17 April 2003, Thursday, full moon.  Approximately 6pm, the time he'd be coming home from work.

Red Mill Apartments #603

This smallish, two-bedroom apartment is somewhat sparcely furnished, but has a comfortable, homey look to it. A greenish-gray couch holds court in the main room, accompanied by a low, sturdy-looking coffee table. A squat black entertainment center is set up on the other side of the room, in perfect view of the couch; on it sits a rather large television and within the small cabinet area underneath is a VCR. There's bookcase set up along one wall, its shelves holding a stereo, a clock, various CDs and video tapes, but very few actual books -- most are nonfiction paperbacks, history books. The carpet's a neutral shade of tan and covers whatever floor doesn't belong to the kitchen or the bathroom; the walls and ceiling are a shade lighter and on them are a few Van Gogh prints; _Starry Night_ hangs over the couch in a position of prominence.

The kitchen's small and narrow, but it's clean and holds the basic conveniences of modern life, including (but not limited to) a microwave, a toaster oven, and little blue and white dish towels. A short length of hallway past the kitchen entrance leads to the bathroom and a pair of bedrooms.

Though the apartment is kept fairly clean, cockroaches are a constant presence and go about unmolested by traps, sprays, or other poisons. In fact, a small plate of fresh canned cat food sits in a corner at the far end of the kitchen, apparantly just for the benefit of these insects.

The door opens, as he comes home, to a darkened room with candle-light flickering from the table being the only illumination. The liht-sources come from an obstensibly large brown construct that's probably a cake. Mel's lounging lazily on the couch, wearing a party hat and grinning with bright white teeth, as she lifts a hand and ceremoniously hits a button on the stereo remote she's holding. A brass band springs into life, playing in grand, slow style, 'Happy Birthday to You'. The girl's hair is up in odd twin pony-tails, and she's wearing only a tank and grey/white urban camouflage fatigues, and still sending him that somehow cheshire-like white grin.

Salem freezes, his hand still on the doorknob, and for a moment he just stares -- at the cake, at the girl -- with a dumbfounded expression. Then, recovering his composure, he enters, closing the door behind him slowly. He waits until the song finishes playing, eyes adjusting to the dim light, then asks, "How did you know?"

"Your wallet's lying around all the damn time, lummox." Mel springs to her feet, holding her hands behind her back as she pads over lightly. "I think the /real/ question is, why didn't you /tell/ me?"

Salem reaches for the lightswitch by the door. "Didn't occur to me," he says gruffly. "Hadn't even told Rina."

"Hey." Bright grin turns to narrow-eyed scowl in a heartbeat, as she points to the light-switch. "What do you think you're doin'? I baked you a cake and its got candles on and everything. You gotta blow 'em out before the wax melts."

Salem frowns at the girl, then eyes the cake with its blaze of candles. Too _many_ candles, his frown seems to suggest. He grunts, shakes his head sharply like a dog shooing away something irritable and buzzing, and steps forward toward the cake. He eyes Mel again, regards the burning candles for a moment, then leans over and blows them out.

It takes two breaths -- thirty is a lot of candles.

In the darkness, he receives a quick peck on the cheek, from the girl next to him. "You look pretty old for a guy as young as you are," she murmurs seriously, before moving stealthily to flick the lights back on, and readjust her party hat. "You had dinner yet?"

Salem straightens up, giving her a dubious look, then blinks as the lights come back on. "Mmf. No... had lunch around one, but that's it." He starts shrugging out of his coat, his eye falling down to the cake with its thirty smoking candles.

"Good. There's a roast in the oven," Mel supplies cheerfully, "And the cake's for after." The girl folds her arms, watching the Walker with a faint, measuring smile. "Y'gonna put on the party hat or what?"

She gestures towards the table, without unfolding her arms, where a hat and whistle are set on top of a place-mat.

Small muscles tighten subtly in the man's jaw. "Is that nes..." The protest trails off in mid-stream as he reconsiders. ("You owe me," she'd said, less than a week ago. And he'd agreed.) Breath exhaling in a silent sigh, Salem drops his coat onto the couch and takes a seat. He gives the party hat a sour look, then obediently picks it up and puts it on.

The other hand comes out, wielding a camera. *snap* "You should really blow the whistle," she murmurs, grinning wickedly.

Salem gives the redhead a look just as sour as the one he gave the hat. "You're enjoying this," he accuses.

She winks at him, steely-eyed and hoists the camera to the ready position again. "Should've snapped you with the cake," she murmurs thoughtfully. "Nevermind... we can light the candles again. Maybe next year. There'll be more light, then. Patry whistle, please?"

