Date: 19 Jan 2003, Sunday afternoon.

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.

She wears a short black acetate dress, with the lace of an antique slip peeking out from beneath its low neckline and hem. Greyish fishnet over black tights descend into heavy black infantry boots. A vintage blue-grey cardigan sweater with shell buttons up the front tops the little dress--unbuttoned at the top to show the edge of black lace under it. A black velvet choker holds a pale-blue cameo at the hollow of her throat.

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.

Around eleven-thirty she knocks on the door, quiet and nervous.

Salem answers the door, and judging by the quiet dimness of the apartment behind him, his roommate isn't at home. The stereo and television are silent, and the light comes indirectly, from the short hallway between the two bedrooms. The halfmoon's dressed down in sweatpants and t-shirt, his long hair still somewhat damp, his feet bare. He looks mildly surprised to see Rina there, but not unpleased. Definitely not unpleased. "Rina?"

Rina swallows, and manages a faint half-smile. "Hey," she says quietly.

Salem's eyebrows lift slightly. There's an edge of stress around his eyes, like he's been lacking somewhat on the sleep recently, but otherwise he seems at ease -- well, as much at ease as he can be, on a full moon. "This is a surprise. Would you, ah, like to come in?" He takes a step back, invitingly.

Rina chews on her lower lip. "Your, ah..." She rubs at the back of her neck, and glances down. "Is she here?"

Salem shakes his head. "She's at work. It's quite safe." There's a not of irony in his voice there, understated. He opens the door a little more widlely. "Come in. Please."

Rina flushes slightly at the implication, and then she ducks her head and steps in. "I... I'm sorry if I woke you up," she murmurs.

"You didn't," he says, and indeed there's a glass sitting on the coffee table, a couple finger-widths of clear liquid accompanied by two ice cubes. Salem closes the door behind her and turns the latch. "Have a seat. Would you, ah, like something to drink?"

Rina pauses to eye the glass warily. "Please tell me that's water?"

Salem's mouth thins with a flicker of irritation. "It isn't. But I'm not planning to drink enough of it to be a problem, either." He shrugs, his manner gone prickly.

Rina turns, looking to his good eye with worry in her own. "I thought..." She gives a tiny shake of her head, awkward all of a sudden. The dark eyes do not look away, though there is a helplessness in them she does not usually show. "What's going on?" she asks, quietly.

Salem drops back onto the couch, taking up the glass and settling back. "Nothing," he answers shortly. Then, meeting her eyes, he says it again, with emphasis. "_Nothing_." He stretches his legs out, feet crossed at the ankles underneath the coffee table. "I'm trying to relax."

Rina looks away quickly, wrapping both arms around herself. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I just thought-- I mean you always--" Wincing, she turns and paces back toward the door. "Never mind," she says quietly. "I didn't mean to bother you, aright?"

Salem sits up, setting the glass down again, getting to his feet again even as she turns to go. "No, wait."

"What can I do that's /right/?" Her voice betrays her, hoarse and unsteady and close to tears. She stands still, fists clenched at her sides, her head bowed against the door. "Just tell me what to do, okay? Tell me how and I'll try and make it better."

Salem's brow furrows; he stares at the back of her head with a frown, then shakes his head as though trying to shake off something buzzing around it. "Rina, you're fine. It's not you. I'm very... tense, right now, that's all." He takes a deep breath, attempting calm. "Please don't leave."

Rina swallows. "The moon. I'm sorry." She takes a few breaths as well, and puts out one hand to touch the door. "I-- I just thought you didn't touch it, f'some reason. And after last week, I should've figured out I was wrong."

Salem's tongue pokes out, briefly touching his upper lip. He glances back at the glass, then drags fingers through his hair. "Hm. Yes. Well. Everything in moderation, right?" He's attempting to lighten his tone, with only partial success. "Anyway, it was available."

You paged Rina with 'Trace of guilt there.'.

