It is currently 21:18 Pacific Time on
Sat Jan 18 2003.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is a
cloudy day. The temperature is 36 degrees Fahrenheit (2 degrees
Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is
30.19 and steady, and the relative humidity is 96 percent. The dewpoint
is 35 degrees Fahrenheit (1 degrees Celsius.)
Currently the moon is in the waning
Full Moon phase (94% 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.
Rat-a-tat-tat, goes the knock on the door. There might be a touch of
hesitation noted in it between the knocks, however.
Quentin
A shock of electric blue hair spills
down just over this teenager's brow, whispering at the nape of his neck
as well; slightly long both in front and in back, a razor's work having
shaved the sides just above and behind his ears into a buzz-cut haze of
cerulean. The features of the night-pale face shadowed by that hair are
slightly angular in their lines, high cheekbones leading down to a
sharp chin matched by the straight line of his nose, the eyes to either
side of it a startlingly bright shade of green that gleams almost
emerald in the right light. He's a rather slender young man, in height
just a few inches shy of a full six feet, although a touch of leanness
to his limbs hints at the recent development of muscle to strengthen
his frame.
He's dressed in a rather casual
fashion, with a few flares of individuality to make him stand out. A
hooded jacket of waterproof nylon taffeta falls over his upper body,
midnight black in sheen with streaks of deepest blue to add a bit of
colour to the garment, its large velcro-closed pockets bulging slightly
with a variety of hidden contents. Beneath that can be seen, when the
jacket's open or off, of a less glossy black -- a sweatshirt of a warm
cotton weave worn slightly loose against his slender frame, but
comfortable. His hands are gloved, black leather and polyester mesh
offering more of a stylish commentary than actually protecting the
fingers within from the elements. A pair of black jeans cover his legs,
the tough denim fabric scraped to a paler white at his knees and a few
spots near the cuffs where they brush over the edge of hi-top sneakers
crusted with mud and dirt from walking outdoors.
Salem answers the door. The living room behind him is dimly lit; he's
got a light on in the hallway between the two bedrooms and that's it.
Chopin's playing on the stereo, soft and soothing; the TV is off. No
signs of the redheaded roommate. The Philodox eyes the cub for a
moment, then nods and steps back to let him in. "Evening. What can I do
for you?"
Quentin, standing on the other side of the door, takes a half-step back
as he hears the lock turning. Just in case. As the door's opened and
Salem's revealed, he flashes a quiet, almost rueful smile. "Hey, uh,
Mr. Salem." A step past, a glance deeper into the apartment in an
undisguised attempt to spot the redhead, "I'm not disturbing or
anything, am I?"
Salem's eyes narrow slightly. He shakes his head. "Just taking it easy
tonight. Getting some rest. Come on in."
Quentin passes over the threshold to walk along inside, glancing around
the main living room and observing casually, "Nice place you moved
into.. I like it. More.. homey than the other one."
"Mm. Bigger, too." Salem closes the door behind Quentin and paces back
toward the couch, bare feet neatly avoiding a cockroach scurrying over
toward the kitchen. "Can I get you anything?" His voice is mild, his
manner calm, albeit deliberately so.
"No, uh.. I'm cool." Quentin casts a glance over, one brow raising as
he pauses mid-room to look towards his elder for a moment. After that
moment, he inquires in softer, slightly wary tones, "Is it safe to, you
know, talk?"
Salem considers the young Galliard for a long moment, his expression
unreadable. Then he nods and takes a seat at one end of the couch,
stretching his legs out, feet under the coffee table. He folds his arms
across his chest. "It is, currently, yes. What's on your mind?"
Quentin's lips tug upwards just a bit at one corner, turning to face
the couch across the coffee table before offering in explaination,
"Well, uh, I came here the other day and there was some chick here.."
Salem lifts an eyebrow. His head cocks slightly, his expression still
impassive. "Red hair, eighteen to twenty years old, rather irreverent?"
The faintest of blushes traces across Quentin's cheekbones, as he nods
once before adding absently, "Nice ass, too."
"I haven't noticed," the older Walker says, completely deadpan. He
shifts his weight, leaning forward to pick up a glass that's sitting,
along with a few books and the TV remote, on the coffee table. There's
a finger-width of clear liquid inside, along with a couple of
half-melted ice cubes. He drains the drink and sits back again,
swirling the glass around idly. "That was Mel."