Long distance to Mel: Salem . o O ( I hate you, John. Somehow, this is all your fault. I know it. )
From afar, Mel teehees. John did actually write Mel and tell her to try get close to Salem.
Mel pages: | Think of him a bit like me. He's not such a bastard when you get to know him. Well... actually, he is. But he's /our/ bastard.

"Fine." The word snaps out, brusque. Then, less churlishly, he says again, "Fine." He picks up the whistle. Lofts a brow, holds it up. Puts it to his mouth. Blows.

*snap* One for the ages. "OK. End of film. Wanna get the roast outta the oven? S'just been sitting in there to stay warm. Veggies and the pork are all done." Mel smiles brightly just for him, then stalks into her room with the camera.

Salem drops the whistle back onto the table, next to the cake. "Will you kill me if I take off the hat?" he calls out, getting up.

Emerging, Mel notes wryly, "It's hardly in the spirit of things, but I can see you're not in the spirit anyway. What's up? Rough day, killing the Wyrm's minions?"

"Full moon," he answers, taking the party hat off with some relief. On his way to the oven, he sets the hat down on the counter. "And feeling my age," he adds, after tugging on an oven mitt and extracting the roast. He twists a knob to shut the oven heat off and tosses the mitt aside.

Mel wanders over to the table, providing Salem with a sympathetic look. "You're thirty, Jack. Not forty. Not middle-aged. You're barely just out of your twenties. The years of irresponsibility."

Salem pulls out the cutlery drawer and extracts a carving knife. "Mel, I've _never_ had 'years of irresponsibility'." Grumpy bitching aside, he does give the roast an approving look before starting the carving process.

Mel arches an eyebrow, leaning against a chair. "You sure about that?" she murmurs thoughtfully. "Maybe I mean... recklessness."

Salem considers that, lips pursed. "Hrm. Well... recklessness, yes, I suppose."

"Even the most conscientious young lad, who wants to do right by his mother, has his moments and years of rebellion, thinking he knows better, experimentation, emotion..." Mel shakes her head a little, stating it as dull fact. She shrugs. "And if you were born human, then I'm imagining you're no exception. John was certainly human. He told me things about his past..." She adds sourly, "...which I can now see were /thoroughly/ edited."

"Ah," Jack says, lifting the knife in a gesture of emphasis that's clearly not _meant_ to be threatening. "But _you_ never had the misfortune of knowing Avram Popovic." He arches an eyebrow at her, then starts cutting another slice off the roast to join the other slices already resting on a plate nearby. The man does know how to carve meat.

Mel watches idly. Meat-carving may or may not lie beyond the realm of her talents, but she doesn't seem to be paying any extra attention beyond appreciating the motions. "Your dad?" she guesses.

"Bright girl," Salem says, his attention on the roast. "Kin. So was my mother."

Mel arches an eyebrow again, frowning a little. "Wait. I don't remember this bit. So kin and kin can get together and have Garou, without a Garou parent?"

Salem nods. "If the blood's strong enough, it'll get passed on. My father's older brother was Garou, and my mother's mother."

Mel tilts her head up. "Oh. So... my Dad." She takes a breath, reconsidering quickly and waving a hand. "We'll tackle that some other time. For now, birthday dinner."

Salem finishes the last slice -- there's enough for dinner and enough unsliced roast for leftovers tomorrow. He puts the knife and meatfork down on the cutting board next to the meat and briefly washes his hands in the sink. "Smells good. I, ah. Apologize if I was a little curt when I came in."

With a wry near-humour, the redhead murmurs, "I'm starting to get used to it. But yeah, what's with that? Moon makes you pissier when it's bigger, or what else?"

Salem dries off. "You were right the first time. The closer the moon is to full, the easier it is for me to lose my temper." He wrinkles his nose, grimacing. "Rage. It's useful when fighting and at almost no other time."

Mel looks to the food, and starts clearing away the cake and her own miscellania from the table - to one end - for the meals to be placed at the table, with knives and forks. "Explain the Rage thing to me again? It's your... Supernatural speed fuel?"

"Right," he says, bringing the plate of sliced roast over to the table and then going back for the rest of the table-dinner things. "Makes us quite effective warriors, sometimes allows us to cheat death. It also makes people uncomfortable to be around us, and it's not always... governable."

Mel takes a deep breath and holds it for a while before letting it puff out again. "Saw him disarm and kick the crap outta three guys in the space of a second, y'know. I thought it was some ninja martial arts stuff."

