A note from Hazmat on background: Tu's birthday gift to Grey was a gift certificate to a dayspa for a massage. Though not really his thing, Grey's always figured it rude to discard an honestly-given gift. He does, however, wait until new moon for the appointment. Which turned out to be a smart thing to do. A further note: What follows is a result of my own musings about Grey's past, ponderings about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and quite a bit of talking with Rook about the effects massage can have on those with PTSD. Warning! Rook, highly caffeinated, gave me a choice: Upsetting, Disturbing, or Really Fucking Twisted. I picked #3. Read at your own risk. It is currently Fri May 6 2005. Currently the moon is in the waning New Moon phase (13% full). Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly sunny today. The temperature is 65 degrees Fahrenheit (18 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 15 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.83 and rising, and the relative humidity is 48 percent. The dewpoint is 45 degrees Fahrenheit (7 degrees Celsius.) The spa listed by Tu's gift certificate is located in the artsy part of the Montrose district, flanked by a yoga studio on one side and a New Age bookstore on the other. The sign on the door exotically announces 'Urbaca Salon and Day Spa' in gold lettering, and the interior as seen from the storefront is softly lit. Grey comes directly from another short day at work, his employer's half-serious protests still ringing in his ears. Grey was, by now, used to Fast Eddie's habit of 'forgetting' things like an expressed desire to take off early arranged for well in advance, as well as the man's habit of losing all but the most basic grasp of English whenever one tried to argue with him. That, and how it always came down to, "Why you hate Fast Eddie?" In the end, Eddie gave in, with many complaints, insisting that Grey be back tomorrow /early/! Now, the Glass Walker, sans necktie and company-logo'd windbreaker, stands outside the spa, staring dubiously at the sign. Then, with the air of a man heading to a necessary but unpleasant doctor's appointment, he goes in. Thomas Grey is a man hard-used by the world. It shows mostly in his face, a hawkish visage that's extensively scarred down the left side, twisting keloid making a ruin of aristocratic features. If not for the scars, he'd probably be fairly handsome in a severe sort of way. The angles of his face are sharply defined, the nobility in them scoured nearly to the bone. His thick black hair hangs just past his ears, shaggy and unkempt, and he wears a few days' worth of black beard-growth. He looks older than his thirty-something years; his deep-set eyes -- the right dark brown, the left blind white -- are often shadowed as though from lack of sleep, and the set of his mouth is usually tight and grim. At six-foot-three, he stands taller than most men, and an inherent athleticism indicates that he could probably hold his own in a fight. There's also an aura of pent-up violence about him, a tightly-controlled rage within the lanky, muscled frame that could be lethal if unleashed. His white button-up dress shirt is tucked into a pair of fairly neat black slacks. The collar button of the shirt's undone. The bottoms of his heavy black boots are visible past the cuffs of his slacks. The interior greets him with artistically low, mellow lighting and the scent of spicy incense, with vaguely Middle Eastern music playing from a hidden sound system. All that can be seen of the salon from the entrance is a lushly-decorated waiting area: benches strewn with jewel-toned silk pillows line both walls. A pretty young brunette--clad in this season's most fashionable hippie wear with gold bangles everywhere--looks up from her laptop at the small front desk with a bright, "Good afternoon! Welcome to the Urb--" She falters as she takes in the new arrival, "--Urbaca Salon. May I help you?" Flustered, she calls up her customer-service smile again, smaller and nervous this time. Grey absently clasps his hands behind his back, keeping his expression bland. Though his outward manner is unaggressive, the scars, the Curse, and the cold, mismatched eyes are less than welcoming. Still, his tone of voice is mild and perfectly polite. "I have an appointment," he tells the girl. "Should be under Grey, Thomas." Clearing her throat, the brunette twirls a lock of hair between uneasy fingers. "Uh, yes," she she says, mustering her chirpy tone with obvious difficulty. "Feel free to um--take a seat while you wait." She turns back to the slim laptop, eyeing the scarred man from the corner of one elaborately-painted eye as she taps a few keys. Grey nods and does as directed, like any good customer would. Though he continues to regard the interior decor rather dubiously as he sits on the edge of a pillow-strewn bench, he displays no impatience. His every move is watched with not-so-subtle unease