A rather dubious glance is cast towards the Philodox, along with a hint
of 'oh' in his gaze that means perhaps he's come to some conclusion.
Probably deeply incorrect. "Yeah, well.. I figured that much out,"
Quentin observes, stepping over before easing down in a jumble of limbs
to sit on the floor across the coffee table, legs crossing, "She
family?"
Salem hesitates for the barest fraction of a second, regarding the cub
with flat eyes. The ice clinks softly in his glass as he toys with it.
"Not that I'm aware of. She was an associate of Smith's."
Quentin's brows draw together slightly. Another pause, as he tries to
figure out how to phrase this question in a way that won't get him hit.
"So.. ah.. why's she living here? I mean, if she's not family.. isn't
that, you know, pretty fucking dangerous?"
That flat, steady gaze remains on the Galliard. "As I said, she was an
associate of Smith's." His voice drops a few degrees in temperature. "I
have, too, my suspicions about her. I'm merely keeping her close, where
I can keep an eye on her."
"...alright." Quentin's head tips slightly, accepting that spurious
logic with a simple nod before allowing, "I'll, ah, keep clear then. I
don't want her to get suspicious or anything."
"Excellent idea," says the Elder. "Needless to say, the girl is under
my protection. I'd be extremely irritated if any harm were to come to
her." He smiles then, tight and humorlessly, and gets to his feet. "Not
that I expect you'd do anything like that. So." He starts for the
kitchen with his glass, stalking predatorially past the cub. "How goes
your task?"
"I talked to Rina.." Quentin's fingers splay over the floor before he
uses the leverage to push himself up to his feet slowly, head tossed
back to scatter blue strands of hair from his face as he says that,
sounding a touch.. sad about it, actually, "She's going to be in touch.
Apparently they were working on his memoirs."
Salem pauses, glancing back. "His memoirs. Interesting." The halfmoon's
tone is bland. "Does she plan to share them, or didn't she tell you?"
He dumps the ice cubes out into the sink and rinces the glass out,
running a bit of soap through it.
Quentin's head tips just a little to that, fingers brushing upwards in
a nervous habit to groom that dyed hair as he talks. "Yeah. She's going
to.. well.. summarize, basically, with the important parts and all," he
says quietly, "I'll still need to talk to everyone else, of course."
Salem sets the glass, upside-down, in the drainer and pads back out of
the kitchen, his arms folded as he leans against the wall. "Mm. Yes, of
course."
There is a slight knocking on the door from outside.
"I was going to ask you for your take on things, but.." Quentin trails
off, continuing only after that knock jars him to glance over and
finish dryly, "..all things considered, might not be the best place.
Especially since she knew him."
Salem blinks a bit at the knock, then shakes his head slightly and goes
to answer it. "Perhaps when the moon's a little smaller, too." He
squints through the peephole, then opens the door.
Alicia strides inside, grinning wryly. "Hey boss, sup' Squirt?" She
says to the pair, rolling her shoulders back a bit.
Quentin's lips purse slightly, as though he hadn't thought of that,
before bobbing his head in agreement. A glance over then, and a smirk,
"Hey 'leesh. N'much, you?"
Salem drags a hand back through his hair and smiles thinly at the
Gaian. "Evening." He steps aside, waves Alicia in. "Come on in. No
trouble finding the place, I see." The halfmoon's tone is desert-dry,
completely deadpan.
Alicia shakes her head. "Not at all. So why the change?" She asks,
wiggling her fingers to Quentin. "Not much here, just checking out the
new place while on patrol."
Alicia
Here we have Alicia Jackson, a young
woman who looks around the age of 20 or so. When in truth, she just
turned 17, but that hard look in her eyes could easily be mistaken for
older. Slender in form, her body is composed of lean, compacted muscle.
She looks quick, but not very strong. Her eyes are a dark brown,
curious and wandering, lit up playfully most of the time. She stands of
average height, perhaps about 5'6 or so, carrying herself well when she
moves. Her flesh is lightly tanned, kissed by the sun from the many
years of running with the gangs on the street. Four ear rings adorn her
left ear, two more upon the right, composed of small, goldeny hoops.
The Galliard's hair falls down just past her shoulders. Once brown and
red streaked to those who's seen her before. Now, pale blonde with
slightly darkened roots.