"It takes training to learn how to use properly, but he'd had that training." Salem sets out the plates and silverware, then settles himself on the couch with a grunt, absently pushing his coat further aside.

Her lips tug into something resembling a fond smile. "Scared the shit outtv'em," she murmurs softly. "Holdin' all their guns and two of 'em with broken arms... Not even a sweat." She looks over at Salem, smile fading reluctantly. "So can you do that too? Is it... against the law to show it off in public like that?"

Salem stretches his legs. Letting her bring the rest of dinner, the vegetables and such. It _is_ his birthday, after all. "Well. It's more subtle than turning into a nine-foot killing machine... but shouldn't be used all the time. Only when necessary." He shrugs, shoulders moving against the couch cushions. "In my experience, it doesn't hurt the Veil, the secret, _too_ much."

In proper housewifely manner, she sets his dinner down before him, first, and then goes to fetch hers. "So. What you think you can get away with."

Salem sits forward but politely waits until she's gotten hers and is sitting down before starting to eat. "The occasional burst of rage-speed, occasionally a shift halfway between human and Crinos if it's dark enough, or you don't plan to leave witnesses. Other little tricks that don't leave any evidence."

Mel pales a little at the idea of not leaving any witnesses, but otherwise remains silent... for a while. "And a reputation for being bulletproof and unkillable?" she murmurs darkly, poking at her vegetables and then stuffing her mouth with a healthy forkful.

"That helps," he murmurs. "It frightens people when they put a bullet in you and you get back up angry." His mouth twitches wryly. Then he shrugs and tucks in, soon with enthusiasm.

Mel looks up suddenly. "What happens if you catch one between the eyes, mister confidence?" The tone's light, if a little concerned.

Salem looks sidelong at her. "In human form? Dead, probably." His mouth thins. "Might get lucky... enough rage can bring you from death to completely healed in a moment, though it's not _pleasant_..." He spears a bit of roast and cuts a bite-sized piece from it, vigorously. "Any other form? Might slow me down a little."

"So if someone sicks a hitman on you who happens to be a sniper... you're fucked." Mel's lips thin and she continues eating. "Right."

Salem eyeballs her again. "Getting ideas?" he asks. His tone's deadpan, but there's that subtle quirk around the mouth that indicates that he's not serious. She's lived with him long enough to read it. Then he shrugs. "It's hard to kill us, but not impossible."

"Nah, I just..." Mel rolls her eyes and shrugs. "I dunno. It just means it's still not a good idea for you to piss off powerful people."

"It's _never_ a good idea to piss off powerful people," Salem replies.

"Pity," Mel mutters in soft reply, chomping away industriously.

Salem lofts an eyebrow at that and pauses in eating to regard her curiously.

"Good way to smush out crime. Or at least drive it /really/ far underground," the girl replies quietly. "At least for a while. Once people wise up as to who's responsible for bad things, bad things start happening to them."

Salem grunts. "With enough people, we'd control the streets. Enough to keep out the competition. But we don't." He shrugs, forks up more meat and vegetables; the redhead's can't doubt his appreciation of her hard work in the kitchen, at least.

Mel just eats quietly for the most part, after that. A little later, and she murmurs, "How was your day? What'd you get up to?"

Salem chases the last bite or two of his dinner around with his fork. He glances at her. "Paperwork, mostly. Took off a little after lunch and had a walk down past 15th and Bridge." The industrial sector. Nasty part of town. Run-down. "Then took the car down to the park and watched the river. Nothing special." He shrugs, looking down at his plate as he spears the last bit of meat.

"Must be nice," Mel murmurs, after a while. "Not havin' any fear of places like Harbor Park."

Salem smiles humorlessly. "We're the reason hardly anyone goes there, Mel. Too many Garou, too much collected rage. Sometimes, the ground... keeps the feeling of it."

Mel frowns, looking at Salem in puzzlement. "But all the knife-fights, the gunshots, and murders...?" Her expression turns darkly cynical. "Oh. Of course. Amongst werewolves, a knife-fight must be like... what. Slapping someone in the face."

Salem stretches and leans back. "True. I'm not saying that things don't happen there. They did in past, at least. But half the rumors are simply people rationalizing the fear they feel going there."

Mel lifts her arms, stretching them and her shoulders at the same time. "Ahh." She smiles a little, somewhat confused by something, then reclines in the couch. "Should leave room for cake." The girl looks over at the Walker and winks. "And then I gotta give y' your birthday present."

