It is currently 18:56 Pacific Time on Wed Jan 15 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 39 degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northeast at 3 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.42 and steady, and the relative humidity is 92 percent. The dewpoint is 37 degrees Fahrenheit (2 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (85% full).

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.

Renee knocks on the front door of the apartment, then waits for a reply.

The door opens to the quiet piano of Chopin and the image of Salem looking very dressed-down in black sweatpants and t-shirt, his hair loose and his feet bare. His eyes narrow at sight of the Bone Gnawer and his lips thin, but he steps aside to allow her entrance. "Something I can help you with?"

Renee grunts, stepping inside and looking around the apartment. "Yea. Eb said ya had some info for me. 'Bout the warehouse."

Salem closes the door behind her, nodding. "Yes. The raid tomorrow night is cancelled, for starters. We've discovered that the enemy is stocking silver weaponry. This is, apparantly, a much more wide-spread problem than we'd first thought." He eyes the grubby Galliard for a moment, then gestures toward the couch. "Have a seat."

Renee makes her way over to the couch and sits with a grunt, hands coming to rest on her gut. "Fuck. He also said something about there 'being fifteen warehouses this company is renting."

Salem nods. "All based in Washington. The company headquarters is on the outskirts of the city, too." He shakes his head slightly, passing a hand back through his hair. "Not just a case of a vampire, some fomori, and a bane tagging along to feed on pain. The vampire, too, is likely one of the worst kinds, possibly Warlock, possible a Sabbat flashcrafter."

"Fuck," Renee hisses, slamming her fist into the couch's arm. "Fuck. And I can't do shit ta help anymore." The Gnawer grumbles to herself, obviously feeling the effects of the moon.

Salem's eyes narrow. "Don't be too sure of that. You're still in town for the moment, aren't you?"

Renee snorts. "Three, mabye four days." The irritable look she gives the Walker makes her feelings all too clear. /This is all your fault!/

Salem responds with an all-too-feral baring of teeth, the snarl of an alpha wolf to an uppity subordinant. "Then talk to your contacts," he says sharply. "The ones who will be helping you. Pass along the information, _especially_ the locations of the other warehouses."

Renee snarls right back, before thinking better of it and turning her gaze away from the Walker. "Just give what you have, then I can get the fuck out of here."

"Fine," Salem snaps, his own temper none too good. "One moment." He stalks off into the right-hand bedroom, leaving the Gnawer alone for a few minutes.

Renee continues to fume, occuping her time by turning her gaze inward. Mind wandering off who knows where.

Salem returns with a small black notepad, which he flips through as he comes back into view. "All right. From the top. The warehouse is being rented by a company called Shipping Express, which rents several other locations across the state. I have the contact address and phone number, and it's apparantly owned by a Stacey Graves. Ebony hasn't been able to come up with any further information on her, alas." He frowns. "They're posing as a night-freight business. Of course, I'm looking into having Ebony tip off one of the journalists he knows, as well as getting Rhiannon involved. Drug-running _is_ still quite illegal, and UL's based on a controlled substance."

Renee grunts, shifting in her seat. "Alright."

"The warehouse itself is owned by Washington Realty, but they may not be directly involved with this business. They may not even know. No knowledge on that as of yet." Salem looks up. "I have the contact address and phone number, if you'd like it."

Renee's nostrils flare and she nods. "I'll take anything I can get my hands on."

Salem lifts an eyebrow, but refrains from making any sarcastic comment in response to that. Instead, he simply reads off the phone number and the address of Shipping Express's alleged headquarters.

Renee locates a scrap of paper and a pencil, quickly jottong down notes.

Salem flips the notepad closed and looks up at her. "Now, as to the warehouse itself... we've obtained a layout of the building as well as information on what's inside. Which is why we're not going through with the raid as originally planned, although the Sept will still Revel in the Umbra after the Moot. The enemy has several humans locked up and is apparantly been doing experiments. The captives have been physically altered, though unknown whether by surgical or supernatural means." He pauses a beat. "There's not much else, really."

Renee grunts. "Got copies of the floor plans fer me?"

"What use would it be to you?" the Glass Walker asks, coolly. He folds his arms. "You're not going to be involved in this directly, after all."