Her expression twists, the sudden anger invisible to him; it is only with a clenching effort that she bites back words that would kindle fury. "It's your life, Jack," she says, with more than a touch of bitterness and tension in the words. "I'm not the boss of you, now am I? Can't very well tell you what to do, like /he/ could. Not when you can break my fucking neck with one hand."

Rina pages: When she talks, it's quiet, that is. She bites back on something sharp and nasty, and tries to talk calmly.

Salem's nostrils flare. Very carefully, he takes a step back, away from her, his jaw clenching. His fingers twitch, his hands wanting to close into fists. "I wouldn't," he says at last. Quiet. "I'd cut my own throat first." He's got the rage leashed, though its testing its bonds; the edge in his voice is something blacker.

"We both know what it means, bein' what you are." Her voice is hoarse, graceless now with the threat of tears. "Sometimes it doesn't matter what you want. Accidents happen. I don't /dare/ push you the way John could. So maybe--" She swallows. "Maybe that means you're in charge of things. If that's the way it has to be--"

"Shit." Salem folds his arms across his chest, staring bleakly at the _Starry Night_ print over the couch. "I'm sorry, Rina. Maybe you _should_ go."

Rina rakes both hands into her hair, at her temples. There is no answer--only a dull thud as she slides to the floor, shoulders shaking. Pressing the heels of both hands to her eyes doesn't keep the tears from coming. She does all she can, though, to remain silent.

He takes a step toward her, stops, and then just stands there, like he doesn't trust himself to move closer. "What do you want me to do?" he asks her, keeping his voice calm, with effort. "Tell me what you want me to do."

The heels of her hands press into her temples. Her eyes flicker open, fierce and staring, focused on nothing; she takes several deep breaths, forcing the storm away. By the time she drops her hands and very deliberately straightens her skirt, she has herself firmly under control--though she has to swallow, and clear her throat slightly, before she can speak. "It's aright. I'm sorry. I just thought-- I thought it was because--" A faint sniffle brings a flicker of anger to her face, her expression twisting slightly. "Because you'd been an addict. I don't mean any insult. I thought-- we were s'posed to keep you away from it. Slippery slope, and all that."

Salem shakes his head roughly, his back and shoulders tense. "Heroin's my... particular demon. Not... the other." He shifts his weight subtly, onto the balls of his bare feet, restless. "I admit that the temptation is... great, sometimes, but... I don't have a problem." His lips thin. "That was John's assumption."

Rina sniffles again, wrenching the back of a hand across her eyes. "Jesus Christ," she mutters, "is everyone in this fuckin' town a junkie but me?" The voice is too shaky to be entirely light--an effort at humor, tinged with desperation. She is trying to make things normal again.

Salem's jaw tightens, but he makes a try at humor as well, reaching for that wry, deadpan tone. "I'm sure there are one or two that aren't. I think Ebony's clean for one." He doesn't quite manage it. More solemnly, he adds, "I haven't touched it since Malone caught me."

She rubs at her forehead with one hand, screening her eyes. "I'm sorry," she murmurs tiredly. "Maybe it's just 'cause you remind me sometimes of Angelo, f'some reason. Idunno. Maybe it's cause I--" Interrupting herself with a swallow, she shakes her head and says, only, "Can I come sit on the furniture now?" Meekly, almost, like a guest who's spilled wine on the carpet.

Salem, still standing, nods and makes a welcoming gesture toward the couch. "Please." He seems terribly subdued, for a potential killing machine with a hair-trigger temper.

Rina hauls herself to her feet--steadying herself against the wall for a moment, closing her eyes--and then looks over to him. "You ever get this feelin' all you do is apologize?" With a rueful, pained not-quite-smile, she ducks her head and paces toward the couch, dropping into it and leaning both elbows on her knees.

Salem rubs the back of his neck, his brow furrowing in concern. "Yes, actually." His hand drops away and, like the other, vanishes into his pockets. "You, ah, look nice today," he remarks, somewhat awkwardly. "By the way."

