Date: 1/1/03

It's a little after half-past midnight, the new year all gleaming and new,
when the key rattles in the lock.

The apartment's wildly different to how he left it. There's no lights on,
save for the flickering glow of the - rather large - television sitting in
the corner. Furniture's been rearranged slightly. A few neutral Van Gogh
prints adorn walls, and of course... the Christmas tree, tinsel, streamers
and 'Happy New Years!' banner are something of a change. A couple of
unopened presents under the tree look rather lonely.

And of course, the rather aesthetically pleasing figure of Mel is draped
out over the couch in prime position to watch the fireworks on TV. The
girl's been drifting off, in fact; her freckled face seems rather
peaceful, without her too-frequent smirk. She wears a simple white tank
(exposing midriff and piercing), and baggy urban camo pants. Her red
hair's let loose, falling in a tangle around her shoulders and partly over
her face.

Salem pauses at the doorway, shadowed eyes roaming the apartment and
lingering over the changes, the corners of his mouth dragged downwards.
His gaze finishes its journey at Mel; he studies her for a moment, then
unshoulders the black duffle bag and drops it onto the floor with a thump.
He shuts the door behind him unquietly and resets the locks.

Mel blinks herself awake with a faint murmur, and pulls herself up on one
elbow to consider the dour arrival, quietly. One hand lifts to rub at her
eyes gently.

Salem bends down and picks up the duffle. "Happy New Year," he says to the
newly-awakened. "Thought you'd be out." He stalks toward the bedroom,
glancing around again, this time at floor level -- the place he'd put the
catfood out for the roaches, his gaze skimming for signs of the insects
themselves.

The girl appears to have poked fun. The roaches have their own little
miniature christmas tree, with lumps of catfood under it. They infest the
apartment no more or less than before. Mel's mouth quirks wryly. "When you
said you'd be back in January, you weren't fucking around. Where /were/
you, where you were in such a hurry to leave?"

Salem arches a brow at the roach-tree, his mouth twitching in a way that's
not really a smile, but still a notch or two less dour. "In case you
haven't noticed, I _rarely_ fuck around." The duffle bag gets dropped onto
his bed along with the big black winter coat; he returns to the living
room tugging the elastic out of his hair.

Mel, by contrast, reaches behind her to pull her hair together in a
pony-tail. She pulls herself up onto her knees as she does, regarding the
man thoughtfully. "And I haven't had enough time to work on that, yet,
either," she murmurs with mock-disappointment and a cheeky grin. "Open yer
present, y'big lug. You're a week late for Christmas."

Salem's eye shifts over toward the tree, the human-sized one. "Present?"
he echoes, like it's some strange and alien concept.

Mel rolls her eyes and - hair done - flops lazily back onto the couch. She
eyes Salem tiredly, with a hint of amusement. "S'OK that you didn't get me
one, Jack. But at least /try/ to look happy when y'open yours. That's the
tradition." The presents at the base of the tree are both small, and
probably store-wrapped, judging by the glistening paper. One's a larger
oblong box, with Mel's name on it. The other's a significantly smaller
cube. With 'Jack' on its tag.

He has the courtesy to look _vaguely_ contrite, at least, and grunts
something noncommittal. He retrieves both gifts, handing the larger one to
Mel after a glance at its tag. "Tradition. Right." He takes a seat on the
couch next to her.

The girl accepts her present and unwraps it - tearing the paper apart with
a kind of self-indulgent glee. There's a plain, cream box inside, also
opened, and then she pulls out from the thin paper, a folded jacket. Red,
it has a thick black fur lining of some sort. Mel looks over at Salem
mischeivously and murmurs, "Jack... y'shouldn't have. Merry Christmas/New
Year." She tilts her head up, gesturing towards his gift with it. "Hurry
up."

Salem eyeballs the jacket, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards.
"You're welcome," he says dryly, then tugs open the wrapping on his own
gift in a way that's somberly adult when compared to Mel's childlike
abandon. The box inside is opened, then; he blinks once at sight of what's
inside, then takes it out, cupping the brass pocketwatch in his palm, the
chain dangling down between his fingers. She has the distinct pleasure of
seeing him look rather amazed, amazed and bemused and, yes, pleased.
"That's... thank you."

A slow, soft, genuine smile of satisfaction finds its way to the young
woman's face, and she nods faintly. Then leans over to slip an arm over
his shoulders and touch a brief peck to his cheek. "Thanks, Jack. Merry
Christmas." The moment lasts no longer than it takes to occur. She pulls
back and hops to her feet. "Now. Food. You been eatin' right, out wherever
you were?"

She's moving away just as he looks up; his gaze follows her, his brow
furrowed. He grimaces faintly at the question and sits back, setting the
box and paper aside and turning his attention to the watch again, studying
it. "More or less," he answers; it's possible that he might have lost
weight.

"Less," she sighs, with resignation, moving into the kitchen. Close
inspection of the watch shows that the back of it may have had an
inscription, once... But it's now just burnished and left simply with the
initials 'J.S.' There's the sound of the fridge opening and the microwave
starting.