Her clothing consists of a pair of
baggy, over sized camouflage pants. Black, green, and brown patterns
splashed along the fabric. A tight fitting sports bra hug her upper
frame, revealing the curves of her upper body, flat stomach and lean
arms. She wears a golden hoop in her navel. Knee high boots travel up
her legs, firmly laced in each hole. Finishing off, she has a worn,
dusty old black trench coat which hangs just below her knees. Her
tongue ring is almost always seen, clicking in thought, or when she
speaks with that ghetto accent of hers.
Salem closes the door behind Alicia and leans against the wall next to
it, hands slipping into the pockets of his sweatpants. "Needed
something bigger," he answers her, his gaze cutting briefly over to
Quentin before moving back to the Gaian.
At the glance, Quentin just quirks both eyebrows upwards in an innocent
gesture. Hey, he didn't say anything. "That's cool.. I'm going to need
to borrow a few hours from you sometime," he offers over, edging the
subject in a different direction, "When you've got a chance."
"From me?" Alicia asks, blinking faintly at Quentin.
"About John," Salem says, evenly. "For his final exam."
"Yeah," Quentin affirms, nodding back towards Salem.
Alicia rubs the back of her neck. "Alright. Whatcha need from me?"
The phone rings, abrupt in the quiet apartment.
Salem glances over at the clock, grunts, and pushes off from the wall,
crossing over to the counter that separates the kitchen from the rest
of the living room, where the phone sits. He picks it up just as it's
starting to ring a second time. "Jack here."
Quentin steps along over towards Alicia as Salem moves to answer the
phone, replying quietly, "Well.. basically, I need to know everything
John's done. Figured since you were the galliard in his pack, I should
ask you for what you know."
Alicia nods her head to him. "Alright." She says softly. "You ok in
waiting till' after the Moot?"
Rina's voice is hoarse, unsteady. "Hey," she says quietly. "What's up?"
Salem glances over toward the two Galliards as he answers. "Very
little. Quentin and Alicia are over." He paces a few steps away, closer
toward the bedrooms. "You all right?"
"Yeah, that'd be fine," Quentin allows, offering a faint smile over and
a raise of one shoulder, "No hurry, or anythin'."
Alicia lightly pokes Q in the stomach. "I just wanna get that outta the
way. I'm calling the litany with Susan, and I just need to focus my
mind on that, and do some thinking about John's accomplishments."
Swallowing, Rina speaks a little more softly. The sounds of the city
surround her--a distant siren, a passing truck. "I guess. I-- just.
Um." A quiet, barely audible sniffle, and she murmurs, "I was gonna
drop by, but if you got company it's no big."
Quentin's lips tug a bit at one corner at the poke, and he shakes his
head, "Nah, I mean it-- no hurry. Fuck knows I've got enough other
people I need to talk to, just wanted to let you know to reserve some
time, sometime in the future."
Alicia smiles and nods her head. "You'll get my time, scouts promise."
Salem gives Alicia and Quentin another glance, brief, as he speaks into
the phone. "I have company, but you can still drop by. Just family,
after all." He rubs at the side of his neck with his free hand. His
voice lowers slightly. "I received the coat, by the way. I... thanks."
There's a small silence--perhaps she is smiling a little. "Y'like? The
cut's not the same, but I tried t'find somethin' I thought would look
good on ya. Sorry it's-- kinda late." She even sounds less depressed
than a moment ago.
One corner of Salem's mouth quirks upward. "It's perfect. And you make
me feel like an utter cad. I didn't get you anything."
Rina's voice softens. "You already gave me plenty," she says.
"Everything y'done, since-- since he died, I--" The catch is still in
her voice. "I owe you."
"We'll call it even." Salem drags his fingers back through his hair.
"Cat okay?"
"Yeah," she says quietly. There's another quiet sniffle. "He's aready
sleepin'."
"You're welcome to come over, ah, if you want to." Salem studies the
ceiling. "Same building, number six-oh-three."
Rina swallows. "I'd rather not, if--" She chews on her lower lip. "If
she's home."
Salem's tone sobers. "She's not. She's out, in fact, and I don't expect
her back until late." He leans back against the wall, shifting the
phone to his other ear. "But if you prefer, I can meet you somewhere."
Quentin, after bidding farewell to Alicia, glances over to raise a brow
slightly over to Salem. A questioning look, his thumb jerking towards
the door in mute offering.
Salem glances over and gives the cub a nod.
Rina swallows. "If-- if it's aright, I guess. I'm ...down south anyway."
"I'll see you 'round, then.." A faint smile, and Quentin turns on his
heel to head towards the door to slip out without another word.
