It is currently 22:42 Pacific Time on Fri Jan 30 2004.

Location: Rina's apartment.

Rina answers the door in low-slung jeans and a wifebeater, her skincarving laid
      open like brutal honesty, a testimonial swirling down her left arm and 
      part of her right. She tips her head to gesture him inside, and her dark 
      eyes follow his movements.

It's getting late into the evening, and Jack appears to have had a long day.
      His eye fixes on her arms as he tugs his scarf loose, then shift to her 
      face. The Walker offers up a wan smile and finishes shrugging out of the 
      outerwear. Underneath, good black jeans and a long-sleeved, dark-red 
      shirt.

Rina's shy smile kindles, when she sees what he is wearing. "That color looks
      good on you," she murmurs as she closes the doors.

"Thanks," comes the reply, short but no less sincere for all'a that. Draping
      his coat over the back of the couch, he glances around the studio, and 
      the tension in him isn't entirely the fault of the waxing moon.

The smile fades into worry, a furrowed brow and darkened eyes. "You want some
      coffee?" she asks softly.

Salem rubs the side of his neck. "Decaf, if you have it." He grimaces a bit as
      his voice cracks and mutters, "Less than two weeks to go."

"Yeah..." She heads over to the kitchen, giving him time to settle in. This
      time she has been sketching, at least, rather than cutting--evidence of 
      her work litters the coffee table. "Be a relief when it's finally over."

Salem makes a thin, grating noise of agreement and makes himself comfortable on
      her couch. Long legs stretch out, boots settling underneath the coffee 
      table.

She puts on the coffee with her usual efficiency, and grabs up a wrinkled
      hoodie from the back of the couch. "Didn't notice when it got dark, 
      hardly," she murmurs. "It's cold..." She plops down onto the couch, 
      turned to him with a leg curled up between them. "What's goin' on?" she 
      asks worriedly.

Salem rubs a hand along the side of his jaw, just underneath where the scars
      stop; though his hair's grown out almost enough to look just like it's 
      very short, rather than cruelly buzzed, he's still clean-shaven most of 
      the time. "Joshua, today, mostly," he answers, and then looks at her 
      ruefully. "But I didn't come over to talk about the problem child."

The lines in her forehead deepen. Age is beginning to show, around her eyes,
      the faintest lines coming to the corners. "Okay..."

Salem clears his throat. "I was going to, er, tell you about my... friend." His
      glance is guarded, hesitant. He clarifies. "My lover."

He's never been an open person; even with her, confessionals aren't his
      favorite thing in the world. But apparantly, this is Important.

Rina catches her lower lip between her teeth, her expression gone tender with
      concern. "You don't-- have to say anything, y'know," she murmurs.

Salem shakes his head a bit, looking away. "You deserve to know," he says, a
      stubborn note in his altered voice. "I should have told you long before, 
      but..." He eyes her, one side of his mouth quirking wanly upward. "I 
      didn't want to add to your worries."

She is looking nervous, now, guarded. That look of unrest is achingly familiar.
      "Well, okay, I /know/ it's not that you're gay... is she jailbait or 
      something?"

Salem shakes his head, something in the suddenly wry look that flashes across
      his eyes suggesting that her suggestions would be _so_ much easier. "No, 
      she's..." He looks away, studying his hands, absently massaging the 
      knuckles of the left. "She's Garou." The paranoid caution, the 
      guardedness, is entrenched so deeply that it actually takes an effort of 
      will for him to say the last word.

Rina stares at him for a long moment in shock, frozen and tense. The coffee
      machine rattles away in the kitchen.

Abruptly, she gets up and paces away, obviously trying to get a hold of
      herself. "Jesus," she says, in a low, tight voice. "Jesus fucking Christ, 
      Jack."

Salem rubs a hand over his face, but doesn't look up but briefly, to watch her
      stalk away. Then he falls to studying his hands again, the clean, 
      well-trimmed nails.