Renee rolls her eyes. "Fuck off," she replies coldly. "You wouldn't even /know/ where that place is, if it wasn't for me. Call it professional curiosity."

"Don't be so quick to think yourself invaluable," Salem replies, just as coldly. "The Sept would have found it without your help." His upper lip curls. "As it happens, though, Ebony did give me an extra copy. If you'll wait a moment, I'll get it for you. You can share it with the other Gnawers. The ones who _will_ be fighting."

Renee's fingers twitch, digging into the couch's arm. "The Sept would have found it without my help, but it would have taken a fucking lot longer. Didn't see anyone else makin' a fuckin' effort and putting their necks on the line ta get shit done." At the Walker's last coment, the girl's anger flares and she surges onto her feet. Rage boiling off her in waves, as she tries to bring her temper back under control.

"Stand _down_, Renee!" Salem's voice snaps out like a whip, sharp and authoritive. He steps forward, arms unfolding as he shifts his weight. His eyes bore down on her, heavy and intent.

Renee's fingers dig into her hands, breath coming harsh and ragged. She shakes, the internal battle to control her Rage is clearly visible.

Salem waits a few moments to make sure that the Gnawer is in nominal control, then stalks off into the bedroom again to fetch the second copy of the warehouse layout. The paper is folded into a compact square; he flicks it toward her with arrow-straight accuracy. "There. Now, get out."

Renee catches the wad of paper, holding onto it with a white-knuckled grip. A growl is the girl's good-bye, as she stalks out of the apartment.

The door opens quite suddenly and unexpectedly, with a brief jangle of keys being the only warning. A lithe green-eyed, pale-skinned redhead (no more than 20 or so years old) slips in, dressed in the latest J-Lo lookalike threads, and pulling off grey mirrored shades and smiling faintly. "Hey honey, I'm home..." she begins to call cheerfully, til eyeing a fuming girl.

Renee comes to a dead-stop, eyeing the red-head and clutching a neatly folded package of papers to her chest.

Salem stiffens, tension racheting up several notches. And he seemed almost calm when Mel left. A moment of silence passes, and then he says, with enforced calm, "You can go now, Renee."

Mel arches a thin eyebrow, regarding Salem with a reserved curiosity before turning her attention to the girl identified as Renee. Not saying anything, she simply moves to one side of the door, opening it gracefully for the younger girl. And still watching curiously.

Renee's jaw clenches and she looks back at the Walker, death in her eyes. Then, she is stalking out the door, leaving as quickly as she can.

Salem glowers after Renee, scowling as the door closes behind her. Then he shifts his gaze to Mel. "That," he says sourly, "is one psychopathic little bitch."

Mel watches the girl retreat, then gently closes the door behind her. Turning eyes to Salem, sideways, the redhead notes quietly, "She was so mad I could feel it in my /gut/. What did you /say/?"

Salem snorts. "Nothing. That's simply the way she is." He drags his fingers back through his hair and takes several slow breaths, attempting to tone down his own considerable temper. "Psychotic. Gets into fights and bites people. She's practically an animal." He shrugs, stalking toward the kitchen. "But she hears things, sometimes."

Mel narrows her eyes, shooting Salem an accusing look. "Oh," she replies icily, and turns to head for her room.

Salem, catching the redhead's tone, turns a frown her way -- or at least toward her departing back. His eyes narrow.

Her movements are tight and quick with annoyance, and she opens the door and slams it. Moments later, she emerges again, with camera bag and a small notepad. "Whaddya want for dinner?" she snaps.

He's still frowning in that 'what the hell is wrong with you, woman?' clueless male kind of way, looming near the kitchen. "How about Chinese?"

That steps her off balance a little. The young woman looks over to him, attempting to ease her own frown. ...And not succeeding much. "From down the road?" she asks, with cautious reserve.

Salem nods slowly. "Take-out, though, if you don't mind. I'm not... really in a good mood for going out." He pushes his hands into the pockets of his sweats and regards her steadily. His own frown eases back, but his brow is still furrowed and he's nowhere near smiling.