"I'm afraid," he says, with the usual dry humor. "Truly terrified." Arms folded across his chest, he cocks another eyebrow at her.

"Yeah, yeah," the girl replies with a roll of her eyes. She waves a hand dismissively as she reclines back along the couch lengthwise and stretches her legs out over his.

Mel pages: Grey urban camo fatigues. No odd jewellery or anything. Ring nipple-piercing probably shows up through her 'I.A.C' tank top, though. And the navel stud, of course. Nice, lean belly. Not overflowing like some folks who just /shouldn't/ wear midriff-revealing clothes. The I.A.C. has very tiny text underneath it, explaining the acronym. 'I Am Cute'.

Salem looks at the redhead's legs, then at her face. "You said something about cake," he prompts.

"I said something about making room for cake," Mel corrects, eyeing the Walker with an arched eyebrow. "You're still not full?"

Salem looks over toward the cake and spots a large brown cockroach crawling up the side of the coffee table toward it. The Walker smiles, a thin and crooked little quirk of the lips. "Nevermind." He leans over and puts his hand carefully over the roach. His fingers close around it, not crushing. He sits back, the insect trapped in his hand.

Eyes widening, Mel gasps, "OH. /That/! Will you kindly explain your roach fetish to me before I go insane?" She prods him in the chest. "You have any idea how hard it is living in a place where you have to wash the plates both before /and/ after you use them?"

Salem holds his hand out over her belly, palm up. "Very simple. A long time ago, the Garou made pacts with various spirits. Mutual assistance and loyalty. Certain spirit totems, godlings if you will, adopted various bloodlines of Garou. The one that adopted _my_ tribe was Cockroach." He opens his hand, and the roach stays in his palm, feelers waving. "One of the oldest spirits, yet one of the first to adapt to the cities that were just starting to be built. He helps us, teaches us little tricks that enable us to be a part of the city better than any other tribe. In return, we honor him by showing respect to his mundane, real-world counterparts." The roach starts crawling toward the edge of the Garou's hand; he turns it slowly. "My pack, too, is allied to a Cockroach spirit, so the connection is... close."

Mel sighs, passing a hand over her face. "Oh God. Sure, we can pay respect to the spirit's little children, but..." She sighs and shakes her head a little. "Was the cat food really necessary?"

Salem refrains from letting the cockroach drop onto his roommate and instead leans back, watching it crawl over and over his hand. "Perhaps not," he muses. "But. I feel a certain strong... loyalty, to Roach and his kind. So, unless you mind _very_ much, I'll keep the cat food."

Sending him a strained look, Mel sighs and shakes her head a little. "I keep wanting to say 'Have you any idea what the fumigation bills are going to be like', but then I remember it's not going to happen. Geezus, Jack..." She rests her cheek on a fist, elbow on the couch. "Keep it."

"Could be worse," Salem says dryly, depositing the roach on his coat. "Could be rats."
You paged the room with 'OK. Dinner finished, cake not yet started, lounging on the couch. Mel asked about the roaches.'.

Salem holds his hand out over her belly, palm up. "Very simple. A long time ago, the Garou made pacts with various spirits. Mutual assistance and loyalty. Certain spirit totems, godlings if you will, adopted various bloodlines of Garou. The one that adopted _my_ tribe was Cockroach." He opens his hand, and the roach stays in his palm, feelers waving. "One of the oldest spirits, yet one of the first to adapt to the cities that were just starting to be built. He helps us, teaches us little tricks that enable us to be a part of the city better than any other tribe. In return, we honor him by showing respect to his mundane, real-world counterparts." The roach starts crawling toward the edge of the Garou's hand; he turns it slowly. "My pack, too, is allied to a Cockroach spirit, so the connection is... close."

Mel sighs, passing a hand over her face. "Oh God. Sure, we can pay respect to the spirit's little children, but..." She sighs and shakes her head a little. "Was the cat food really necessary?"

Salem refrains from letting the cockroach drop onto his roommate and instead leans back, watching it crawl over and over his hand. "Perhaps not," he muses. "But. I feel a certain strong... loyalty, to Roach and his kind. So, unless you mind _very_ much, I'll keep the cat food."

Sending him a strained look, Mel sighs and shakes her head a little. "I keep wanting to say 'Have you any idea what the fumigation bills are going to be like', but then I remember it's not going to happen. Geezus, Jack..." She rests her cheek on a fist, elbow on the couch. "Keep it."