There is a long, uncomfortable silence. "So that's why," she finally says
      roughly. "That's why you got mixed up in this Gnawer shit."

Salem sits up and looks her way, terribly solemn. "No," he grates -- every word
      out of him a relentless reminder of him getting involved in that 'Gnawer 
      shit'. "I did it to save a life. Renee was going to abort the fetus."

Rina's hand clench at her sides, pale and small against the darkness around
      her. "Jesus. This will /not/ get out, you understand?" She turns, to fix 
      dark, relentless eyes on him, her face hard and fierce. "You understand 
      me?"

"Do you think I _want_ it to?" he replies, voice rising -- and, perversely,
      cracking on the last word. Stress rachets the tension higher, and there's 
      the barest hint of fear, too -- he knows the consequences. "Especially 
      _now_? Megan will have my _hide_."

Rina's expression remains grim. "She'd have to stand in /line/," she says
      quietly. "We can't be weak. Not now. I am /not/ going to end up goin' to 
      those boondock thugs hat in hand t'ask for their help. So yeah. You 
      better be fuckin' careful."

Salem nods, tight-jawed, and visibly resists the urge to get up and start
      pacing. "There's no chance of offspring," he says quietly, not looking at 
      her now. "And she knows the risks, too."

"Fine. I guess it's /her/ decision, if she wants to lay low. Or whatever it is.
      She live here? In Saint Claire?" She not looking at him anymore, thank 
      God, but pacing out the dimensions of the room.

Salem shakes his head. "No. She's... all over the country, really." His gaze
      goes distant, the set of his shoulders tight. "Met her in Vegas, years 
      ago," he adds, quietly. "Before I came back."

Rina pauses a moment, giving a swift nod. "I see." She goes to the kitchen
      without another word, coming out with two steaming cups.

Salem gives her a pained look, mismatched eyes searching her face. "...This
      isn't something I _planned_..."

The dark gaze remains lowered, veiled. She sits down, offering him a cup.
      Another silence passes, until finally she says, quietly, "Thank you for 
      telling me."

Salem accepts the cup and holds it in his hands, letting the warmth leech into
      his fingers and palms. He swallows once then says, hoarsely, "I apologize 
      for not telling you before. You had a right to... know."

Rina slants him a black look under her lashes. "Why?"

Salem looks up, meeting her gaze. Shifting the cup to his left hand, he reaches
      out to touch her cheek briefly with the right -- a brief contact only of 
      coffee-warmed fingers. "Because you deserve my trust. I'd rather not keep 
      secrets from you."

Rina swallows, and ducks her head slightly. "Aright," she says hoarsely. "Guess
      that's fair. Since I don't have any from you."

Salem manages a bare ghost of a smile, then takes a gulp of coffee, not saying
      anything for a moment.

She looks across to him, a brooding stare. "You've got enough incentive to be
      discreet about it," she says quietly.

Salem nods faintly, his eyes on his coffee. "Too much to lose," he mutters. And
      glances at her.

The curve of Rina's lips is bitter and hard. "Unlike some of us."

Salem eyes her sidelong, frowning faintly.

Rina shakes her head minutely. "But we're not bitter." She summons up a
      slightly forced smile, and looks across to him, a meaningful look. "It's 
      better if we... don't talk about some things here."

Salem hesitates, then glances over at the cityscape. Then, his eyes back on
      her, he nods once.

Chewing on her lower lip, Rina stares down into her coffee, elbows leaning on
      her knees. "I... haven't talked to him," she murmurs, her brow furrowing 
      slightly. "I miss him... it's lonely, here. Without Cat or anybody."

Salem's lips press together. "I could ask Cat to move back in. Bet he'd like
      that. Or you could, erm." He clears his throat, looks down at his coffee 
      cup.