Mel tilts her head up slightly, giving a grudging, 'Huh' in agreement - nodding minutely. She moves over and flops onto the couch in a visually-appealing tangle of limbs. Curling up, she starts scratching things on the notepad, asking too-casually, "So... how much you payin' her?"

Salem cocks his head slightly, and understanding dawns. His brow smooths out. "Depends on what she has to give me. Not much, though." He smiles, then, thin and humorless. "She owes me."

"Uh-huh." Still in the dog-house, boy. Though her tone's dubious. The pencil scratches over the pad rapidly. Notes of some sort.

An appropriate place for a dog -- all right, wolf. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, genetically speaking.

Salem's frown returns. He folds his arms. "I'm sure you could do better, now that I think about it. Renee's not exactly a people-person. People don't talk to her."

Mel clears her throat and remains stolidly staring at her work. "Y'won't win me over with fast food and flattery every time, sweetie." She looks over his shoulder towards him, calculating.

Salem's nose wrinkles at the 'sweetie', and he shakes his head slightly. "I figured that you would offer if you wanted me to put you on the payroll. Since you didn't..." He shrugs, then unfolds his arms to push back a stray lock of long black hair. "No insult was intended."

Business-like, Mel shrugs it off, and lifts the notepad high in the air, over her head. "You're payin' rent and groceries. And y'take me out at least once a week. Y'get what I got. Y'want more, like someone followed or questions asked, y'pay extra. I just listen t'what people got ta' say. Questions are risky. And there's costs, too. My discretion on price per risk. Y'don't like it, y'never pay it again. T'was the old rules, they'll be the new rules but wit' accom stuff instead'a retainer. Take it or leave it."

Salem arches an eyebrow at her, then nods curtly. "That all? Fine. Shall we shake on it?"

Mel wrinkles her nose, and shakes her head. "Nup. Yer word should always be enough." He looks over her shoulder at him again, narrowing her eyes. "Always."

"It's a formality," he says, his voice dry. He shrugs again. "But not a necessary one." He turns away then, opening the cabinet that holds the glasses. "Get you something to drink?" The constant, inherent thrum of temper within him -- highly prevalent the last week or so -- seems to have settled back to a low ebb.

In another perhaps unsettling moodswing, the girl pulls her pad back down and flips it over to start scritching something else on it, with a perky, "OK, cool." She glances over towards the fridge. "S'some vodka cruisers in there if y'want. Or stollies."

Salem hesitates in taking down a second glance, turning to frown at her, bemused. "When did you pick up _those_?"

"They've been hidden behind the soy health drink and the non-fat yoghurts," she notes mildly. "Which I notice you haven't touched." She coughs a little, advancing sheepishly. "And I got 'em yesterday. Thought maybe you'd like a drink after work on Friday."

Mel gets a somewhat sharper look when she brings up the health foods. "Are you implying something?" Salem asks her, his eyes narrowed. His hand rests on the fridge handle, not opening it yet.

She chuckles a little, shaking her head with amusement. "Nah, stud. You're fine and foxy the way you are."

Salem makes a disgruntled little 'hrmph' noise and opens the fridge to peruse the contents. "Which do you prefer?"

"Mudshake, please," the girl calls cheerfully. "Ain't tried one'a them yet." She slips into the couch, stretching out lengthily with arms over her head and back arching. "Ah."

"Fine." Salem waves vaguely toward the phone while he sets about obtaining liquid refreshment for the two of them. "Why don't you call the restaurant? Order whatever you like. Have them deliver. My treat." She can't quite see his face, but his tone is deadpan.

Mel looks over to the phone, over her shoulder, and complains vaguely, "But it's so far away... I'd have to get up." He pouts, and eyes the dour Walker.

Salem pauses, eyeing her right back, then says, "One moment." He comes out of the kitchen a short while later, bearing both her drink and the phone's cordless headset. And -- just to be thorough -- the copy of the menu, which has the phone number printed on it to dial for delivery.

Blinking with surprise, Mel laughs, and shakes her head, watching the Walker - impressed. "/Well/, then!" She takes the offered menu and phone, resting them on her slightly exposed belly, and then takes the drink, taking a sip from it already. "Mmm. S'good. What'd you get?"