"Could be worse," Salem says dryly, depositing the roach on his coat. "Could be rats."

Mel rolls her eyes. "Rats can be trained to do what you tell them to. And they don't shit everywhere." The redhead gets comfy, wiggling a little in repose. She stretches, showing the long, elegant curve of her neck, and fine features... the lady-like aspect marred entirely by a /distinctly/ unlady-like burp.

Salem simply makes a little 'hrmph' noise and folds his arms across his chest. He watches her stretch, then smirks. "Excuse you."

Mel looks over at the man with amusement, murmuring wryly, "Whatever. Like I'm out to impress /you/ anymore, these days." She gives a subdued chuckle.

Salem's half-smile is crooked, the glint of humor in his eyes sardonic and touched with the darkness that the full moon brings. "I'm hurt."

Mel barely manages to restrain a snort, making a pfft noise instead, and grinning. "Dick. You lemme know when you're game t'try that cake."

From afar, to the room, Mel thinks it should be obvious, by now, too, that Mel has a habit of occasionally lapsing into 'Swearing like a teamster' mode, without any apparent cause. Not out of any emotioinal switch, but more likely a change in gear of thinking or something.

"All right." Salem stretches his legs, getting more comfortable; a wolf with a full belly is much more sedate, though it was the downfall of the one who ate Red Riding Hood. "How long have you been planning this?"

The redhead looks innocently confused. Too innocent. "What? A simple cake with candles, roast dinner, and some kind of unspecified threat of a present after drinks? Pah. I coulda' come up with that this morning." She looks to one side, slipping back a little more and reaching over to toy with the knife next to the cake on the other end of the table. The side closest to her.

Salem arches an eyebrow. "You could have," he agrees. "But somehow, I don't think you did." His arms unfold and fall over the legs she has so conveniently draped across his own. Not quite trapping them.

The kin reaches up to poke him in the ribs. "Jesus. Now, if I'd only known y'didn't have something else planned, and hadn't spent the rest of the week /rattled outta my gourd/..." She jabs him again, a little more viciously, with a finger. "Then I mighta actually organised something big."

Salem utters a deadpan-ish, "Ow," at the second poke and makes a swat at the poking hand. Nothing serious, more like a half-hearted cat batting something away from itself. "Like what? A party?" He grunts. "I'm terrible at parties even on a _good_ moon."

Mel snorts. "Yeah, right. A party. I can see it now... you'd be so surprised and annoyed at being surprised, that you'd sulk for ages and depress the crap outta your friends for a while, so I'd had to have got your consent beforehand. Ever tried to give a cat a bath? That's what I figure it'd be like." Mel looks to one side again, at the cake, and lifts a little icing from the edge of the cake. She sucks her fingers with satisfaction. "Nah... I just thought it'd have given me time to come up with something... special."

Salem eyes the girl. "I'm not _that_ bad," he protests, then makes a waving motion toward the cake. "Go ahead and cut it. Let's put it out of its misery."

Mel eyes Salem quite seriously. "Hm. You sure you don't wanna just sneak a piece of the icing? G'wan. Give it a try." She slides the cake along the table, moving the plates out of the way. "Y'ever get y'fingers smacked f'doing that when you were a kid?" She grins impishly at him.

Salem, a kid? Is that even possible? Can she even picture it? Jack arches an eyebrow at Mel. "Didn't everyone?"

She winks, nodding. "Hell yeah. Well. Y'a grown-up, now. Y'can lick the icing and not get y'fingers smacked. G'wan." She sneaks another bit.

Salem watches her do so, the eyebrow still raised. "You're serious."

Mel rolls her eyes, laughing. "Duh. I mean... why /not/? Y'only gonna eat it /anyway/. And it's fun."

"True." Salem sits up and leans over, swiping off a fingerful of icing. Leaning back again, he licks it off. "Mm. Chocolate."

Mel arches her back, laughing at the ceiling, and slapping one hand with the other, in an odd type of clap. "Hah! Yes!" She giggles.

Salem utters a startled snort and blinks at the girl, staring at her like he thinks she's gone mad. "What?"

She grins at him, jerking a finger towards the Walker and noting, "I was /thinking/ that. /Everyone/ thinks that. Feels good, dunnit. See. Y'ever thought about how many things you /don't do/ in life b'cause y'parents smacked your fingers when you were a kid?"

Salem continues to look bemused, but he gives her a bit of a sardonic-looking half-smile regardless. "I can think of a lot of things I _do_, too, that my father would have smacked me for."