She gives him a wary look, dark and wild-eyed. "Unh-uh," she answers, shaking
      her head. "No. I don't think that's a good idea. If I go I'll ... get 
      someplace new. Keep this for working, and live on my own a while. Maybe 
      closer to Jenny and Angela. I should be helping her more. And raising my 
      daughter."

He's not surprised by her answer, really, though there's a flicker of
      disappointment there, quickly stifled. He nods. "I remember her that one 
      Thanksgiving. Both of them." He swallows a sip of coffee.

One corner of Rina's mouth tugs upwards in a faint, wry smile. "Yeah."

"If I didn't know better," he says, the grating, too-high voice pitched
      quietly, "I'd say she had your eyes."

Rina ducks her head sharply, turning her face away. "Yeah, well, she doesn't,"
      she says flatly. "She's as much mine as-- as Drew's baby. It's only that 
      Jenny and I were together, when she was born. That's all it is

Salem sighs. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that family's not much
      about blood." He cocks his head, looking at her, one side of his mouth 
      quirking up ruefully. "She thought you were my sister at first, you know."

Her brow furrows with a sudden look over to him. "Your *sister*?" Both eyebrows
      lift in mild shock.

Salem downs another swallow of Rina's very excellent coffee. "Mm. Yes."

She lets out a breath, a little "hmph" of annoyance. "No resemblance at /all/.
      You don't look the slightest bit Italian."

Despite the fattening moon and the Sword of Damocles hanging over him, Salem
      lets out a snort of sudden amusement. His jaw clenches, stifling what 
      might be a further laugh -- a sound that surely wouldn't be a lovely one.

Frowning, she murmurs, "Really too bad y'don't speak Russian." She drinks down
      a bit more of her coffee, swallowing the last of it.

Salem coughs, clears his throat, and recovers his composure with another sip of
      coffee. "Yes, well. If we ever have any problems with _Serbians_..." The 
      grating voice has a humorous edge, but it's a brittle sort of humor.

"You never know," Rina mutters. "Sometimes I wonder if gangs are an inevitable
      immigrant phenomenon."

"Probably," Salem says, finishing his coffee. He toys with the mug a bit,
      turning it around and around in his hands. "New place. You stick with 
      what's familiar."

"That and stupid base fucking human instinct," Rina mutters darkly. "Cliques.
      Exclusion. Mob fuckin' rule."

Salem snorts. "Not just a _human_ instinct, Rina."

She lets out a sharp breath, and rolls to her feet. "Yeah. You want more?" She
      wiggles her cup.

Salem nods, offering her his empty cup. His earlier mirth has evaporated
      quickly; his expression's more pensive now.

She takes both to the kitchen, using the opportunity to compose herself a
      little, out of sight. After refilling both cups, she brings them out 
      again--offering a faint smile as she sits down beside him again.

Salem reaches up to take the cup from her hand, their fingers almost touching
      as he takes it from her. He returns her smile with an even fainter one of 
      his own as he studies her.

The dark eyes meet his, briefly--and then she lowers her eyes, shame visible in
      her expression. "Friends," she says quietly. "I've done--plenty worse."

Salem's mouth twists into a thin grimace, his expression wry. "We both have."
      Then, while studying his reflection in the untainted coffee in his cup, 
      he exhales softly and mutters, "I'm not a very good Philodox."

"It doesn't matter," she says quietly, looking across to him. "You make a damn
      good Walker."

Salem looks up sharply at her, his eyebrows rising. Then, with a faint,
      grateful smile, he mutters, "...Thank you."

Rina swallows, apprehension kindling easily as a fuse. "Was that a bad thing
      t'say? I'm sorry..." She ducks her head, looking down into the darkness 
      of her cup. "I'm not good with anything, anymore."

Salem shakes his head. "No... no... it was, er." He clears his throat, suddenly
      and uncharacteristically awkward. "It was, er, good to hear that."

"Oh." From somewhere she musters a tiny half-smile, an attempt that barely
      succeeds in time for her looking up. "Well, it's true."