Salem holds up the bottle of Stolichnya and lemon, then settles down on the opposite end of the couch from her, stretching his legs out. He seems quite casual in the sweatpants and t-shirt, with his hair down and his feet bare, but it's a strange kind of relaxation, like a big cat at its ease, ready to strike out on a whim. "Who told you I preferred vodka?" he asks. He hasn't taken a sip. Yet.

"I get these hunches." Mel looks over at him, curling her legs up a bit to make room for the Walker, then stretching her legs out again, over him, as she sips at her drink. "T'talkin' in Russian all the time, anyways."

Salem arches an eyebrow at the liberty, then takes a good-sized swallow of his drink. "Mmn. I see. But it's Serbian, not Russian. I don't know Russian." He takes another drink.

Mel wrinkles her nose and shrugs, watching him thoughtfully. "Enh. Either way, y'don't seem a bourbon kinda guy. Or scotch, really. Maybe if pressed. Rum, I doubt. Vodka. No commitment or real strength of flavour, and made in the cold." She smiles impishly. "Goes well with a lot of things, though."

"True." The Walker glances down at the legs stretched across his lap, then shifts his weight and stretches his free arm over the back of the couch. Another pull at his dirnk, and he gestures toward the phone on her belly. "Going to call, or what?"

Mel looks down at the phone, then up at Salem. Then down at the phone again. The girl smiles broadly and simply sinks back a little, before lifting the phone and taking her time in tapping the number in. Her toes wiggle as she waits for someone to pick up.

Salem snorts, sounding vaguely amused, and takes another pull on his drink as Mel works the phone. The bare, wiggling toes wiggle unmolested. A lesser man would give in to temptation. Salem resists.

Mel's eyes turn to the ceiling as she stretches and arches a little more, wriggling to get comfortable. "Yo! Hey, I wanted to order some stuff delivered? Yeh. Nah, sorry, I don't know it, I'm just visitin'. S'number 603? Coo'... I'll have a few containers. One'a that beef and black bean, one'a sweet'n'sour pork, one'a honey chicken with the sesame seed, and one'a fried rice. Oh! And bag'a prawn crackers. And chopsticks." There's a pause for a dazzling smile into the phone. "Please. Thank you! You too. Heh." *bip* She hangs up, and looks over at Salem with satisfaction.

Salem lifts his bottle in salute. "Nicely done." He's nearly halfway through already. "How much?"

Mel shrugs, and her eyebrows move along with, then she tips her bottle back and 'mmmmms' luxuriously. "God. Chocolate. Y'can hardly taste the vodka at all." She grins and shakes her head. "Not drinking /this/ one out on the town."

"Little too strong for you?" Salem lifts his eyebrows, regarding the girl archly.

Mel shakes her head, looking over to Salem mischeivously. "Nah. It's just be too easy and too tempting to get hammered." She tilts the bottle back and winks. "Could get taken advantage of."

Salem gives her a thin, crooked little smile, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "Heaven forbid. Nevermind, then. Better to keep your wits about you."

"Yep. Totally a good idea." She grins a little more broadly and then tips the bottle back theatrically, gulping down a few mouthfuls.

Salem takes another swallow of the lemon-and-vodka drink. "So, tell me, Mel," he says then, conversationally. "Were you born in St. Claire?"

Mel nods a few times, licking her lips and peeking idly into her bottle. "Mm. Grew up around here and all that. Never been anywhere else, really. Though Mom and Dad sometimes took us on vacations, that was... a while ago." The conversation's casual.

Salem tilts his head slightly, considering the girl. "Hmm. No siblings?"

Mel shakes her head a little. "You?"

Salem takes another pull from his bottle. "An older brother. Theoretically. He left home when I was quite young, though, so I hardly remember him."

The girl just sits back, now, with one arm folded over her waist, and the other holding the bottle someplace near her head. Just dangling it, she watches the half-moon's eyes thoughtfully. The toes wiggle idly as she does. "Hm. Y'from Serbia?"

Salem is nearly through with his bottle and is definitely more relaxed for it. He eyes the wiggling toes again, then turns his gaze toward her face. "I wasn't born there, no. My parents were Serbian. Had a place in Vermont."

