It is currently noonish Pacific Time on Wed Jan 28 2004.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (45% full).
Cockroach Mansion

The familiar smells of Italian cooking are perhaps unexpected, given Rina's
      level of function a mere two days ago--but there it is, the aroma of 
      garlic and basil wafting in through the office door.

Salem, absorbed in his laptop, doesn't register the scent right away. A small,
      bemused smile comes to his face when he does, and soon after he closes 
      things down and slips out toward the kitchens on silently bare feet.

She is stirring a big pot of marinara--the rim of the huge stockpot is about
      level with her nose, making her look like a troublemaking child as she 
      carefully spoons out a little of the sauce and blows on it. The 
      difference is intangible but almost incredible, her eyes alive, her 
      spirit so evident that she practically floats. There's quiet baroque 
      music playing, light, cheerful stuff.

Salem cocks his head to one side, considering her for a moment, then clears his
      throat. When she turns around, he's leaning against the doorframe with 
      arms folded across his chest, his expression quietly pleased but 
      quizzical. And he's looking rather scruffy today in the dark green 
      t-shirt and black sweats, and with his face covered with a day's black 
      stubble.

A slightly wary look crosses her expression, but then she smiles slightly, and
      tips her head in a familiar way... a sort of non-verbal questioning. "Y' 
      know," she offers, her voice still rough around the edges, "if you keep 
      failing to get dressed, y'gonna give us a bad name. I oughta start 
      callin' this the Frat House, the way you guys shlep around in your 
      sweats."

Salem gives her a pained look, then straightens up from his lean. "Should I go
      get changed, _mother_?" he retorts, still high-pitched and grating. But 
      the good news is that he's smirking at her -- wounded, but not gravely 
      insulted.

Rina lifts a shoulder, eyes dancing as she affects not-very-convincing
      indifference. "You wanna look like a povere' in your own house, that's 
      just fine. I'll just bring you a bowl of Alpo in the office."

Salem wrinkles his nose. "You could at _least_ offer raw meat..." Light-footed,
      he prowls over toward the chef and her pot and peers into the latter. 
      "Hmm."

"There's veal parmigian' in the oven," she murmurs. "I just needed to make
      another batch of gravy, we're almost out."

Salem's eye shifts from pot back to chef, studying her. "Need any help?"

Despite his rumpled appearance, he's not that soon out of bed; he might not
      have shaved, but he did, at least, shower. The man does have standards.

She lifts her shoulder again, and tastes the marinara gingerly, frowning. "Mmm.
      Get me s'more good basil outta the fridge. And a couple plates, so we can 
      warm them up."

Salem nods and pads off to do as instructed. He fetches the basil first,
      setting it on the counter near the stove, within easy reach, and then 
      gets a pair of plates from the counter above the sink.

She shreds the basil leaves by hand, just tearing them in half and tossing them
      in the pot. "Plates. Oven." Her head is bowed, half-shadowing a 
      distracted, blissful smile.

"Yes'm," squeaks the big bad (were)wolf and opens the oven to set the plates
      inside. That done, he eyes her again, giving her a small, crooked smile.

She bustles around quietly, humming the violin line of the Vivaldi that's
      playing, giving the gravy another stir and turning it down. A brief dance 
      around him to take things from the oven, and then she puts the plates out 
      on the table and pours two glasses of water.

Salem, meanwhile, leans against the counter and watches her, hands in pockets,
      and finally, _finally_, gives in to ask, "So, what happened?"

Rina glances over to him, an eyebrow raised. "We ran out of gravy, and I had to
      make some more?" she essays. A hand waves peremptorily at the table. 
      "Sit. Mangiam'."

Salem rolls his eyes. "Not what I meant," he says, with a tone of unspoken,
      'and you know it, too'. He saunters over toward the table, pulls out a 
      chair, and settles gracefully into it.

Rina flushes slightly, her smile turning wistful. She begins carefully cutting
      pieces of veal. "Just... I think the spring is coming," she says 
      obliquely. A bite of veal parmigiana silences her.

One side of his mouth curves upward in a pleased kind of way and starts cutting
      into his share of the meal. "Good," comes the quiet murmur.

Rina's smile wavers a little into seriousness, and she looks across to him,
      with thast happiness hanging by a tenuous thread. "I'm... I'm gonna be 
      okay," she says, very quietly. A flicker of a less certain smile, and she 
      looks down again, returning her attention to the meal and actually 
      seeming to enjoy it.

She can probably feel his gaze on her, watching her eat for a few seconds
      before turning his attention back to his own plate. There's a weight off 
      his shoulders, and he, too, enjoys the well-cooked meal.

Rina swallows a bite or two of the tender, breaded veal and glances across to
      him. "Y'like it okay?"

Salem nods, taking a sip of water. "Delicious." He smiles faintly. "As usual."

The smile kindles again, genuine. "Good. It's more of a dinner thing, but I was
      just feeling ambitious or somethin'. I'll hafta make it sometime for 
      everybody." A touch of wryness comes to her smile. "If we can get 'em all 
      to actually sit down together..."

Salem smirks and nods; as he takes another bite, he mutters something about
      herding cats.

"Mmmhm. How is Cat? I didn't go to Mass... missed seein' him Sunday."