Salem rotates the cup in his hands, then takes a swallow. "One does one's
      best," he murmurs vaguely, and then gives her a quick, crooked little 
      grin.

It coaxes a rare smile from her, a momentary lapse in her shadowy grief. "I
      like your best. It'll be good when you can really talk again..."

That reminder -- not that he can easily _forget_ -- curdles his smile somewhat;
      his jaw tightens as he nods a wordless agreement and gulps down most of 
      the contents of his cup.

"It doesn't matter t'me, you know," she says quietly, watching him.

"It matters to _me_," he mutters, the Jackal tones shifting into a grating
      whine. Then he sighs. "Christ on a stick."

Rina reaches up to rub the barely-there fuzz on his head. "Then don't talk
      except when you have to," she says quietly. "And you don't have to, with 
      me."

Salem's throat works, swallowing a sudden upsurge of emotion, and for a moment
      he keeps his gaze on his cup. His head lowers as he sets it down on the 
      coffee table, and then, with the swift, effortless blur of forms that 
      she's seen before, he retreats into lupus and lays his head in her lap.

Rina sets her cup aside, and leans over him to wrap him in a loose embrace. "We
      few, we bitter few, we band of brothers," she murmurs, the paraphrase 
      mumbled into a lupine shoulder. "Don't know what I'd do."

Scar finds a bit of bare arm with his muzzle and licks the knife-marked skin
      with a warm, wet canine tongue.

With a faint sigh, she hugs the wolf tighter, spending several minutes with her
      cheek laid against fur.

The tension evident underneath the thick black pelt eases back slowly, even if
      it doesn't entirely go away. After washing much of the skin that's easily 
      within reach, he inhales a deep breath, and then lets it out in a weary 
      sort of huff.

Rina releases him, but only to summon him to bed. "I'm gonna go brush my teeth
      and stuff," she murmurs, rumpling his ears.

Scar bumps her hand with his head, his tail hitting the couch cushions a couple
      of times, and then he jumps nimbly down to the floor. When she returns 
      from brushing her teeth 'and stuff', he's already made himself regally 
      comfortable -- and, with a bit of smirky lupine humor, he's taking up all 
      the pillow space.

She snorts amusedly, and turns out the lights; then she pushes out a little
      space on one of the pillows with both hands, apparently content to have 
      the wolf-muzzle resting on or near her head. Her breathing slowly 
      synchronizes with his, and before long she sleeps.

Scar shifts around a bit himself, but is curled up close against her, tail
      tucked near haunches, when he, too, drops off. But his sleep is restless, 
      full of uncomfortable dreams; his paws twitch off and on for most of the 
      night, and muffled growls and whines escape his muzzle.

She wakes him only once, with the soft wetness of tears on his forelegs, the
      stricken clinging of her grief. It takes time, but she cries herself back 
      to sleep eventually, exhausted by the aftermath of the dream.

* * *

The Garou wakes first, opening his eyes as the first rays of dawn slant through
      the window. He does not, however, attempt to get up. It might disturb the 
      kinswoman's sleep... and, as a side effect, he gets to indulge himself -- 
      listening to her breathe, drinking in the scents coming from her and the 
      bedclothes. Being, not thinking, and especially not thinking about the 
      kind of things his mind decided to torture him with the previous night.

The coppery tang of blood is not so strong, now; the scabs trace dark lines on
      her arms, some of them healing to faint closed red. There is a touch of 
      poison in her system--drinking, he thinks, a sour edge to her scent. She 
      sleeps restless and light, uneasy murmurs coming from time to time as she 
      huddles into the sheets.

When she finally does wake, she finds his head resting on her shoulder,
      mismatched eyes closed to mere slits.

Rina swallows, wincing slightly as she stumbles into consciousness. A wordless
      mumbled protest passes her lips, and she pets him clumsily with one hand.

The weight of his head disappears, and a wet nose snuffs around her face.

