mistake to make.” Trixiebell’s vivid blue gaze peered at him interestedly, hands manipulating various electronic instruments. “Here. Only water, this time, I swear.”

Sam raised his head, sipping awkwardly from the plastic cup pressed to his bruised lips. It was water; cool and deliciously tasteless. His mouth ceased to be under the impression something had died in it six months ago.

“I suppose I should be grateful,” he remarked dryly. “Who’s ‘us’, anyway?”

“The… ah, organisation I represent. We’re terribly interested in you and your rather quarrelsome extended family. Specifically, your immortality, and your apparent ability to heal from poison that could have killed a small herd of bull elephants. Our financial backer is extremely interested in trying to copy it.”

Sam considered telling him it doesn’t work quite like that, but decided in favour of saving his breath and trying for for more information instead. “So you’ve been kidnapping various of us and experimenting? I have to admit, you’re looking less like a Trixiebell and more like a Frankiekins every moment.”

“As in Frankenstein, I assume?” The doctor neatly tucked a stray strand of dark brown hair back into line. “You do me too much honour, I assure you. But no, we haven’t. You’re the first we’ve managed to catch, you see.”

“So what, I should feel honoured? Special?” I seem to be making a habit of getting attacked every summer, Sam noted sourly. What am I, Harry fucking Potter?

“Something like that. We certainly got an exceptionally large bonus for catching you.”

“I’m ever so pleased for you, really I am, but I’m a very busy Lucifer. Souls to buy, saints to tempt, the usual, and the job doesn’t do itself, so reckon we could break the party up now?” Sam enquires, with no particular hope of obtaining a ‘yes’.

The newly-rechristened ‘Frankiekins’ laughs. It’s not a pleasant laugh, though it is extremely well-rehearsed. “I’m afraid not. You’ll leave when we’re done with you, I’m afraid, and not before. If you leave.”

“Oh, well.” Sam gave an inward shrug. “Hope your insurance is paid up…”

The effort to do it hurts like wildfire, but is absolutely worth it to see Frankiekins crash to the floor, skin blackened, previously-meticulous hair wildly on end and smoking gently, having just been hit by a lightning bolt. Sam wriggles furiously with the manacles, finally succeeding in getting one hand free. The door, that’s all he needs, if he can get to the door he can get to Milliways…

He’s almost free when the bullet hits him. Sam doesn’t even get time to curse before the regeneration trance takes over, plunging him back into darkness.
(Lucifer is falling down, falling down, falling down…)
This time, the singing voice is louder.
(Lucifer has fallen down, poor, poor baby.)

~

His days, or at least such of them as he was conscious for, settled into a routine after that. He’d wake up, try to escape, sometimes with a refreshing exchange of insults with Frankiekins or demi-Frankiekins, and find himself unceremoniously knocked unconscious once again. They seemed to prefer needles, these days, though for some reason whatever they used hurt like hell. Sometimes different kinds of pain, the full spectrum of torture from sudden shocks to a relentless ache, but always, always excruciating. Sam got very good at not screaming, and his lips got very, very deeply bitten, after a while. He realised, eventually, who the mocking little singing voice belonged to: himself. His voices, courtesy of the Light, were breaking through the mental barriers he usually kept them in check with. Kept himself from feeling like he was drowning in sound. But every time he sank into the regeneration the voice got louder, eventually multiplying as well so that there was a choir in his head that sang out as soon as he woke, and was the last thing he heard as the trance claimed him.

The organisation, whatever the hell it was, seemed to be succeeding in breaking down his regenerative abilities, somewhat; every time he came round, Frankie noted that it had been longer and longer since the last time he’d been conscious. It made a twisted kind of sense, Sam considered, that they’d managed to fuck with his mental abilities as well, if only by accident. He found, through trial and error, that if he lay still and kept silent and his breathing even, it usually took much longer for someone to come to inject him, giving him time to think of ways to get out of the hellhole he’d lately christened Disneyland.

Because escape he would, damn it. Even if it took using the Light to do it, though Sam had no intention of letting it come to that, yet. And what seemed very clear, even when the voices roared and Sam knew he was drowning, was that none of them had any idea of the powers they were playing with…

necessary_child: (Unknown: It only hurts to breathe - emo)

When Sam came to, throat like sandpaper, his immediate thought was that he was thirsty. His next thought was that he was cold, very cold, and his head throbbed dully, which was odd, because the regeneration trance should have taken care of that. But, mostly, he was cold. He tried to wrap his arms around himself for warmth and found he couldn’t, becoming conscious of something even colder than he was, firmly attached to his wrists and digging into his skin.

He opened his eyes, blinking and wincing at the cold, clinical white light surrounding him. His head throbbed harder when he moved it, but his hands weren’t obeying his orders to rub his forehead. The reason why became clear when he managed to blink painfully at where they were supposed to be. Tight iron cuffs manacled his arms to what appeared to be some kind of hospital bed, palms upwards so that the veins of his wrists and arms were presented. Attempts to move his legs suggested, judging by the icy, sapping metal digging into his ankles, that his feet were manacled in a similar fashion. Normally, iron, despite being the magic-sapper that it was, would have been no hindrance to a magic-user as powerful as Sam, but weakened and dazed as he was, he could feel the metal tugging at him, at his magic, and distracting him further so that he struggled even to concentrate through the buzzing of the white noise in his head.