by the brunette, though she tries to be sly about it. Bracelets jingling, she presses a button on an intercom system at her desk and announces, "Sage, your--your four o'clock is here." Her task completed, she clears her throat and flutters her hands uncertainly for a moment before returning to the laptop. Grey lets his hands dangle between his knees, fingers laced loosely together. He avoids looking at the nervous recepionist and acts unaware of her scrutiny. As the flustered receptionist taps at her computer, an elegantly-coiffed woman in expensive black clothing breezes in through the door--stops, stares at the other patron in the waiting area, and flushes a high red. "Marjorie," she refers to the girl behind the desk, "C-cancel my appointment for today." She's already backing out the door, clutching at her purse. Grey looks up sharply at the sudden interruption, and as the woman flees back out the door, his bland expression cracks into an irritated grimace. His body tenses as though he's about to rise, but the motion's aborted. He remains seated. He does not pace, as he's tempted to do. He does not leave, which he's /quite/ tempted to do. Marjorie blinks blankly at the abrupt departure of one of the salon's regular customers, twirling her her again. She turns wide eyes on the man for a moment pursing her lips disapprovingly before she remembers her manners and ducks her head over the computer again. A few minutes later, a tanned, sturdily built woman with short blonde hair emerges from one of the doors flanking the receptionist's desk. She's dressed comfortably in a white t-shirt and grey drawstring sweats, flat slippers. "Thanks, Marj," the new arrival smiles easily towards the jittery brunette. "--Mister Grey?" She turns an expectant gaze towards the waiting area, green eyes falling on the man there. She doesn't even blink, her expression pleasant and mild. Grey stands, the motion quick and graceful, at the sound of his name; the irritated expression vanishes under his skin, banished. The Glass Walker steps forward with a nod. "Yes..." The word trails off slightly as he takes her in visually, sizing her up, though not in an obviously sexual way. She's a few inches below six feet, perhaps in her late twenties, built with Boticellan curves that hint at sturdy musculature beneath the surface. An eyebrow quirks at his regard, but she doesn't seem outwardly perturbed. The woman moves with a placid, balanced grace of her own as she steps forward, extending a hand. "I'm Sage," she offers in a welcoming tone. "I'll be your massage therapist today." Marjorie, meanwhile, busies herself with her laptop--though she watches the interaction suspiciously from beneath long dark lashes. Grey grasps the proffered hand, shaking it in a properly businesslike manner -- firm, but not /too/ firm. His hands are uncalloused despite the rough exterior -- a byproduct of lycanthropic regenerative abilities... not that she'd know that, of course. "Pleased to meet you." Perfect courtesy; the tenor voice has a cultured touch; the accent's mostly Pacific Northwest, but not entirely. The grip that meets his is surprisingly strong, and she even goes so far as to clasp her second hand over his for a moment, the pam smooth and dry. "Likewise," she offers a broad smile. "If you'll just follow me--" She releases his hand and turns, leading him through the doorway to the back of the salon. He doesn't smile back, not even a twitch. He just nods and follows her, taking his frightening presence from the reception area. His good eye roams his surroundings, taking in details like a wolf exploring new territory. The hallway beyond is equally low-lit, lined with doors but blessedly free of other customers at the moment. Indian tapestries are hung at regular intervals along the walls, and the music of a sitar still filters from the stereo system. "So this is your first visit to Urbaca," Sage speaks conversationally as she walks ahead of him, glancing over a shoulder with a considering look. "Have you ever received a massage before?" Grey shakes his head. "Afraid not." He matches her conversational tone, though his manner remains more aloof than hers. Reserved. Dignified. "Well," the woman nods, quirking a wry smile as she stops at an unmarked door and opens it, "I promise I'll be gentle." Sage steps through, ushering him into a spacious, soft-lit room. Aside from two armchairs, a stereo on a small table, and a Japanese screen standing in one corner, there's no evidence of any decoration. A sheet-draped massage table takes up the center of the room in a manner that could be welcoming or forboding, depending on the client. "Do you prfer to be called Thomas, or Mr. Grey?" Sage gestures him towards the armchair not occupied by a pen and pad of paper. The way Grey eyeballs the table suggests more forboding than welcoming, though the feeling's not severe. His good eye flicks back to Sage. "'Thomas' is fine." He heads over to the indicated