"Took Cat to Mass," she says quietly, closing her eyes again. A few deep breaths, and she adds, "He wanted to stick around... I'm gonna pick him up later this afternoon."

Salem frowns subtly, then shakes his head, the narrow look faded. "He's trying to combine his past beliefs with... hmnh. Well, I wish him luck." The halfmoon doesn't sound particularly optimistic. He considers her for a moment and the space on the couch next to her. Calculating. "Can I get you anything?"

Rina gives a tiny shake of her head, without looking up. "I'm not sure it has to be about belief," she murmurs. "I think he just wants... something normal. It used to be one of the good things, and maybe he-- wants it back."

He grunts. "I can... understand that, I suppose. Something normal." He leans against the wall near the bookshelf, a pensive eye wandering over toward the Van Gogh print over the couch again. "This fucking war. This fucking, _fucking_ war."

Rina lifts her head, and looks across to him; her expression lies somewhere between pain and sympathy and a stranmge attempt to reassure. "You've seen worse. We'll all see worse, soon."

"He wanted a normal life, you know," Salem replies, as though he hadn't heard her at all. His gaze is still on _Starry Night_. "House, lawn, white picket fence, two-car garage, two and a half children, Little League, the works. Ozzie and Harriet. Maybe he even believed it could happen, I don't know. You would, I suppose."

Rina pages: Hm. Does the couch face toward or away from the door? i.e., what o'clock is he at, on Rina-radar?

Long distance to Rina: Salem thinks. Door at 12 -- on the same wall as the entertainment center. Couch/coffee table at 6. Bookshelf at 3. Kitchen area's on the 9 o'clock side, and past it is the bit leading to the bathroom/bedrooms. Roughly speaking.

From afar, Rina nods. From where Rina is, sitting on the couch?

You paged Rina with 'He'd be on her right. Which puts her more or less on his left. Blind side. Though he's looking at the print over the couch, so his face isn't in profile.'.

She gives a tiny shake of her head in answer. "I don't know. I... haven't been able to get him to talk, a lot, about--" Her voice is soft, touched with hoarseness. "It's hard for him. And I know how bad it gets, with that kinda hurt. I-- I don't wanna push too much, y'know?" Both of her hands knot together under her chin, twisting. She doesn't lean on them, but keeps her head up to look at him with those dark, hollow eyes.

"I wasn't speaking about Cat," Salem says quietly.

Rina swallows, and blinks several times to clear the blur from her vision. "Yeah," she says quietly. "I guess you weren't." Her voice is a shade more fragile.

He looks at her then, and with some effort swallows some of his own bleakness and moves over toward the couch, perching on the edge next to her, elbows resting on his knees and his hands laced together.

She doesn't look at him; her eyes are focused on empty space, ahead and down. Still trying to blink back tears, and not really succeeding. "It's never like that, with us," she says softly. "There's no time for Ozzy and fucking Harriet, there's no time for--" A drop breaks free, to trace a line down one cheek; she doesn't seem to notice. "I grew up knowin' that. Expecting to lose people, 'cause I went to funerals all the fucking *time*." She presses her tangled hands to her mouth, her teeth, bowing her head a little; her eyes still look out into a dark distance, shimmering now.

"Yes," Salem agrees, but there's a note of regret in his voice, regret and a dose of anger. He sits up, takes up the glass of vodka on the rocks, and swallows it in a gulp, grimacing. "Sorry," he says, then, his voice harsher now. "Didn't mean to drag you down."

"You didn't." Her voice is small, fragile. "You didn't. I think about it all the time. I just... put it away, to try to-- keep goin', y'know?" Her hands lower a bit, knotting around each other, slow and tense and hard. She glances to him--a quick, furtive look that lasts only an instant--and then looks down again. "You make it easier," she says, fast and uneven. "The living part. I lean on you too hard, I /know/ I lean on you too hard, I try to stop but I'm s-- I can't stop..."