"Hmmm." Mel narrows her eyes a little, though still smiling. "And maybe there's things y'/should/ be smacked for. But there's no-one t'do that, now, is there. Just gotta live with consequences instead. S'kinda actually harder, neh?"

"Eh," Salem agrees, leaning over to steal another finger of icing. Bad boy that he is.

Mel ahhhs, grinning and draping herself out over the end of the couch, staring at the ceiling and letting her arms flop off the end. "We need drink."

Salem nods. "We do," he says, his finger clean again. "I assume that we _have_ drink?" He looks at her.

The exposed midriff tightens visibly, and she folds up, rising and reaching back to undo pony-tails. "Yeah, I'll get it. What'll y'have?" Her legs slide off, and she stands, then padding off to the kitchen.

Salem stretches out, legs under the coffee table as he lets himself sink deeper into the couch. "Double vodka on the rocks," he calls over. His eyes follow her across the apartment.

The ex-waitress busses their used plates back to the kitchen, and fetches his drink. Her own's a cruiser from the fridge. Her weakness is the Mudshake. "You get to cut the cake. S'yours." As she comes back over with appropriate cutlery and plates, she sets the plates down, and pulls the drinks off the top of them, and then pushes the cake his way before flopping gracelessly beside him and offering the knife.

Salem sits up again to accept the knife. "First piece, too." He starts removing candles. "By the way, was it really necessary to put down one for _every_ year?" His tone is wry. "I think at some point it's acceptable to use one for each decade or half decade."

Mel giggles. "Sorry. Just wanted to get your reaction. And they only come in packs of fifteen." She folds her arms, and eyes the cake. "Touch the bottom with the knife, y'gotta make a wish first or kiss the nearest girl. Either." She's quite serious.

Salem blinks at her. "I've never heard _that_ one before."

Mel blinks a few times in genuine confusion. "Wha? That's the birthday cake-cutting ritual." She gestures towards the cake. "When you cut the cake, /just/ before you hit the bottom, you have to stop and make a wish. Y'keep it secret and it may happen. Then you finish. The other rule is that in penalty for hitting the bottom, you have to kiss the nearest member of the opposite sex." The girl smiles wryly. "Traditionally this is waived in cases of extreme discomfort, or the boy's mother stands close so she's the recipient."

Salem has clearly never heard of either tradition. He blinks again, then shakes his head, removing the last few candles. "You learn something new every day..." With the last one removed (and thirty little holes left), he makes the first cut and -- in honor of tradition -- pauses just before touching the bottom. A few seconds. Then he finishes the cut.

"/Where/ were you raised, again?" Mel murmurs, grinning curiously and tipping back her mudshake.

"Vermont," he says, making the second cut. First piece is always the most difficult, and he extracts it carefully. "Until I was thirteen or so, anyway."

Mel snorts faintly. "I keep getting thrown by the..." She pauses to get it right. "Serbian." She lies back in the couch tipping her drink back.

Salem shrugs. Cutting the second piece, he says, "Well, my parents were both born there, though my mother was in the states longer. Most of their family are Serb, or descended from Serbs."

Mel ahhs. "So they taught you to swear in it," she murmurs, as if it were the most natural conclusion.

Salem smiles crookedly. "They taught me to _speak_ it. The swearing, I picked up from my cousins, and got fluent after we moved there."

Mel gestures towards the untouched glass on the table. "Drink up, potato-booze boy. It'll make the cake taste better." She waits for him to serve the pieces.

"Anything that needs vodka to make it taste better..." Salem lets the words trail off significantly as he puts the second piece on a plate and passes it over to her. He lifts his glass to her, then. "Cheers."

The redhead just winks and lifts her own bottle in toast, clinking with the glass. "Here's t' stepping into adulthood."

Salem looks wry as he downs a swallow of his drink. "Mm. Yes." Setting the glass down, he takes up the plate with cake and tucks in.

Mel lets her eyebrows do a little jump, and just smiles as she keeps drinking and toying with her cake.

"Good," Salem says, after a bit of silence between them. Like her, he alternates between cake and drink.

Beneath lowered lashes, the redhead watches Salem sideways, failing to restrain a faint smile of amusement. She keeps eating, but a little more slowly. Thoughtful. He can probably /feel/ the gaze.

After a moment or two of this, he glances up, eyeballing her. One brow lifts quizzically.

Mel sends an angelic look to the ceiling, keeping that amusement internal. Letting it merely affect the edge of her lips. "This needs cream," she murmurs idly, hopping up and wandering back to the kitchen.