chair and takes a seat, elbows on the arms of the chair and fingers laced together between. Taking up her pen and notepad, Sage nods as she crosses her legs smoothly. "Thomas it is, then. So. Here's the process-- I have a few intake questions before we begin. You answers will help me work effectively, and make for the most pleasant experience possible on your part. How does that sound?" She tilts her head and watches him from her seat, with an obervsant air that can only come from extensive practice. The scarred face shows a touch of bemusement, but in truth the professional manner seems to relax the man a touch. "Sounds fair," he answers, with a nod. The good eye doesn't stray far from her, usually alternating between her face and her hands. The hands in question hold the pen and pad with relaxed precision as she nods. "We've already covered your massage background, so--on to the next. What are you looking for from a massage today?" She lowers her chin, green eyes sharpening keenly on him. Grey frowns slightly, his gaze turning hooded. He looks away, then back at her, shoulders moving in a light shrug. "To be honest, I hadn't thought about it. This was a gift from a," slight pause, "friend of mine." Sage breaks into a crooked, rather knowing grin. "Fair enough," she nods again. "We'll say general relaxation, then. Customarily, I like to focus on any areas of tension or trouble a client might be dealing with. Do you have any of these that you're aware of, or...?" She trails off invitingly, expression open and neutral. Grey's hands flex, fingers tightening slightly on themselves. He considers the question, eyes narrowed and the small frown remaining. "Physical tension, you mean?" "The mind and body are more interlinked than we can imagine, but--yes. Physical tension, primarily. Muscular pain, stiffness, and the like." The massage therapist touches the end of the pen to her chin thoughtfully, gaze dropping to his hands. Grey, as if realizing this, unclasps them and sits back, arms resting along those of his chair. He shrugs. "Stiff neck, occasionally, I suppose... not that it's bothering me currently." Sage scribbles a few things in shorthand with a smile. "Noted. As for your medical history--what type of work do you do? Do you have any physical problems that regularly appear in your work? Or your daily life or recreation, for that matter." "I'm a repo man," he says, in the same way a Mafioso might tell someone they're a garbage collector. "Physical problems..." The fingers of his right hand drum absently on the armchair. He shakes his head, hesitates, and then warily admits, "Occasionally, I have trouble sleeping. Insomnia." He shrugs again. The woman pauses thoughtfully at the mention of insomnia, then writes a few more notes as she nods. "Are there any past surgeries or injuries I should be aware of? Or medications?" Recent injuries. Besides the marks carved into his arms? Grey shakes his head, then frowns and pushes a lock of hair out of the way of his good eye. "No." From afar, Sage thought he was still in his button-up shirt? You paged Sage with 'Oh, yeah, he is. Sorry, I metaposed. :}'. You paged Sage with 'Inserting character thought. :} Apologies.'. A few more notes are jotted, and then Sage leans back, re-distributing her sturdy weight in the chair as she sets the pad and paper aside. She presses her palms together in a loose 'praying' position as she looks at her dark client. "Are there any parts of your body that you don't want massaged?" The question is voiced very gently, utterly mild and neutral. Grey's right index finger goes tap-tap lightly on the armchair. "I'd rather not remove my shirt," he answers. His head tilts, cocking the good eye at her. "Will that be a problem?" Sage purses her lips, smoothing a strand of straight dark-blonde hair behind her ear. "I can certainly work with that," she nods after a moment of consideration. "Do you prefer that I not work on your arms or torso at all?" "Not unless you can work through cloth," is the deadpan reponse. The finger stops tapping, and the hand lies flat. "Thomas, I can work through a brick wall, if I have to," she answers amiably, and something about Sage's gaze suggests that should _could_. Lifting those neatly joined hands to tap at her chin, she smiles. "Intake concluded. And for a fair trade-off... is there anything you'd like to know about me?" Grey lifts an eyebrow at her response, then dips his head in a slight nod. "How long have you been doing this?" He shifts his weight, reclasps his hands, fingers once again lacing together. "If that's not too rude." "I've been doing this since long before I was licensed, if it's any reassurance." Propping one elbow on the arm of her chair, the woman leans to that side and quirks a grin. "I gave my grandma foot-rubs when I was a kid," she amends, sobering a little. "I took a shine to it early on. As a licensed MT, though? Eight years. Almost nine." Grey nods once, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he studies her. "Interesting..." His voice trails off as he glances around the room again. New territory; he's definitely out of his element. There's not much to see besides the clean-draped table and the Japanese screen, and the state-of-the-art lighting system manages to give off the ambiance of candlelight without the flicker. "If you want to know how old I am, Thomas, I'd be happy to tell you my favorite color as well," Sage offers conversationally as she rises from her chair, corssing over to the standing screen. Grey's gaze shifts back to her, good eye tracking her movements. "You don't feel nervous around me." It's not quite a question. "Or are you just that good an actor?" Sage pauses in front of the screen, half-turning towards him with a blink. "Should I feel nervous around you, Mr. Grey?" There's a slight emphasis on the first word. Green eyes meet his gaze squarely without a falter, focussing on his good side. Not even straying to the scar tissue on his face, as others usually do. Grey's nostrils flare as he inhales, but he breaks the gaze first and looks down at his hands as his shoulders move in a slight shrug. "Most people do." This is delivered matter-of-fact, no overtones of shame or woe, as if he'd told her that his hair was black. The massage therapist looks down as well, eyes on the floor for a moment. "For every rule, there's an exception," she notes wryly, then turns to disappear behind the screen. She emerges promptly, with some large rolled-up pad of cushion in her arms. "I don't think my usual spa-bunny modalities are going to serve you best, Thomas, so I'd like to try something different. Have you ever heard of shiatsu?" Sage talks as she works, untying the cushion to unroll it on the carpet. It's roughly the size of a twin-size bed. Grey watches, brows furrowing; his head cocks to favor his good eye over the bad as he watches her. "Can't say that I have." "It literally means 'finger pressure'," she explains as she kneels by the oversized pillow, smoothing the creases out of its cover. "It has its roots in ancient China and Japan. Uses acupressure methods, among other things. With the application of pressure, different points on your body can vastly effect overall tension and energy flow." Sage pauses in her rambling, then adds, "More to the point: you don't have to disrobe." Grey has that mildly bemused look on his face again, touched with guardedness around the eyes. He gets to his feet and approaches slowly. The mention of disrobing -- or the lack thereof -- makes him snort a bit and offer up a dry, "Thanks." "It's either this, or all you'll be getting is a glorified foot rub," she quips and smiles up at his snort, then rises to her feet. "And something tells me you deserve better than that. --If you could, remove your footwear, belt and any jewelry, and empty your pockets. Anything that might poke ya." She's crossing over to the small stereo on the table by the armchairs now. "Do you have any music preferences? We've got... ambiant, Native American, classical, and white noise. Or just good old low-tech quiet." Grey lifts an eyebrow at her as he unbuckles his belt. "Classical. Chopin, if you have any." Belt and pocket-stuff's removed first; then he kneels down, pulling up each trouserleg in turn to get at the buckles that secure the heavy tanker boots. His hair falls over his good eye as he bends his head; with a quick, habitual gesture, he pushes it away. "Chopin it is," she nods, flipping through a CD-book stowed beneath the sidetable. She acts with the casual ease of someone who sees strange men remove their belts and shoes on a daily basis: that is, completely uninterested. "Here we are. 'The Complete Nocturnes'." Popping in the CD, she presses 'play' at low volume, and crosses to the door. "Feel free to lie down and get comfortable, Thomas. I'll come back and knock in a few minutes." Smiling brightly at him, the woman slips out of the room and shuts the door behind her. Leaving him alone with Chopin in the dayspa massage room. Grey nods, pausing in boot-removal to watch her go. Not long afterwards, standing in his socks and rubbing the back of his neck, he gives the room another look 'round, then eyes the mat on the floor dubiously. A few seconds later, he mutters, "Idiot," at himself in Serbian and settles himself supine on the mat, fingers laced together over his stomach, making himself relax -- concentrate on the music, breathe slowly, evenly, deliberately. Toward stillness, outward calm if not inward. Focus on the Nocturne. Music does, after all, have charms to soothe the savage beast. Five Nocturne-filled minutes pass, or maybe more. When her knock comes at the door, it's very soft, and the doorlatch barely makes a sound as she lets herself back in. Sage is barefoot now, with a headband holding back her dark-blonde hair. She approaches as quiet as a cat, with just as much grace. "Hey," she murmurs, stepping around to kneel at