Salem sets down the glass and rests a hand on the bare skin of the back of her neck, his touch light and cool from its recent contact with the condensation on the glass. "It's all right. I'd bring him back, if I could do it. If only to make you happy again."

There is a wire-taut feeling under the skin, a tension tuned so high she almost shivers. He knows that feeling, that clenching grip on self-control. "I'm-- not really alive anymore," she says hoarsely. "Not really. Like-- wherever he is, wherever y'spirits go when you die... the part of me that was happy, that wanted to live again, it's there and I can't get it back..."

His touch gains weight while she speaks, fingers moving upward through the short dark hair, against the grain, and then down again, leaving it. "Walker homeland. Somewhere in the Umbra. Buildings taller than you can imagine. Gleaming and alive. It's a perfect city... it's beautiful." He leans forward, lacing his hands together. "That's where he likely is, now."

Rina wraps both arms around herself. "If there was a way to go, to be with him," she says hoarsely, "I-- don't know what I'd do. If I'd stay, and do what I have to, or--" She presses her lips together, hard, and her expression twists into anguish. "There wasn't enough /time/!"

His shoulders tighten in sympathy, his hands closing in on themselves like grappling spiders. "No, no there-- no, there wasn't." He lowers his head slightly, but keeps his gaze on her, his good eye somber and black at its depths. The blind one remains impassive, pale and heartless as arctic snow. "Never is."

She presses her lips together again, hard, trying to hold back the flood tide. "I wanted him to do it," she says roughly. "Wanted him to challenge, to lead. I knew he could be so much-- more, I saw it inside him waiting--"

Salem moves closer to her and lays a hand on her back, palm flat. "It wasn't your fault. We _all_ wanted him to challenge. To stop calling himself an acting Elder and claim... what he _was_. He was beyond ready."

Rina nods, the movement almost steady though he can feel the tremor beneath his hand. "At least this time-- at least he didn't die for me. Not because of--of somethin' that happened to me." She swallows, and whispers, "It wasn't my fault." Trying the idea on for size, even when it makes her throat constrict and sends news lines of tears down her cheeks.

"Blame the Wyrm," Salem says quietly. "Blame the damned Spirals and their damned idiot ancestors, the White Howlers. Blame the Get who led him into an ambush that killed them both. But don't blame yourself. It wasn't your fault."

She sobs once, hard, a hand going to her mouth as if to press the grief back inside. There's a soft, choked sound as she struggles with it; the thin shoulders shake again. Through her clothes he can feel bone, not muscle--as if, despite Cat's efforts, she is still getting thinner.

He swallows, hard, and pulls her close to him. Tense with the full moon battle between instinct and mind, rage and will. "It's not your fault," he says again -- third time, now. "It's not."

The body curling up against him feels like an armful of, ironically, heroin addict--the lean muscle partly stripped away, as if she has been scoured to reveal the fragile bones beneath. Rina sobs against his chest, not quite doubled over in her grief, both arms wrapped tightly around her own body to hold it together in the storm. The way it shakes her is almost unsettling: she shakes like prey in the jaws of a hunting tiger, and the lines of her body clench so hard it seems those delicate bones will break under the strain.

Salem lowers his head, resting his scarred cheek against the top of her head as he holds her close to him, protective and comforting, almost paternal. As always, he's the rock within her storm, acting as shelter. He murmurs something -- the words don't matter, really -- and waits.

She cries herself out. By the time she quiets, there's a place on his shirt liberally soaked with her tears. When she can speak again, she whispers a mantra of contrition: "I'm sorry-- I'm sorry," over and over again, as her breathing settles into a steadier rhythm and the tears ease a little.

Salem replies with a quiet murmur of, "It's all right. It's all right." He straightens up, pulling away enough so that he can look into her face. His own is solemn, his gaze intent and concerned.

Rina's eyes remain lowered, as she tries to even out the ragged breathing. Given how long the sobbing lasted, she has to be wrung dry--but her gaze remains bleak. "It's-- it's not right, you-- I shouldn't-- be using you like--" She can barely speak, her voice hoarse and unsteady. Both arms tighten visibly, hands clenching into her sweater.