Salem looks at her for another moment, then lets it pass. "Do we _have_ cream?" he says instead. His eyes follow her.

"Cream is an essential part of every birthday," she murmurs, from behind the counter. It's something to watch, at least. Especially the retreat. The camos are only baggy at the legs, after all. Thank God for adjustable waist straps... "And anything this chocolatey. Rich. Delicious... Right?"

Salem snorts, the sound roughly amused. "Right." He forks another biteful of cake.

Mel winks, from behind the counter, murmuring with a grin, "Prude." She returns, with cream, and uses a spoon to start ladling some onto her cake. Stretching out, legs go over his again, and the kinswoman gets comfy.

"Prude?" Salem echoes the word with some incredulity and the slightest of frowns.

Avoiding the question, Mel focusses on her cake, smiling irrepressibly. "Itching t'know what I got in mind f'y' birthday present?"

Salem again lets it pass, though with the air of a man who simply knows when an interrogation is useless. "It's crossed my mind once or twice," he admits.

Infuriatingly, the woman simply smiles ferally at her cake and murmurs, "Cool," before filling up on a large mouthful. Fine, elegant features distort briefly around the huge helping of cake and cream.

It _is_ a bit infuriating -- and the full moon doesn't help matters much. But Jack's got a good rein on his temper and just shakes his head a bit. Another bite or two, and his plate is clean but for the crumbs. He leans over to set it on the coffee table next to the cake, fork clinking on the empty plate. Then he sits back again, legs stretching. "Mmn."

Mel's left wiping a finger across her own plate, to scoop up the last skerricks of cream, taking great pleasure from the last licking of the finger. "Mmn, indeed," she murmurs, smiling faintly. She reclines, stretching one arm to return the plate to the table, and letting the other rest behind her head as she regards the man. Her free hand traces lazy, distracted circles on her exposed, flat tum. "Hm."

"Hm?" Salem's settled himself, arms folded across his chest and legs crossed at the ankles underneath the coffee table. His good eye avoids her midsection, focusses on the redhead's face.

Mel smiles impishly, teeth unconciously biting at her lower lip, as she regards him with bright, green eyes. Alive with mischeif and interest. Toying. "Excited?"

Salem replies with a dry, "Brimming over," and smiles crookedly at her.

Her eyebrows rise a little, and she grins, murmuring, "Oh my God..." under her breath, and restraining a chuckle. The expression fades in intensity a little, smile softening as she casts those eyes towards his bedroom door. "I broke the rules a little." Her head tilts a little, to gesture. "S'in there."

Salem lofts an eyebrow at her, then sits up, moving her legs off his lap as he rises slowly from the couch. "You had this all planned out, didn't you?" His tone is mild; more of that dry amusement, an edge of teeth buried underneath it.

Mel's smile remains soft, but the eyes are dancing with a fae light, as they watch. "Just wanted to see somethin'. S'all." She wrinkles her nose and gestures to the bedroom door again, this time with an imperiously extended finger. "Scoot. Fetch. Bring it here." In the bedroom, there's a box, wrapped in gold-coloured paper with a blue synthetic ribbon. A flat'ish, rectangular box. The sort one might expect to see a shirt wrapped in from some more up-market boutique.

Salem fetches like an obedient doggie, or a vicious beast that's in an indulgent mood. Returning with the gift, he makes waving motions at her legs to get her to move them so he can sit back down.

The legs are raised, like one side of a dividing bridge, then swung to one side - waiting for him to be seated so they can return to their spot. She murmurs, from her reclining position, soft, and curious. Eyes still watchful and alive. "Hey Jack... when you were a kid, opening presents, did you used to carefully unstick the wrapping paper where the tape was, keeping the paper so it could be used again... or did you tear it, just so you could quickly get to what was underneath... revealing your prize?"

"What do _you_ think?" he asks. Whatever his childhood method was, his current style is quick and efficient, slipping a finger under the taped flap at one end, then tearing it lengthwise. "My mother was a fiend for reusing paper, though."

Mel simply makes a thoughtful 'hm' noise, resting her head back on one hand, and letting the other start trailing lazily around her navel again. Her eyes are on the revealed plain, white box under the wrapping, and his face, as he opens it. Inside... Carefully laid out on a bed of deep blue tissue paper are two white, silk handkerchiefs - folded with crisp edges, and monogrammed in raised white. Folded more loosely in a similarly shining white is what is probably a very lengthy scarf. One end displays his initials, as well. Resting on top of them, circular cufflinks in gold, with large obsidian stones dominating the rest of the objects. Very thin veins of something almost silvery runs through them; vaguely reminiscent of marble. The display has been arranged precisely and carefully, an artistic demonstration of contrasts in colour and brightness. Each object is striking. And obviously expensive.