She grins and pulls herself up a bit. "Vermont. Heh. Nice place to grow up?"

Salem's lips thin. He considers his bottle, sloshing around the last of the liquid within it. "Hm. I suppose. Lots of land, middle of nowhere. A couple of horses." He tips the bottle back, draining it.

The girls falls back and tips the bottle up to drain the last of it. Her tongue sticks out, licking the lip to catch the last few drops, as they run to the end. "Mm. Horses. Always wanted to know what horses were like... then I saw a real one. Scared the crap outta me. Big black evil-eyed bastard." She giggles, and then looks over to Salem, pouting. "I'm out, already, and we haven't had food, yet."

"Myself, I could never get the hang of them." He holds a hand out for her empty. "I'll get you another. How long did they say they'd be?"

"Fifteen minutes." Mel stretches a little, yawning like a cat and leaning over to hand the man her empty bottle. "Same again, please."

"No problem," comes the reply, as Salem shifts her legs off his lap and gets up, plucking the bottle from her hand. The empties get dumped into the recyling bin, and soon enough he returns with replacements, offering the Mudslide to her before sitting down. "Try taking it a little more slowly, this time," he suggests, mouth quirking wryly.

Mel pokes her tongue at the man, winking and hopping off the couch. She stalks gracefully towards her bedroom.

Salem is left hanging, Mudslide in hand. He shrugs and drops himself back onto the couch, letting her drink sit on the coffee table until she claims it. "Or not," he says, mostly to himself, and cracks open his own to take a long pull.

She shrugs, opening the door into her room and slipping inside. "Just gonna get these baggy pants off," she mutters. "Dun'need 'em here."

The door closes. There is rustling.

Salem arches an eyebrow and makes no comment. None at all. He simply waits, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles underneath the coffee table.

Mel emerges soon enough, wearing something that's probably meant to be a miniskirt; red - to go with her hair and the white tee, quite well. Rolling her shoulders as she pads over, the girl quickly scoops up her drink and cracks it open professionally before flopping back down again. Her legs reclaim his lap, as she tilts back her drink. "You should try some of this," she notes absently. "It's pretty good."

Salem wrinkles his nose slightly. "Bit sweet, isn't it?"

Mel simply regards the Walker with an arched eyebrow. "It still has the tingle." She offers the bottle.

"Oh, well, as long as it has _tingle_..." Her use of the word amuses him; he smirks, accepts the bottle, and takes a taste. "Hrm," he says, terribly neutral, and passes it back. "_Quite_ sweet."

Mel simply takes the bottle back and licks the rim, eyeing him darkly. "Bah. You like it." The girl stretches again, the toes wiggle, and she looks over at the door, as if waiting for the food to step through on its own accord.

Right on cue, someone knocks. Rap-rap-rap. It interrupts Salem in the middle of another arch look at the redhead. "I'll get it," he says, with a grumble that's not really meant, and gets up again, pushing her legs off him.

She sinks a little further down the couch, when he vacates it, and stares at the ceiling. "Mm. Should get a proper bottle of the stuff, sometime. See how you prefer to take it. S'good for you, you know," she notes, conversationally. "Too much causes cirrhosis in your heart and liver, but just a little... and the same effect gets applied to the fat that builds up in your arteries and heart. Keeps 'em good and cleared."

"A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou..." Salem remarks, as he answers the door. The sight of him gives the delivery boy pause, but the Garou's completely genial -- albeit a somewhat sodden, rage-filled genial -- as he accepts the bags, pays the bill, and adds a generous tip. Because anyone who knocks on an ex-Ahroun's door on the full moon deserves such.

Mel sniffs the air and 'mmmms', closing her eyes and grinning, as she lies on the couch. "/God/ that's better than having to cook." She chuckles and sips from her drink.

Salem sets the bags on the coffee table and starts pulling out boxes of warm, fragrant Chinese food. "Indeed." He eyes her, reclined over the length of the couch. "So, am I banished to the floor, or what?"

Mel looks over and blinks innocently. "Uh?"

"Legs." He gestures at them and then, with an air of long-suffering, explains in more detail. "You're hogging the couch, madame."