"Use me," he says, and there's no irony in his tone, no wry humor; he's quite solemn, quite serious. "Whenever you need to. I couldn't do any less. Not for you, not for _him_." He cups her cheek in his hand, wiping away some of the wetness there.

The dark eyes flicker upward to his, still shining with wetness. "It's not right," she says hoarsely. "Any of it. Not right that he's -- gone, not right that you-- care--"

Salem hesitates, his brow furrowing. His hand falls away. He studies her a moment, and then exhales a sharp breath. "There are a lot of things that aren't right with the world, Rina." He sounds resigned.

Rina ducks her head, nodding minutely. Her hands let go of her arms, and find his own. "Whatever you need," she says quietly, "you ask. Promise me." The dark eyes look up again, serious despite the sheen of tears.

He meets her eyes steadily and nods. "I promise. On my Honor."

She answers the nod with one of her own, and then lays her head against his shoulder, sliding an arm around him in a quiet embrace.

He returns it, carefully, and after a long, long moment, he says quietly, "You'd better wash your face before you go to get Cat.

Rina nods minutely, but shows no sign of moving. "In a minute," she whispers.

Salem tilts his head slightly, then leans back, settling himself on the couch. "As long as you need."

A silence passes, and she shifts once to be more comfortable, nestling her head into the crook of his shoulder, letting her arm drape across his waist. After a long time, she asks, "Is she gonna come back? I don't want--" Her voice is uncertain, hesitant.

Salem glances at the clock. "Not for a while, I don't think." He grunts. "Even if she was, though... you don't _have_ to leave." He inserts a wry touch into his voice. "It's _my_ name on the lease, after all."

Rina sniffles quietly, and closes her eyes for a moment. "It'd just-- It's gonna be weird, when-- I see her again. I don't know what'll happen."

"As long as you two don't kill each other..." Salem's voice still has that note of wry humor, but there's something serious underneath it, and it's in his next words. "If it helps... I don't think he slept with her."

Rina shivers, and then lets out a breath. She doesn't say anything for a while--just stays there, taking comfort from the closeness of a friend.

Salem says again, barely above a whisper, "If it helps." Then he, too, falls silent, resting, his breathing slow and even.

After a long, long time--more than half an hour passes in silence--Rina finally stirs, drawing herself away and looking over to him. "Thanks," she says, the word coming as a whisper. There isn't anything else to say; she stands, and there is an unsteady moment, her eyes unfocused.

Salem frowns, getting up. "Rina..." He steps toward her, a hand going to her arm to steady her. "You all right?"

Rina nods quickly, taking a deep breath. "Yeah." She doesn't shake him off, however. "Yeah. I'm good." Another breath, and she looks up to offer him a fragile smile. "I'm... I'm just gonna go, aright?" She wets her lips nervously, and adds, "Call, if you want to come over f'dinner."

Salem continues to look... worried. "I will. Later this week, perhaps, when the moon's gone away from full. You, me, and Cat, yes?"

Rina nods. "Yeah. Maybe... I dunno. Wednesday, if you want." Her smile turns toward wryness. "I'll pencil you into my busy schedule." Then she starts for the door, rubbing her sleeves to smooth them out.

Salem absently combs his fingers through his hair as he walks her to the door. "I'll give you a call after the Moot, too. Soon as I can."

Rina nods quickly, glancing over her shoulder. "Yeah, let me know how it goes. And have someone call me, if you ... can't." She slips out before the words can sink in, or tries to at least.

Salem catches the door before it can close behind her. "Rina, I..." He stops then, grim. It's a promise he can't make. Instead he just says, "I'll have someone call you."

She doesn't quite look back to him, over her shoulder; just turns her head, enough to make the small nod visible. "Thanks." Then she is walking away swiftly, down the hall.

Salem watches her go; he doesn't retreat back into the apartment until she's down the stairs and out of sight.