his right side. She looks at him with a rather Zen smile, hands on her thighs and posture straight. "How're you doing?" Grey blinks out of his reverie at the knock. "Fine," he answers, watching her. His expression's still guarded, despite his willingness to go along with things. The therapist doesn't move besides a tilt of her head "I'm gonna ask you to turn onto your stomach, if that's okay." If she notices his guardedness, she shows no sign of it. Grey shrugs. "No objection." He lifts himself up slightly and rolls over, then takes a moment to resettle himself. He can hear the sound of a deeply-drawn breath, and then its slow exhalation. "I'll be checking in with you regularly," she informs him in quiet tones. "If you want me to stop at any time, just give me the word. I'm putting a hand on your back." After that pre-warning, a touch settles lightly on the lumbar curve of his spine, warm through the shirt. Sage pages to the room: Er. Lower back. I'll try not to dissolve into anatomy-speak. o.o Grey nods in acknowledgement, the scarred side of his face downward against the pillow. Despite the warning, he tenses slightly at her touch, the automatic reflex of a man with a deep sense of personal space. She stays still for a long time, simply breathing slowly, her eyes closed. The warmth from her hand on his lower back seems to spread with time--although it might just be a trick of perception and transferred body heat. As one nocturne ends and another one swells, she slides her palm along the line of his vertebrae, pressing at regular intervals. No ticklish soft-touch is Sage; the therapist puts a solid bit of weight behind her hand, with almost reassuringly firm pressure. Grey leaves off watching her, or trying to watch her, a moment before her hand moves. He closes his eyes instead, brow furrowed and a touch of a frown tugging faintly at the corners of his mouth. Even with the punctuation of music, time warps in strange ways when receiving a massage--a second may seem like a minute, and vice versa. The touch along his spine travels up towards the nape of his neck, stopping just short of meeting skin, and then back down. Fingers splayed, she explores both sides of his back in methodical succession, lingering over signs of tension or any thickened scar tissue evident through cotton. Almost as though she's taking notes. Of tension, there's plenty; Grey's been accused of having an iron rod stuck up his ass more than once. The few scars on his back aren't strong enough to be felt, but the knot of hardened tissue at the nape of his neck will probably draw attention, evidence of some past physical damage that's invisible to the eye, but not to the touch. His breath catches when she examines that area, good eye flickering open, body tensing. She may notice his reaction, but doesn't venture any further in the area of his neck. "Hand on your shoulder," she murmurs, once she's travelled the expanse of his back twice over. Shifting up on one knee, she takes firm hold of his right shoulder while her left hooks around his opposite hip. Leaning over his tense frame, the therapist pulls and manipulates both points of contact is such a way that seems to loosen the deep muscles in his lower spine. It's a subtle sensation, probably one he's never experienced before. Almost certainly not. His eyelid drops closed again, brow still furrowed, but less so. Again, she is methodical and thorough, working first from one side, then crossing to the other. Her touch is strangely familiar as she hovers over the scarred man, like that of an old friend or a mother--nurturing, though they only met moments ago. Her hands pause whenever she senses tension, but they never break contact. More minutes or hours slip by, and Sage moves to crouch at his head, both hands on his shoulderblades. Slowly, she leans forward, easing her full weight into her hands in a way that gently forces the air from his lungs in a soft stream, if he lets it. "Tell me if this hurts," she murmurs, thumbs pressing deep into secret release points in her client's back. While he's not the kind of person to easily let people, especially strangers, into his guard, he's intelligent enough to realize that this is, precisely, what the woman has to do. Let it not be said that the Glass Walker is one to back off once committed to something. (And it certainly doesn't hurt that she's been nothing but professional. Moreso than most Mother's-Touching healers he's known.) Grey grimaces at the pressure, muscles spasming lightly between his shoulder blades as things loosen up, but he makes no complaint of pain. "They're points on your meridians," she informs him quietly, digging her thumbs in relentlessly until resistance gives way to looseness. "Energy pathways through your body. Think of them as psychic highways." She lets up her weight after a long moment to pass one hand down his spine in indication, adding, "There's Route 66." Sage talks easily, but doesn't seem to expect