Salem makes a waving type of gesture at the departing cub, then
focusses on the kinswoman on the other end of the phone again. "Near
the wharf?"
Rina sniffles again quietly. A siren passes and fades into the
distance. "Yeah, kinda."
"All right," Salem says, evenly. "Need to get some exercise, anyway.
I'll be there shortly."
"Where-- where should I meet you?"
"Hm." There's a pause while he considers it. "You remember that
warehouse by pier two, where I ran into you that night we bumped into
Owen?"
A breath, and she answers. "Yeah, sure. I'll meetcha there."
"Excellent. See you soon." He clicks off.
A huddle of black sits at the end of the wharf. By the time he passes
the pool of the streetlight, he can see the tremor in her shoulders.
He almost misses her, almost walks right by. Salem pauses, frowning,
and turns back, approaching the huddled figure slowly. "...Rina?" He's
dressed in the new leather coat; the garment's buttoned and belted
closed, the collar turned up. His hands are gloved.
A muffled sob, bitten back hard, is the only answer. She huddles over
the gun in her lap, rocking slightly, shivering.
Salem goes down on one knee next to her, leather-clad fingers touching
the back of her neck. "Shh. Come on, get up," he says quietly. "This
isn't the place."
Rina
Dark-brown eyes, touched with amber,
look out from a pixie-sharp face. Rina's skin is fair, but not quite
pale--a light Mediterranean olive from generations of pure Italian
ancestry. Her black-brown hair is left just long enough in the front to
fall almost into her eyes; the butch cut tapers to an army-short buzz
at the sides and back, hardly more than a velvet fuzz covering the nape
of her neck. Her chin is delicately-boned, her mouth small, the line of
her jaw well-defined. Her eyes have a shadowy, bruised look, either
from fatigue or the artful use of makeup; save for that Gothic touch,
she might have stepped from a pre-Raphaelite painting. She can't be
more than twenty-five or so, but in that youthful face the eyes are
cynical, brooding, world-weary. Athletic grace and a certain streetwise
confidence show in her movements, but there is often an element of
tension as well.
Utilitarian black cloaks the girl's
body: loose black fatigues, lightweight army boots, and a long-sleeved
knit shirt that hugs the muscles of her upper body.
She wears two rings, both a silvery
white gold. Her right hand bears a single diamond framed by two smaller
ones, the decorative work on the ring elegant and subtle, perhaps Art
Deco. On the left she wears a simpler band decorated with letters and
scrollwork.
A shaking hand takes up the Glock--loaded, the slide back. She holds it
out to him, her hand loose beneath the heavy metal. Her eyes are dead,
looking out at the water, shadowy with too much crying and too little
sleep. The streaks on her face have long since dried away, leaving only
a dull shine.
Salem, frowning, takes the weapon from her and unloads it, ejecting the
clip and slipping it into the side pocket of his coat. The Glock goes
in the other pocket. He does this without any expression other than
that faint, quiet frown, and afterward puts a hand under her arm to
help her up. "Come on. Let's walk. You'll catch your death out here."
Rina folds her legs up and then stands, wrapping both arms around
herself and shivering. "I couldn't stay there," she says quietly. "With
Cat. Couldn't hurt Cat."
Salem puts an arm around her, walking her toward the street, if she'll
come. "We don't have to go back right away, if you don't want to.
Andy's should still be open. Coffee, that sort of thing." She can feel
the tension in him, the rage tightly leashed, but his voice remains
calm.
Rina swallows. "It's so dark, sometimes." Her voice is unsteady, hoarse
from crying, and she feels fragile in the curve of his arm. Her
shoulders are taut, and still shiver occasionally. "It gets dark and I
can't-- I know I'm s'posed to keep going, but--"
"I know... I know." He keeps a slow pace. "I'm glad you called me.
Better that than the, mm, alternative."
"I'm sorry," she whispers. She stops suddenly in the moonlit dark; Luna
is high tonight, high enough to touch them despite the surrounding
warehouses. Turning to stand in front of him, she looks
up--grief-stricken face, hopeless eyes. The wildness is awake there, as
she searches his features, meets the gaze of his one good eye. Seeking
something... absolution? "I'm sorry I-- even thought I could--"
The frown tugs at Salem's mouth, the worry in it echoed in the furrow
of his brow. He stops when she does, turning to face her. "You don't
have to apologize." His face smooths out, and he musters up a thin
smile for her. "Some days are more difficult than others."