She lets an eyebrow twitch upwards in a near-wink. "Didn't think /you'd/ have a problem with assertiveness, Jack..." She smiles faintly and slips her legs out sideways, freeing up a place for him. "Though it'd be fun to make you eat on the floor."

"I _am_ assertive," he tells her, archly. "But I'm also a gentleman." Such a gentleman, that he lets the latter comment slide. After another swallow of his drink, he surveys the scattering of white pint-sized cartons and selects one at random, opening it. "Here's the pork."

"Scuse fingers." The way she dips in to take a piece of battered meat indicates she doesn't really care about the politeness in her request. "OK. Might as well get bowls. They bring chopsticks?" The girl bounces off the couch and moves into the kitchen, searching for bowls and a few spoons.

Salem checks the bags. "They did." He produces them, along with assorted packets of duck sauce, soy sauce, hot sauce, and twists of salt and pepper. "No napkins, however." While Mel's busy in the kitchen, he opens other cartons and arranges things on the coffee table.

Mel siezes her own chopsticks and snaps them open quickly, sticking them in her mouth while she uses a spoon to dole hefty amounts of rice and meat into her bowl. She flumps decoratively into the couch again, legs tucked up under her.

His mouth curves with some private amusement as the girl grabs the first portion of the kill. He helps himself to much of the rice and sweet-and-sour pork before settling back to dine, washing down mouthfuls with swallows of lemony vodka.

The young woman eats voraciously. Rice somehow manages to find itself in extra large clumps between her chopsticks as she shovels it in.

Between them, the two make short work of the Chinese take-out, and Salem gets up near the end of it to fetch himself another bottle -- and one for the girl, as well, if she's done with hers. His mood has definitely taken a turn for the better, what with the iron rod up his spine dissolved by alcohol.

Mel grins a little, with satisfaction, as she puts her bowl aside and sips at the last of her drink. She's keeping up with him, in the drinking stakes - though given her size, it's probably having a greater effect. Certainly her announcement, "Mmm. Feeling a little buzz off that chocolate stuff..." is some indication.

"Better not go out, then," Salem replies, with the lazy satisfaction of a cat. There's the faintest touch of an accent under his words, possibly too subtle for a buzzed young redheaded thing such as herself to notice. "Might get taken advantage of." He grins crookedly.

Mel's lips twist wryly, and she shakes her head a little. "'N what if I wanna? Maybe staying here might be just as good, neh?" The girl does her stretching act again, and wiggles her toes purposefully.

Salem lifts an eyebrow, head tilting as he studies her, gaugingly, consideringly. Then he snorts and takes a pull from his bottle. "That's the vodka talking." He smirks at her.

Mel just grins, lifting her bottle in a toast and winking before downing another mouthful. The toes wiggle again, and she shifts a little more, sinking further down in the couch, looking very comfortable. "Nah. The vodka just shuts up that part that keeps y' from sayin' what y'think." She eyes him consideringly, now. Almost predatorial. "What's the Jack on the inside say?"

Good question. Fortunately, though, or unfortunately, the Glass Walker is saved by the bell -- the electronic ring of the telephone.

"I'll get it," Salem says readily, leaning forward to pluck the handset from amidst the debris of dinner.

Mel rolls her eyes and lets her head tip back to watch the ceiling, exposing the graceful line of her neck. She wriggles a little, getting more comfortable and mutters, "/Do/ get rid of them quickly, hm? We got more drink to finish off."

Salem smirks. "See what I can do." He answers the phone after it rings again, greeting with a languid-sounding, "Jack here." There's a pause as he listens, his eyebrows rising. "Hm? Of course. What is it?" Though his tone is still casual, there's a hint in it that the person on the other end of the line isn't someone to be gotten rid of quickly. Or at all.

Mel pauses, listening with half an ear, and then grimaces. She takes a breath to sigh, and mutters something inaudible under her breath.

Salem casts a glance Mel's way, lifting an eyebrow, then speaks into the phone again. "I can be. What do you need? Or, hm, would you rather not say over the phone?" He listens again, another long pause; he takes a pull from his bottle and wipes his mouth, hesitating. "Hrm." He examines the bottle -- his third -- and the low level of alcohol within it. "I probably shouldn't be driving tonight."