(Lucifer is falling down, falling down, falling down...)
“Ah,” said a male voice. “You’re awake.”

“Shouldn’t that end with ‘Mr Bond’?” enquired Sam, raspy-voiced. He was shirtless, he realised, which helped to explain why he was so cold, though they’d left his trousers on. And both his sword and dagger had vanished, though he could sense their song, somewhere not too far off. “Then I ask ‘do you expect me to talk?’ and you say...”

A tall, handsome man moved into view, holding up a hand for silence. “Well, this is all very nice and... entertaining of you, I’m sure, but I really prefer calling my subjects by their proper names. Don’t you, Lucifer?”

Eyebrow. “You’ve been doing some research, I see. Did you go through my bins as well, or was that some other mangy tomcat?”

“More research than you’ve any idea, Mr Lucifer. You’re a terribly interesting... being, it’s true.” The man’s eyes, Sam noted, were worryingly manic. Intense people tended to do stupid things, to his way of thinking, especially when they had you chained to a bed and a needle in their hands. The needle was for the moment lacking, at least, but he suspected it wasn’t far off. “But no, the cat wasn’t ours. The fox that gave your bins and defences a cursory inspection at 2.03am Saturday last, on the other hand...”

He was lying, Sam noted through the fog of pain and confusion, but he was doing a very good job of it. “Do I at least get your name and a pint out of all this?”
(Lucifer is falling down, falling down, falling down...)
“I don’t think giving you my name would be particularly wise at this juncture, I’m afraid. You may refer to me as Doctor.”

Ahh, so Trixie it is, then,
Sam thought. Funny how these things go...

“Well, Trixiebell, do I at least get a drink out of this apparently worthy endeavour of yours?”

The man raised an eyebrow, but otherwise seemed unbothered. “I wondered if you were going to say something like that. Drink this, then.”

Sam raised his head a little, finding a plastic cup filled with some innocuous-smelling liquid pressed to his lips, and sipped gratefully. All too soon, though, the cup vanished, and the doctor with it. “Without so much as a goodbye, either,” he grumbled, before gasping as a sudden barb of agony shot through him like a skewer.

The pain, it turned out, was quite astonishingly intense, given how little he’d drunk of whatever poison it was. Sam screamed, once, almost as much with surprise as with the pain, felt eyes watching him, and set his jaw, biting his lip until blood came, but stubbornly refusing to cry out again.

This time, the regeneration trance seemed to take a long time in sweeping over his consciousness like a blanket, which only made the relief it brought greater. Strangely, Sam thought he heard, somewhere far away, singing as he slipped thankfully into the oblivion the trance brought with him, but had no time to wonder at a naggingly familiar tune before merciful oblivion claimed him.
Lucifer has fallen down, fallen down, fallen down, Lucifer has fallen down, poor, poor baby...
necessary_child: (Default)
It was a totally normal day, really. Not that Sam thought that, particularly, slipping out of the rather excellent little bookshop tucked discreetly down an alleyway on the Strand: it was just a day.

He headed down the alley, whistling tunelessly to himself, half in tune with the singing only he could hear coming from the sword strapped to his back in its long black bag. Some Waywalking, later, more was the pity, but he really couldn’t be bothered with a nine-hour flight to pick up the particularly ancient book the aforementioned shop’s discreet old owner had mentioned was on sale in Washington DC. He’d have to pop in on Hell on the way, but that was probably overdue anyway. Sam loathed the place, but he did need to make sure Asmodeus still remembered he existed or the demons were liable to eat Bubble alive. And Bubble was that rare thing: a likeable demon.

Maybe he’d go to Milliways first, get lunch. The coffee was always very good, and the service never involved a bored, gumchewing teenage waitress sulking her way through your meal.

Still, all in all, it was a very normal day, at least by Sam’s (admittedly, somewhat skewed) standards.

The vicious crack on the back of the head, though? That, Sam had opportunity to register sourly before the blurry blackness of the regeneration trance swept over the pain, was not normal at all.
necessary_child: (Sam Plus Kitty OTP!)
Sam and Atton seem to have a habit of asking each other out via notes, by now.

Which is why Atton will have received this via Bar:
Lanky,
Think I promised, at one point, to take you to my world. (Amongst other things.) Well, one of them, anyway. Fancy it? I thought we could go see London first, then maybe head out to some of the other countries.
If you're up for it, bring travelling stuff and meet me in the bar this evening, I'll be near the fire.
~Sammy.

PS- Hate you.


And why Sam's in the bar now, curled up on a sofa near the fire with coffee, a kitten and a vaguely faraway expression.





(OOC: Advanced warning for likely explicit content.)
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