Salem grunts, then tucks the pocketwatch into its box, carefully, and
leans back against the couch cushions, stretching his legs. "Anything
happen I should know about?"

"What, in my life, or just to do with the apartment?" Mel asks drily,
hopping up onto the kitchen counter and swinging her legs idly.

"Either. Both." He leans back forward and starts unlacing his boots,
glancing over at her briefly and sidelong.

Mel smiles crookedly, and shakes her head. "Got a job. S'just at Denny's."
She turns a little, and narrows her eyes at him. "Come harass me and I
swear I'll kill you," she warns, and then smiles a bit, turning back.
"Paid for decent food, this last month, anyway. Which is pretty cool.
Never done that before. And I'm lookin' at some courses I might be able to
pick up next semester. Photography or summink, I think." Her feet kick
aimlessly. "Nothing happened to the apartment."

"Why photography?" he asks, his head cocking slightly. He folds his arms
across his chest.

Mel looks over to him, arcing an eyebrow as she kicks. "What do you think
I do with my time, Jack? No-one's paying me to be the informant anymore.
And partying costs money. ...When there's no-one willing to pay for you."
Her expresion turns wry as she mutters, "Rare as /that/ is."

Salem snorts. "Yes, but why _photography_? You mentioned it specifically,
so I imagine that you have something in mind about it." He shifts his
weight, bracing a boot against the side of the sturdy coffee table, and
starts undoing the laces.

The girl sighs, and looks up to one corner of the kitchen, replying
plainly, "Because unless we move into a bigger place where I got room to
paint, it's my art of choice. Know a guy who lets me use the darkroom at a
photo place he works at."

Salem pauses, an odd look flickering across the scarred features, then
shakes his head and finishes unlacing his right boot. "If you want a
bigger place, talk to the landlord," he suggests, easing off the boot and
shifting to the other. "Find out how much he's willing to accept for a
two-bedroom."

Mel sends Salem a shrewd look, hardened slightly in a very ungirlish way,
as she considers him - almost surprised. "Think I could get him to
something pretty low. ...I've seen 'im. Got an idea've what'll work."

Salem pauses again, his own eyes narrowing slightly. "Do I want to know?"
he asks. He pulls off the other boot, then sets both it and its brother
neatly aside, near his end of the couch.

Mel narrows her eyes. "I was actually more thinking something along the
lines of 'Uncle Jack took me in when Mommy died, but with only one
bedroom, people are beginning to get the wrong idea.' Thanks for leaping
to flattering conclusions." The young woman's tone of voice might make one
wonder if the central heating had suddenly failed.

"Thank _you_ for assuming you can read my mind," Salem retorts, after only
the slightest hesitation. He leans back against the couch cushions, his
gaze direct, unsmiling. "For all I know, you have dirt on the man and were
planning on blackmail."

The girl doesn't give an inch. "Nice save, Sherlock. I'm impressed. But
guess what? I /can/ read minds." And her tone hasn't warmed any, either.
"You eaten, yet?"

The microwave pings its readiness, chiming in noisily. Mel's face is
unmoved.

Salem's mouth does that sour little grimace that she's seen plenty of
times before. "Not since this morning," he says. His voice is flat.

The girl's legs kick. "Well, your dinner's ready then." Though her voice
seems to be warming, there's an intensity to her expression - perhaps
annoyance, mingling with that blankness - as she watches him. Mel seems to
give up and shake her head. She looks over to his room, then the couch,
and shakes her head again, hopping off the bench. "Y'know, second thought?
I'm going out. Taped the fireworks and a couple Christmas carols shows for
y'. Enjoy." She starts heading for the couch.

Salem rubs at his eyes, briefly, and then gets up. "Fine. Thank you." He
stalks toward the kitchen without looking at her; his eye falls on the
mini-tree for the roaches again, and his expression turns more sour. "Have
fun."

She scoops up her 'christmas' jacket. "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year,
Jack," she murmurs. "Thanks for the jacket. Was real sweet of you. ...You
owe me eighty bucks for it." She stands at the door, for a while, though,
without opening it.

"I'll need a couple of weeks to get it." Salem stabs the button to open
the microwave, taking out the plate of reheated dinner.

Mel stands there a while longer, eyes on the door. Considering. "Y'know,
while it's good t'know you're human, every once in a while, it'd be nice
if you'd find some better ways of showing it." The girl looks over her
shoulder. "Fer a guy who looks like he's seen a lot, you don't seem to
know much about people." She turns, again, and opens the door.

"Thank you for your insight," comes the rather acidic reply, as Salem sets
the plate on the counter-slash-dining-room-table and searches for
silverware and something to drink. "I'll be sure to meditate on it at
length."

Rolling her eyes and muttering, "Fuck you," - though without any real
animosity - Mel steps through the door an turns to close it. "Good thing
there's still plenty of time for New Year's resolutions, asshole," she
returns tightly, slamming the door quite firmly.

Salem scowls at the closed door for a moment, then mutters, "Home sweet
home. Lovely." He attacks his dinner in a foul mood.