Mel glares at the ceiling for a second, masters the annoyance, and tips her bottle back, to finish it off. Resting glumly on one elbow, she just watches Salem patiently with those pixie-green eyes.

The rest of the conversation isn't long, and as it goes on it only becomes more and more clear that their evening in has just been interrupted. "The--? Ah. No, no, that's fine. Come on over." Salem cuts a glance toward Mel. "I'll wait outside for you, all right?" He listens, and smiles crookedly. "I think I can manage that. Just about." He clicks off then, and tosses off the last of his drink, and rises to his feet.

Mel sighs faintly, and rises at the same time, smoothing down the wrinkles in her skirt. She starts gathering the bowls and emptied containers.

He has the decency to look apologetic, at least, as he sets the empty bottle down and starts pulling his hair back into a ponytail. "Sorry. Business."

Knowing eyes look over at the man, thoughtfully. "Which sort?" she asks mildly, then shakes her head and clears her throat, getting back to business. "Nevermind. Don't worry 'bout cleaning up. This'll all be gone when y'get back."

Salem nods. His hair's tied back, but loosely; one whole lock of it remains free, falling over the scarred half of his face. "Might be late. You, ah... don't have to wait up, if you don't want to." He heads into his bedroom.

Mel smiles wryly, watching him as she moves into the kitchen and deposits the garbage. "Nah. Probably just go out and get some more stuff for next time. Get hammered tonight. Chuck a blanket on me if I pass out on th'couch, kay?" She laughs drily, and moves to lean against the wall next to his door, folding her arms and waiting for him to step out again.

He's sitting on the neatly-made bed tugging on socks and sneakers. He glances up in the middle of lacing the right and gives the girl a crooked half-smile. "Will do." He looks down again, working the laces into a bow, a knot, and then pushes to his feet, sweeping the big coat off the bed as he does so and shrugging into it.

It's only when he starts to move out, that Mel lifts one hand to reach up and grab his chin - anchoring it in place for her to stand on tip-toe and steal a brief kiss. "Night. Have fun," she commands curtly, folding her arms again, smiling sweetly, and heading for her own room.

Salem stands still for a moment, blinking, startled enough by the action that he didn't even resist it. His eye follows her for a moment, and then he shakes his head, amused and bemused both, and heads out. "Night, Mel," he calls over his shoulder, just before closing and locking the door behind him.

[...]

He returns late, so late that it's getting near the time where it stops being late at night and starts being early in the morning. Still long before sunrise. His keys are loud in the lock, and he comes in still shivering from a bone-deep chill. As he closes the door behind him, his eye falls on the couch, where Mel sprawls out, unconscious.

...By the time he gets back, she's laid out on the couch, partly on her side. She's been out: combat boots are on (one foot hooked around the other), and the skirt's been replaced by the camo pants again, though the scandalously skimpy tank remains, showing off the navel-stud and the beginnings of a tattoo of some sort at her ribs. Unusually, the girl seems somehow /older/ in sleep... The constant smiles and masks are absent, leaving merely... The woman. Not troubled, but not smiling. Her head rests on the backs of knuckles of one hand. The other arm's crossed absently over her waist, hand dangling. A bottle of vodka's missing maybe a quarter of its contents, sitting neatly next to the couch. There's no carnage. No dropped books, or music playing.

Salem stands there looking at her for a moment, slipping his keys back into his pocket. He shows the ravages of a hard night; the collar of his shirt's torn, and he smells more strongly of alcohol and cigarettes. No wounds, though, nor marks on his actual body. But no more of the lazy good mood or the sardonic humor. He stares at her, then crosses the apartment toward her bedroom, fetching the blanket off her bed and draping it, with care, over her sleeping form.

She only stirs a little, grunting faintly and mumbling, "'nks." The woman swallows noisily in the middle of taking a breath and frowning as she pulls the blanket a little tighter. Bunching it up slightly, near her chest.

"Anytime," Salem murmurs. He straightens up, studies her for another moment, then shakes his head, heading for his bedroom and his bed. There are still a few hours before he has to get up for work. He might even be able to spend them asleep. Stranger things have happened.