He pokes the veal with his fork for a bit, toying with it cruelly. "Well
      enough. Been practicing with watercolors."

Rina lifts her head to look across to him. "Yeah?" Her smile brightens again.
      "Cool."

Salem returns the smile, though more faintly, and forks at his veal again. "Two
      more weeks of this Jackal thing, by my reckoning," he says after a bite. 
      "Then, I think, it's time we had a family meeting."

Rina nods. "Maybe we'll have some more to go on, get things revved up a bit."
      She stuedies him. "Have you seen Kostya?"

Salem frowns slightly, looking down. "Not since he was Cleansed."

Rina nods minutely. "I'll hafta talk to him. Not sure if he's blown his
      background work with those guys."

"If he has?" the scarred halfmoon asks, glancing up at her again.

Rina lifts a shoulder, glancing down. "I don't know," she murmurs.

Salem's lips thin. Somberly, he nods, then toys with his food again, eventually
      cutting off a bite to actually eat. His mood's pensive for a bit before 
      he attempts to shrug it off. "We'll figure something."

Rina muches down a few more bites, and nods, her mood inclining even toward
      optimism.

"How's Charlie?" She can feel his gaze on her again; the question's asked
      lightly, amiably.

Caught by surprise, she flushes slightly and looks down rather quickly to her
      plate. "A shoulder lifts, hunching awkwardly. "Good," she replies, 
      equally conversational.

Salem cocks his head, favoring his good eye; one brow rises. "It's just, mm.
      You seem today rather..." He clears his throat and looks wry. "Nevermind."

The color in her cheeks deepens, and she digs rather energetically at her veal.
      "I'm fine."

Salem is caught between being amused and being, for her sake, embarrassed. So
      he clears his throat again and, like her, focusses on the veal. "All 
      right."

"I think..." Her voice isn't quite so certain. "I think it'll work out. I just
      don't want to hurt anybody." She doesn't look up from her plate, intent 
      on eating.

"I'm sure you'll be fine," comes the reply, the grating whine as gentle as he
      can make it.

Rina nods quickly, swallowing.

There's silence between them for a bit after that, little more than the clink
      of silverware against china and the music still playing softly in the 
      background.

Rina tips her head, looking across to him. "What about you?" she asks softly.
      "Are you still... seeing the woman we never get to meet?"

Salem goes still for a moment, eyes flicking momentarily up to meet hers.
      Uncomfortable, he soon looks down again and finishes cutting at the 
      tender meat. "Er. Well." He pierces the bite-sized morsel with his fork, 
      but doesn't lift it yet; he glances back up at her, looking guarded and 
      with a bit of chagrin. "Yes. I, ah... have been meaning to talk to you 
      about that."

Her brow furrows a little, concern flickering into place. "Is everything okay?"

Salem nods, a touch of wryness tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Yes. As
      much as it can be."

Rina's frown darkens a little. "What's that mean? Oh, God forbid--she doesn't
      have like cancer, or somethin', I hope?"

Salem shakes his head. "Nothing like that." He fiddles with his veal-loaded
      fork for a bit, his gaze shifting past the kinswoman to the room at 
      large, as if he's expecting eavesdroppers. Watchers. A touch of guilt, of 
      paranoia.

Worry again, and she shakes her head minutely. "We can talk, whenever," she
      says.

Salem looks her way again and smiles wanly, his manner still guarded. "Just
      not... here. Little pitchers."

Rina chews on her lower lip, and nods, watchiong him with big guarded eyes as
      she finishes off her parmigiana.

Salem likewise concentrates on cleaning his plate, though he keeps his own gaze
      lowered.

After a while, Rina scoots back her chair and abandons the table, taking her
      dishes back over to the sink to rinse them. She loads things into the 
      washer without a word, lost in thought.

Salem pushes his plate -- more or less clean -- away and sits back to look
      ruefully over at her. "Sorry."

Rina glances innocently over her shoulder, and offers him a swift smile. "No, I
      just worry about you, y'know?"

"Likewise." He gets up, gathering up his things and bringing them over to the
      washer. "I'm fine. It's just... something I should have told you before 
      now." He eyes her, mouth thinned. "But not something I care to... share."

Rina nods minutely. "It can wait until we're somewhere private, then," she says
      simply. Turning her back to the counter, she leans against it, hands 
      trapped.

Salem closes the washer door firmly, then straightens up. He looks down at her,
      then summons up a faint, slanted smile. "Somewhere private, yes." He rubs 
      the side of his neck.

Her expression is serious again, tempered with a soft smile. "The other
      night... I dunno if I said thanks."

Salem's hand drops; he folds his arms across his chest. "My pleasure," he says,
      smiling faintly back. "I'm glad I could help."

Rina steps across to him, reaching out to tug his arms down--insistent as a
      four-year-old. She promptly embraces him, sliding both arms around his 
      waist and giving him a swift hug.

She's rewarded with reciprocation, his arms encircling her and tightening
      briefly. He breaks it off quickly, as if embarrassed.

Rina tips her head, grinning up at him with something that falls between
      mischief and bemusement. "You're a strange cookie."?

Salem arches an eyebrow at this, some of his composure regained. "Er, thank
      you?"

The insouciant grin widens a bit. "Sure." She spins and heads out of the
      kitchen, toward the parlor where her ibook awaits.