"Aaaagh," she answers, eloquently expressing her distaste with cold wet lupine
      noses. Wrinkling up her own nose, she wriggles up and swings her legs 
      over the edge of the bed, planting bare feet on the floor. "Cold," she 
      murmurs. "Y'sleep good?"

Scar snorts, his ears flicking backwards. Still reclined near the pillows, head
      lifted to look at her, he yawns widely, long pink tongue curling over 
      sharp white teeth.

She gives him a disparaging look. "Oh /please/. You are way to high on y'self."
      An affectionate hand reaches out to rumple his ears and the fur at the 
      back of his neck.

Scar gets nicely rumpled indeed, and tips his head to one side in a classic
      canine 'huh?' expression.

Rina glances over to him and wrinkles her nose. "And you smell." She leans over
      and hugs him, nuzzling into a furred shoulder. "Like some odd mixture of 
      wet Jack and wet dog. And Guy and Dog aren't great smellin' to start 
      with..."

Scar huffs in an indignant sort of way. Then why are you hugging me, you silly
      woman?

She only answers with a happy little sigh and a scruffle. Then she releases
      him, popping up to her feet and rumpling her hair in that way of hers. 
      She pads off to the kitchen to start coffee, and then disappears into the 
      bathroom for a shower.

Scar listens to the water running behind the closed bathroom door for a few
      moments, then snorts at himself and leaps down off the bed, reverting to 
      human form a moment after his paws hit the floor. Rubbing the back of his 
      neck, he eyes the mussed bed (now with black wolf hairs all over the 
      pillows), smiles sardonically, and then prowls toward the kitchen.

He stops on his way there, though, to look over the painted cityscape again.

Rina comes out in clean clothes, leather jeans and a clingy sweater, toweling
      her hair with the careless energy of a four-year-old. "You want I should 
      make breakfast or somethin'?"

Salem looks decidedly uncouth in comparison to her, and his rueful expression
      indicates that he knows it. He shakes his head. "I'm fine. I'll get 
      something back at the mansion."

Rina pours him a cup of coffee, and offers it over, blinking up at him.
      "Aright." She fixes her own, then, dumping in some sugar.

Salem takes a deep swallow of it, leaning against the back of the couch as he
      does so. "Going to go see Josh today. Decide what to do with him."

Rina looks over her shoulder to him, a flicker of worry in her eyes. "You want
      me to head out there with you?"

Salem shakes his head. "Deep bawn," he explains. "Caern, possibly. Even if you
      could, you wouldn't like it."

Rina nods curtly, and turns her face away. "Fucking Rangers."

Salem drains the cup, or near enough, with another gulp, then walks over to
      ruffle her short, dark hair. "It's cold and wet and boring as hell. 
      Fucking trees everywhere."

"Mmm. Still. I don't like it, the whole business of Kin not even /counting/
      with those people. Gettin' traded, and kept 0out of anything /useful/. 
      Waste of resources."

Salem's smile is tight, humorless, and grim. "And the Dancers use their kin in
      battle, fomori, anything." Broad shoulders move in a brief shrug, mouth 
      twisted into a grimace as he goes to put his cup away.

She sets hers down, and catches him in a quick impulsive hug. It's a brief
      thing, fierce and insistent.

Salem grunts, then smiles crookedly. "And that was for...?"

Pulling back just enough to look up at him, she tips her head back and offers a
      faint almost-smile. "Bein' our Fearless Leader." The smile fades a bit, 
      and she adds, "Bring the kid back, aright?"

Salem's smile fades, his eyelids lowering, shadowed. "Will do my best." He
      squeezes her shoulder, then heads over to the couch to collect his coat 
      and gloves.

"Call me," she says quietly. "Let me know." Picking up her coffee, she gulps
      down another swallow or two as she heads for the door.

Salem nods. Before he goes, he gives her another of those faint little smiles
      of his; it almost overshadows the dark circles under his eyes. And then 
      he's gone.