any kind of reply. Standing silently, she moves to kneel by his legs. "Mnh," is all the reply she gets about energy pathways, and he doesn't seem likely to add more. There's a hitch in the rhythm of his breathing as her hand moves down his spine, which resumes by the time she's changed positions. "Hand on your glute and leg," she pre-warns him, grasping his calf in one hand and placing an utterly professional hand on his left rear. Well, he _did_ say she could work on any part of his body. She shifts her hands down his leg in exploration, testing the runner's muscles she finds there. At least he was warned. Even so, the glute tightens when she lays her hand there. Beneath the heavy cotton slacks are legs that have been, indeed, well-exercised, and regularly. His breathing evens out again as she examines the limb. Her work on his legs seems briefer, and more active--she manipulates each side through a series of bends and stretches, counterpointing each movement with a well-aimed thumb or knuckle to a pressure point. Surprisingly, the most pleasant sensation comes when she tugs firmly on the Walker's sock-clad ankles, a strong fluid motion that seems to lengthen and detach every bit of knot and stiffness from his feet up into his lower back. "You're a jogger," she murmurs in observation, lowering his ankles back down to the cushion. Grey takes a second to answer, still processing the absense of tension that he hadn't actually been aware of. "...Mm? Yes. Daily if I can." The furrowed line between his brows has disappeared, though the set of his mouth remains solemn. "An excellent practice," the calm woman notes, moving her attention back up to his lumbar spine, checking for changes, before grasping his opposite shoulder. "Now, I'm gonna turn you onto your back if that's okay. Roll toward me." She pulls on said shoulder firmly, levering him with an unexpected, easy strength. They don't call them bodyworkers for nothing. Grey lets himself be guided into the new position, his eyes opening as he does so. He gives her a look that hints at respect, then settles back, his eyes closing again. Sage catches that look with a tiny, rather Buddha-like smile. Knelt once more at his right side, she takes the battered man's hand in her own, clasped loosely in her lap: the first skin-to-skin contact since the session began. Her free hand--the right--is placed lightly and unerringly over his heart. He can hear one of those belly-deep breaths drawn in slowly, then released. Warmth spreads from both points of contact, sinking beyond the walls and moats and fences. The hand in her lap goes slack, much like its owner. Later, maybe, he'll ask how the hell she did that. For now, speech seems unnecessary. At least for him. Perhaps her secrets will never be shared. After a Chopin-laced eternity of holding his heart and hand, the woman releases contact and makes enough noise to inform him of her movement to kneel above his head. "Noggin-touch," she murmurs, cradling both hands beneath the shaggy curve of his skull. Inching forward, she rests the Walker's head on her folded knees. Grey utters a low grunt of acknowledgement. Some emotion flickers across his lean features at the feel of her knees under his head, that line reappearing between his brows. Otherwise, he's probably more relaxed than he's been in quite a while. And this without the use of alcohol or sleeping aids. Those hands travel through his hair briefly, an oddly comfortable though professional touch as she smoothes the dark locks from his forehead, away from tickling his eyes. Another inhalation, and she breathes out, "Neck touch." She slides both hands downwards along either side of his head, thumbs not quite touching the column of his throat as her warm fingers splay around the back of his neck. Finding the scar tissue at the nape, but not pressing. There's a twitch of the fingers lying tips down against the mat and a flicker of closed eyelids. That line between his brows lessens but lingers. He continues to breathe slowly, though, and undeliberately, as he had earlier in the session. Sage's touch turns icy cold, and time twists again--this time with a sense of vertigo. "Rade," a singsong voice emerges from the depths of restless nightmares, too familiar and culturedly Serbian to be a figment of the imagination. "Such a good little pet, Rade. Such a strong, valiant warrior, Rade." The first syllables of the Shadow Lord's name are drawn out in a loving sing-song, and elegantly cool fingers stroke the back of his neck, as one would fondle a treasured lap dog. A tremor goes through him, and as in some nightmares, he can't open his eyes. The lids are too heavy, or it's too dark, or... He swallows, throat suddenly gone dry. A flash of light behind the eyelids. The taste of blood, and something darker. Those fingers guide him before an ornately gilded mirror. "You're perfect, Rade," the affectionate voice declares. "The perfect toy. Look at your beauty." Flash. There