Rina shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. "I do. I do. I
promised," she says hoarsely. "I won't leave you. You and Jenny and Cat
and Angelina. I can't go. I have to be okay."
"You will be," Salem replies, firmly. "Give it time. It... hasn't been
that long, since he was, ah, taken." There's a peculiar delicacy in how
he phrases that, strange when compared to the growling bluntness of the
animal inside of him.
"I want to make things right," she whispers fiercely. Ducking her head,
she turns away. "It's hard, knowin' what he --wants me to do. Some of
it. I'm scared to fail him." She sniffles, dashing the back of a hand
across her face again. "'Cause he'll know."
Salem doesn't let her go far; he steps closer, puts his arm around her
again. "If you live, you haven't failed him." He tilts his head,
studying her face; he's got her on his good side.
Rina presses her lips together a moment, the pain washing over her in a
dark wave; she only looks after it's gone, those black, wet eyes
slanting over to him with a trace of fear. "More than that. So much
more." Her voice is soft, unsteady; she ducks her head again, hides her
face. "But I don't know if I can do it without him."
His brow furrows, the frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"You're not alone, you know," he says solemnly, after a moment.
"Whatever he needed from you... if it's possible for me to help you
with it, I will."
Rina sniffles quietly. "The tribe," she says hoarsely. "It's-- we gotta
mob up, get organized. Get workin' on some things."
Salem grunts. "That we do. I imagine he had some ideas about that, too."
"Yeah." Almost a whisper, with the reminder of him. She is silent for a
little while, until they reach the lights of the south side.
"We'll talk about it," Salem says, squeezing her shoulder. "Not
tonight, if you don't want to... but soon."
She nods quietly. "You and me, before the tribe moot," she says
quietly. "I got some ideas. Things to bring in the resources, so we can
deal with the goddamn Russians. Make us a presence again. Get some
rackets goin'." Her voice is low, still edged with hoarseness.
Salem nods slowly. "Not something I could do without you, you know," he
remarks, glancing sidelong down at her. No false modesty there; he
speaks it as simple fact.
Rina lets out a brief, sharp sound, too cynical to be called a laugh.
"Yeah." She gives a rueful shake of her head, then. "If there's one
thing I know, it's how t'be a criminal."
Salem snorts. "That, too. But not _just_ that. You're... better with
people, than I am." He shrugs his shoulders, his manner rueful. "Too
much of the Ahroun in me." He pauses a beat. "Not that that's any
excuse..."
Rina glances to him sidelong. "That's what Kin are for," she says
quietly. "It's what we're born to do."
Salem makes an 'mm' noise of agreement, his gaze going upwards, toward
Luna. "I'm curious, Rina," the Garou says, after a moment. "Have you
ever... ah, wished that you'd been born the other way?" He glances down
at her again.
Rina's expression tightens, not really a smile. "You don't know /half/
the times somebody's laid a hand on me," she says softly. "And every
fuckin' time I got into the shit, /every/ time, I cursed the day I was
born Kin." Her expression is bleak as the streets, her gaze focused
dead ahead--and the fury, the cold hate in her eyes, could not possibly
be mistaken.
Salem is silent for maybe half a moment. Then he says, admiringly, "You
would have made a marvelous Ahroun. Or Galliard."
"Thanks," she says quietly. There's a brief silence, before she speaks
again. "But I wouldn't trade knowin' him... knowin' Angelo..." Pain
twists her expression, just slightly. "Not even to take away all the
rest."
Salem nods slightly, his hands slipping into his coat pockets,
shoulders tensing. He's silent for a while, after that, withdrawn and
thoughtful, a crease in his brow.
Rina wears almost the same expression, without the scars that tug his
features into such unattractive, baleful lines. "You don't know me,
Jack," she says quietly. "Maybe y'wouldn't --" She can't come right out
and say it, not just like that. "--care so much, if you did."
Salem's mouth thins as he cuts a glance her way. "I could say the same.
I'm far from an angel."
Rina swallows, and ducks her head. "I never said I was in /love/ with
you," she says roughly.
Rina shrugs a little, edging out of his embrace as she speaks. She
doesn't leave his side, however.
Salem's step falters for a beat. His expression becomes guarded, his
manner tense; his hands are buried deep in the pockets of the long
leather coat. "I never said I was, either."