Mel's quietly biting her lower lip as she watches him. Mischeif and good-humour have traded places, briefly, with a hesitant anxiety.

As with the pocketwatch at Christmas, Salem's reaction is twofold -- a brief moment of unreadability as the gift (or gifts, in this case) is revealed, then a small, pleased smile. He plucks up one of the cufflinks and inspects it, turning it over in his fingers. He doesn't say anything, not right away.

Pausing and uncertain what to make of his reaction, the woman feels pressed to murmur a soft, reserved explanation. "I thought... if you ever... wanted to go out someplace nice... where you needed to dress up. ...Any man can look good in a suit. But a man who pays attention to the little things... a man like that, has /class/."

"That he does," Salem agrees quietly. He puts the cufflink back in the box, next to its mate, and looks over at her. He's still smiling, but there's a quizzical expression in it, too; he's looking at her as though seeing her anew. "It's perfect," he tells her, after a moment of this steady regard.

She's trapped, not entirely sure what expression, which mask to put on, in the face of that regard. Her smile's a little shaky, and she looks down, after a while. "Good," she murmurs, nodding a few times, and looking back to him. Curious, and a little uncertain.

Salem squeezes her calf, lightly. "Now I have to find an occasion to wear them," he remarks, carefully folding the tissue paper back over the items. He glances at her again. "Thank you." It's sincere, very solemn.

Mel's smile widens slowly, sureness returning to her expression. She sits up, sliding her legs off him and moving closer, with her hands in her lap. "Hey..." She looks him in the eye, face close to his. Smile a little sad. "Don't mention it. Just make sure I at least get to be seen with you at least once, mister playboy."

Salem chuckles quietly. "I think that can be arranged. Definitely."

Mel grins and spontaneously leans to kiss him lightly on the lips, a delicate hand gently holding his bearded chin in place for the brief contact. "Good. Happy birthday," she murmurs, grinning, then pulls herself up and bends to grab the dirty dishes and cream. Clearing the coffee table.

Salem freezes, just for a moment, blinking once. Then, recovering his composure somewhat, he gets up, making some comment about putting the gifts away.

As the Walker departs back to his bedroom, a cockroach peers at Mel from the corner of the coffee table, antennae wiggling.

The kinswoman pokes a tongue at the creature, eyes mock-challenging, and then looking well-pleased with herself, she balances plates on one forearm, whilst carrying the cake back to the kitchen with two hands. Experienced waitress-mode coming out again.

The roach wiggles its antennae at the redhead some more... almost knowlingly. Then it climbs back down toward the floor and scuttles away under the couch.

Salem emerges from the bedroom after a few moments, sans birthday present. At the edge of the short 'hallway' he leans against the wall and folds his arms, watching her.

She moves with a methodical efficiency, using feet to open the fridge door, or cupboards, and close them. Her hands holding various items aloft, be they for washing up or items to be returned to the fridge. As always, easy on the eye as she moves. The woman seems satisfied, but in a more subdued, quiet way. Her smile soft, and for herself, for once.

One side of the Walker's mouth quirks upwards at some private thought; he says nothing, however, just watches.

Finishing up immediate tasks, Mel pads purposefully to lean against the wall on one hand, facing him, folding one foot behind the other. Back to mischeif, pixie-green eyes lock with his, challengingly. A roguishly lopsided smile forms. "So, birthday boy. Rest of the night's your call. Whaddya feel like doin' t'celebrate?" She arches an eyebrow curiously, whilst wetting her lips.

Salem cocks his head, favoring his good side. "Celebrate, ha. How about a movie?" He gives her another of those faint, crooked smiles.

Mel wrinkles her nose, giving a casual shrug. "Sure. Your choice, even. I done all the hard work." The redhead winks.

"So you have." Salem straightens up, tugging the elastic out of his hair so that he can tie it back again, catching the bits that have escaped during the day. "There's a little theater on the edge of town. Won't be as crowded."

"Cool. Gimmeasec to get changed..." Mel slips past, to her room, squeezing him on the ass quickly on her way.

He turns quickly and _stares_ at her back -- and then at her bedroom door, when she closes it. After a moment, the Walker mutters under his breath and finishes tying back his hair. Then he goes into his own bedroom, to fetch his coat.