are Rade Popovic's saturnine features, the product of generations of Garou pure blood, with spindly devil horns of bone rising in a gruesome crest above his brow. An androgynously beautiful face hovers behind his shoulder, just out of focus. "Look, Rade," the voice purrs. "_Perfect_." Flash. His ribcage is turned inside-out, shards of bone twisting like trapped wings beneath the skin. He looks. His tongue's too thick for speech, his limbs heavy, trapped by the relaxing lethargy that, until a moment ago, had been warm and pleasant and safe. But the voice says to look, and he looks, and he can't look /away/. Flash. The disemboweled body of a dark-haired girl lies broken on the cobblestones of an alleyway, intesines strewn and sickly pale beneath the glow of the full moon. Her dress is as torn as her throat. A feeling of wretched joy surges in the chest; the woman was Shadow Lord kinfolk--or is it Rina? "Drink deep, my child," the voice cooes from the shadows. A long-fingered, velvet-cuffed hand gestures eloquently. "You've earned it." Blood on his hands. Blood in his mouth. Meat in his teeth -- canine or human, it doesn't matter; he's a dog either way, and when given permission, he descends upon the body, snarling and hungry. It /could/ be Rina. It could be the girl he was supposed to be paired with, before the Sabbat came. It could be his own mother. But it isn't. It's no one. It's meat. It's blood. It's his. Musical laughter cascades like gold from the shadows, full of approval. The only reward a loyal, obedient, bloodthirsty Ahroun needs. The only thing he lives for. Blood is sweet, and sweeter from the girl's shattered beauty. But he can't savor the moment for long. Flash. "Naughty, naughty, Rade." His reward has soured as the thin, lovely face of his master purses in a moue of disappointment across an enormous mahogany dining table. "You haven't finished your dinner." The white hand of the artisan tips towards the gold platter before Rade, which is piled high with tiny... limbs. Human ones. "I'm afraid you'll have to punish yourself." The hand shifts, indicating the beautifully tooled knife at the table setting. "Pluck out your left eye and have that for dessert, instead." His hand, trembling, as he reaches out and grasps the knife, fingers tightening on the hilt until the knuckles go white. Hesitation lasts only a second, long enough to look across the table, at that face, at the disappointment which squeezes at his heart and guts and crawls like a savagly biting /thing/ inside him. /Bad/ dog. He's still staring at his master as the blade rises before his eyes and swoops toward the left, obliterating it. Blood clouds his vision, but not before he catches a glimpse of that impossibly beautiful face spreading into a smile of abject satisfaction. "/Good/ dog." Chopin tinkles a lovely nocturne in the cavern of the stately dining room as everything goes dark. Hands on his neck. Warm hands. "--Do you want me to continue?" A female voice, hesitating. Chopin continues to play. The gentle piano oozes with quiet menace. Disoriented, he barely registers the tears leaking out tightly-closed eyes, the bite of fingernails into the palms of his white-knuckled fists. "Ne." It's a broken sob. "Ne, molim, ne." No, please, no. More Serbian follows: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please god. "Ne. Ne. Ne." "Hey... whoah. Hey." The woman's tones are even softer now, a mother soothing her child. Hands on his temples, simply holding the salt-wet skin. The lap cradling his head is warm. "Thomas. Stay with me." He continues to weep brokenly, this man who came in so utterly and completely self-possessed. "Molim, ne." His head twists away from her hands; he rolls over, or tries to. She stays where she is and lets him go without a fight, hands resting in her vacated lap. "Thomas Grey," she says, this time more firmly, but not unkind. "Do you know where you are?" He crawls on his stomach as though unable to rise even to hands and knees, and gets half-off the mat before collapsing again, head buried in his arms. Neither the name or the question brings any response, not for a while at least. A watchful sentinel at his side, the woman makes no move to touch him or to speak. She does, however, murmur a few soft wordless noises of empathy in the back of her throat. Almost like an animal, crooning to its cub. Sage waits for as long as it takes: Patience, in the form of a massage therapist. The piano plays on. "...Turn it off." It's a plea, not a command. None of that earlier smoothness in his voice, and traces of a Slavic accent toy at the edges of it. The words are muffled, hoarse, rough, but perfectly understandable. Sage blinks, then rises to her feet smoothly. Bare feet pad along the carpet, and the nocturne filtering from the stereo is stifled a few seconds later. The resulting silence unfolds like a breath of sweet, fresh oxygen in the low-lit room. Sage seats herself a foot or two away from the