"No," she says tiredly. "No, you didn't. Din't mean to /insult/ you, or
anything." A hand comes up to her face, to dash away tears and to hide
them. "Let's get some fuckin' coffee."
Salem's face twists -- confusion, consternation, more than a trace of
frustration. He huffs like an irritated wolf and picks up his pace.
"Fine... anything to get out of the cold."
"Yeah," she says quietly, shivering. She pauses to wait for him,
glancing over her shoulder. Her eyes are haunted, not angry; she looks
as if she might cry again, but there is nothing left in her.
Salem doesn't quite meet her eyes; with a gruff noise of agreement, he
falls back into step with her.
"Msorry," she murmurs, with a frustrated gesture of one hand. "That was
fuckin' low of me. I get stupid." One hand rubs at the back of her
head, rumpling the fuzz there.
Salem shakes his head. "It's nothing," he says curtly. "And you didn't
insult me."
Rina looks over to him, and up, her eyes cautious. "Friends?" she asks
softly. The lights of Andy's are not far away.
Salem cocks his head, eyeing her, then nods. "Of course. I'm harder to
get rid of than that." A wry touch has crept into his voice.
Rina ducks her head, lowered her eyes. "I noticed." Then she is heading
up the steps and into the coffee shop. She finds a table where they can
both see the door, and waves down one of the waitresses.
Salem eases back in the chair, making a pretense at being casual as he
tugs off his gloves and unbuttons his coat. His presence gives the
waitress brief pause, and there's a twitching nervousness in her body
language as she approaches the pair.
"Hey, gorgeous." Rina gives her a disarming smile. "Just coffee, for
both of us... right?" She gives Salem a questioning look, and a quiet,
tentative smile.
"Black," Salem adds, busying himself with pretending to study the
little cardboard ad-triptych that's set in the middle of the table.
The waitress nods, stepping back, and gives Rina a wan smile. "Y'want
anythin' in, uh, yours, ma'am?"
Rina shakes her head minutely, and answers with a broader smile. "Nah.
But warm me up a glazed, aright?" Her attention returns quickly to
Salem; she puts an elbow on the table and tips her head to face him.
The waitress jots a note down and glances at Salem, who just shakes his
head slightly. The girl retreats, moving far more briskly than is
normal for this time of night, and the Garou's eyes follow her for a
moment, flat and cold. He shakes it off after a couple of seconds and
brushes back a few loose strands of hair, tucking them behind his ear.
With a soft almost-laugh, Rina shakes her head and reaches out to touch
him--tucking a stray strand of hair back from his face. "Down, boy,"
she murmurs, with a tiny, teasing smile.
Salem shifts his weight, something humorlessly feral flashing out of
his good eye, something that shows teeth. Then his face smooths out; he
takes a breath and manages something vaguely like a smile. "Grr," he
says, utterly deadpan.
Rina strokes his cheek, caught for a moment by temptation. Her thumb
starts to trace his lower lip, and then she pulls her hand away.
"Shhh." She taps a finger to his mouth, then, her smile wavering just a
touch.
Salem holds himself quite still for that, then shifts himself in the
chair again, leaning back and studying the cardboard triptych again.
According to it, selling donuts is a great way to raise funds for
charity or school groups. He seems quite interested in it, saying
nothing.
The arrival of the waitress breaks up the awkward silence before it can
really begin; her eyes flick from Rina to Salem and back again as she
sets down two coffees and, for the kinswoman, a hot glazed donut.
"Lemme know if y'need anythin' else," she says.
Rina nods, and glances to the woman briefly. "Just drop the check
whenever," she murmurs. "We're good." Her eyes return to Salem, and she
murmurs, "You aright?"
"Fine," Salem answers gruffly, as the waitress heads back to continue
chatting with the older woman working the register. He sets the
triptych aside and looks up, meeting her eyes with a faint, guarded
smile. "Fine."
The small expression is the rough equivalent of a grin, and it brings a
wide answering smile from her--genuine, despite the dark circles under
her eyes and the last remaining traces of tears. "Least somethin' is,
around here," she says lightly.
"You sell yourself too short," Salem replies. His voice is just as
light as hers, though his eyes are not. He pulls back the little tab on
the cover of his coffee and raises the styrofoam cup slightly, offering
a toast. "To the future?" He raises his eyebrows.
Rina toasts him, swirling her own cup a little to cool it. "Il futuro,"
she echoes softly, smiling as she drinks.