Date: 8/27/02, after the Moot

Red Mill Apartments #219

This one-bedroom apartment is small, sparcely furnished, and kept at a
level of cleanliness and order that borders on the obsessive. A
greenish-gray couch, obviously secondhand, holds court in the main room,
accompanied by a low coffee table and a nearly empty bookshelf. In the
kitchen nook, which is separated from the living room by a stomach-level
counter, everything is gleaming and put away. The bathroom's cramped, and
the bedroom's just big enough for a twin bed, an end table, and a dresser.

At odds with the strict cleanliness of the apartment is the obvious
presence of cockroaches; one or two can occasionally be seen scurrying
from Point A to Point B unmolested by traps, poisons, or sprays. Indeed, a
small plate with fresh canned cat food has been set in a corner near the
kitchen nook, apparantly just for the benefit of these insects.

The silhouette of the couch is slightly altered by the figure slumped
asleep over the arm, a glint of metal showing where no metal should be.

The sound of key in lock and rattling doorknob announces Salem's return
from the moot. That, and the hacking cough, quickly muffled lest it wake
the cub. He's still coughing, albeit less harshly, as the door opens, and
he takes only a step into the apartment before stopping short, freezing.

Rina rubs the back of a hand across her face, the jacket making a faint
creaky-leathery sound. "Hey," she whispers. "The prodigal returneth."

Salem's voice rasps out in a surprised, whispery hiss. "What the--" He
grimaces, clears his throat, and continues. "What are you doing here?"

There's a shifting noise as she sits up straighter, and scrubs both hands
blearily through her hair, leaning forward, elbows eventually propped on
her knees. "Figured he wouldn't be comin' back tonight," she answers
hoarsely. Careful to be quiet, so as not to wake the boy. "Couldn't sleep
anyway. Thought I'd wait up, make sure y'got back aright."

Salem regards her silently for a moment, the startlement on his face
fading away beneath the usual mask. He shakes his head slightly as he
closes and locks the door behind him. "I did," he rasps. His throat sounds
like it's been scraped raw. Stifling another cough, he shrugs out of the
light trenchcoat and drapes it across the counter. It's the coat he bought
right after the safehouse exploded, the inexpensive one. The sleek black
leather jacket that he purchased later is nowhere in sight. "Bit of
trouble with a... *cough* with a nexus crawler that decided to answer...
*cough* answer Andrea's call. One moment." He heads into the kitchen nook
for the fridge, and for a glass of orange juice.

The black eyes watch him, dark or no dark, following him from ambient
dimness and momentarily blinded by the shaft of light from the fridge. She
rises uncertainly, taking a few steps after him before stopping abruptly.
"You got hit pretty bad?"

Salem pours the glass full with juice, downs about half of it at once, and
then refills the glass before putting the carton away. He shakes his head,
turning to lean against the counter as he sips. "Just some gas it filled
the area with. Be fine in a few days. Thing fled, finally. Nobody dead."

Rina nods, lowering her eyes. "Good," she answers, quiet and businesslike.

Salem eyes her dark-obscured form, his own face made enigmatic by shadows.
"Two more spirits answered. Wendigo and Chimera." He pauses to take
another swallow of orange juice. "Chimera was chosen." He voices no
particular joy or triumph or pleasure at the Sept's choice. It's just the
facts, ma'am.

Rina lets out a breath. "I suppose John will be glad of that, since
it--isn't Wendigo." She chews on her lip a little, and looks back to him.
"But what is Chimera?"

Salem blinks once, for a moment looking mildly surprised by the question.
He swallows more juice. "Wisdom spirit. It was the tribal totem of the
Stargazers. Illusion. Enigmas. It _should_ help to hide the caern. Andrea
calls it the Lady of Mirrors."

Uncertainty narrows one eye, and she takes a few steps closer, leaning on
the opposite side of the counter to watch him. "Y'sure you're okay?"
Hesitant, quiet. "Maybe y'oughta drink some water. Clears the toxins out
faster, from whatever the gas stuff was."

Salem considers her for a moment, then the glass in his hand. "Good
point," he says. He drains the last of it, then takes the few steps
necessary to reach the sink so he can rinse the glass clear. "Gas." He
shakes his head slightly, mostly turned away from her. He half-sounds like
he's addressing himself as much as her. "Reminded me of the safehouse,
when it was attacked."

Rina presses her lips together. "As long as we didn't lose anyone. Or the
Caern." She looks to him again, the uncertainty remaining. "But there's a
totem again. That's somethin', anyway."

Salem nods. "We have a caern again," he agrees. "And a totem." Strangely,
he doesn't seem to be especially enthused about this. In the meantime, his
hands -- as if on autopilot -- continue the task that has been set for
them. The glass is rinsed and filled with cold water from the tap.

Rina falls silent for a time, watching him, her expression settling into a
tacit, masked concern.

Salem pauses once the glass is full, then turns back and studies her with
a guardedly neutral expression.

By the time he looks at her, her expression is composed. The dark eyes
meet his, without hesitation. "I'm sorry, about today," she says quietly.

Salem blinks again. He starts to say something, stops, then swallows
water. He remains where he is, leaning back against the sink. "You don't
have anything to be sorry for," he rasps.

Rina lowers her eyes to the counter in front of her. "I keep trying to
bring things into your life that you don't want," she says quietly. "Like
I decide it's better for you, so I just /do/ things, without thinking if
you'd want-- whatever it is. Feeling something. Or bein' touched. Because
I think I'm helpin', when really I'm not." Her face remains steady, the
mask settled into place more firmly than his own. "And it's not right. So
I'm sorry." A little breath, as if to say, 'there, it's done'--and she
glances up, a taut not-quite-successful smile set in place, as if the
whole thing is nothing, a joke told over dinner.

Salem listens in wary, guarded silence, holding the glass of water in his
hand without moving to drink from it. By the time she looks up again, he's
holding himself quite still. "Feeling something," he echoes, a moment or
two after she's done. His voice turns ironic. Cynical. "About a month ago,
John bitched at me for not being... not being 'human' enough."

Rina laughs, and in releasing that laugh almost loses her grip on that
shred of detachment. "Jesus, /that's/ the pot and the fuckin' kettle," she
murmurs.

That actually prompts a thin shadow of a smile, albeit one that's both
humorless and brief. It evaporates into a muffled cough, and Salem takes a
drink of water. "Be human," the former Ronin says hoarsely, still keeping
his voice lowered. "But no mistakes." He looks down at his glass, then
drinks again.

"Jack--" Her voice is quiet, enough tenderness given to his name to make
it somehow disturbing. She hesitates, then, and finds something mundane to
say, instead. "Try to get some rest, aright?"

Salem glances up, his expression almost entirely unreadable in the
shadows. After a few heartbeats, he nods in acquiescence. "All right."

A quiet half-smile, and then she turns to leave.

Salem waits until she's almost at the door, then says, "Rina?"

Rina stops and takes a careful breath. "Yeah?" It's a tiny sound, hardly
more than a breath.

Salem clears his throat and then says, very simply, "Thank you."

Rina swallows, and leans her forehead against the door. "What for?" she
whispers.

Salem hesitates at that, as though he's not quite certain how to phrase
the answer. He takes a swallow of water to cover the pause, and finally
settles on, "Being here." He could mean the apartment. He could mean the
city in general. It's hard to say.

She lets out a breath, then. "Oh. I'll try not to cut the visit too short,
then."

The door opens, and closes.

Salem squints a bit, puzzled, and then shakes his head. "Too tired," he
mutters at the closed door, and takes his glass of water over to the couch
and collapses onto it, heavily.