collapsed man, placing a conveniently-materialized box of Kleenex in the space between them. She remains wordless, but somehow supportive. Grey remains as he is for a few more moments, breathing hard, before summoning up the will to push himself up onto his elbows, and then his hands and knees -- slow and trembling like all his strength had gone. A second or two later, he sits back on his heels, kneeling with his hands on his thighs, head lowered, eyes closed. His scarred face is drawn with remembered horror, with anguish and shame, every wall torn down, bombed to rubble. She takes this cue to scoot slowly forward, sitting cross-legged and directly in front of him now, barely an arm's reach away. "You went somewhere else, Thomas," Sage informs him in soft, level tones. "Where are you now?" Grey takes in a long, shuddery breath and lets it out. "St. Claire. Washington." The accent's faded further, almost unnoticeable. He wipes a hand over his tear-streaked face, then opens his eyes to look down at the wetness like it was something new, the discharge from some kind of rare skin disease. "The Urbaca Salon," she confirms with a nod. Her zen master's smile is gone now, replaced with a placid, somber watchfulness that's void of any judgement. One of her skilled hands plucks out a tissue, extending it like a peace offering. "Tears are not unusual, Thomas," she informs him. "Physical touch has a powerful cathartic effect." Grey lifts reddened eyes just enough to stare at the tissue. "...Is that what it was," he murmurs, husky and hollow. He accepts the tissue and uses it to dry his eyes and blow his nose. "Most likely, yes." Sage nods another confirmation. "Our bodies remember what our minds cannot, sometimes." She tips her head slightly to one side, hands clasped loosely in her lap. "Individuals with long histories of... trauma tend to experience a more pronounced release." Her words are slow and careful, gauging the tear-stained man's reaction. Grey nods faintly, swallows hard. His hands slowly crumple the damp tissue into a tight little ball while his eyes focus on a spot on the floor between them. Some of his composure's returned, like three bricks stacked into the lowest of pyramids, a pitiful defense at best. Sage looks down as well, clearing her throat in a rare moment of hesitation. "I'm no expert on the subject, but... have you ever heard of post-traumatic stress syndrome?" Green eyes tilt back up to study his features gently. Grey's brow furrows. He looks up at her, but warily, unkempt hair hanging past his eyebrows. His hands twist at the crumpled tissue. "...In passing..." The woman lifts her chin at his reply, drawing up her posture as she turns both hands palm-up on knees in a gesture of non-threat. "'Do No Harm' is the rule I live by, Thomas. I don't have the ability to diagnose, or even treat anything specific without the referral of a physician, but--" She pauses here, pursing her lips. "As your massage therapist, I would be doing you a grave disservice if I didn't suggest you consider the possibility of something... a little deeper than a stiff neck." Her hands re-clasp themselves. Grey's mouth goes tight, a grimace of shame pulling back on its corners. He looks down at his hands, shoulders hunched. No answer. Sage's expression softens, and she leans forward to place a careful hand on his knee. That buddha-smile has returned, though faint. "Would you like to receive the conclusion, or would you prefer some time alone?" The twisting hands pause when she touches him. "Time alone, please," he says, his voice sounding very small and distant. She dips her head in a gracious nod, and the warmth of her hand withdraws. She pulls a cream-colored card from the pocket of her sweats, placing it before him without comment. At the door, she pauses. "I don't have any further clients today," she notes, "So feel free to take as much time as you need. And... Thomas?" Grey drags his eyes up toward her, miserable and exhausted and as wrung-out and crumpled as the tissue in his hands. Sage looks at him with those knowing green eyes, her warm gaze an almost tangible thing across the blessedly silent space of the room. "Spend time with those who care for you," is the gentle suggestion. "Feel free to make an appointment with me at my home studio. And whenever you're having a hard time..." She touches a meaningful fist to her chest at a point centered directly over the sternum--the heart chakra, though he probably wouldn't know that. "--Breathe. From here." With that small smile, the woman turns and slips out the door, shutting it softly behind her. Thomas Grey is alone in the dayspa massage room once again. This time, without the accompaniment of Chopin. Alone, he lowers his head again, staring down at his hands. He feels his throat constrict, his eyes grow hot, but though he squeezes them shut and clenches his teeth, another shed of tears slip free and down his cheeks. It's a long, long time before he emerges.