It is currently 19:36 Pacific Time on Sun Mar 13 2005. Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (22% full). Currently in Saint Claire, it is clear outside. The temperature is 61 degrees Fahrenheit (16 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the east at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.33 and rising, and the relative humidity is 25 percent. The dewpoint is 25 degrees Fahrenheit (-3 degrees Celsius.) You paged Natalie with 'Ring ring!'. From afar, Natalie picks up on the second ring, her voice neutral. "Hello?" Long distance to Natalie: Grey sounds about as chipper -- that is, not at all -- as he did when he left his message earlier. The connection's better, though. "Good evening, Natalie." From afar, Natalie pauses for a long moment before acknowledging him with a cool, "Thomas. Are you back in town, then?" There's faint sounds in the background - clinking, mostly. Long distance to Natalie: Grey grunts something that sounds like an affirmative. "I'm over at the Wal-Mart. So, yes." From afar, Natalie snorts, the sound almost lost underneath a sudden rush of water. "You're close. We're at a new address." She gives the address for the Victorian, adding, "The porch light is on." The water turns off before she adds, almost reluctantly, "Do you need a ride?" You paged Natalie with 'There's a brief pause before he answers, "No, I have a car. I'll be there in a few."'. From afar, Natalie |"All right," she says, accepting, "I'll see you then. I've got company, so knock." And then the click of a closed line. You paged Rina with 'Ring ring ring.'. Rina picks up on the second ring, a little breathless. "Yeah?" "Rina?" The connection's better than when he left his message, though he doesn't sound much better. "It's Thomas." She lets out a breath that is almost an audible smile. "Oh my *GOD*, hi, I was hoping you'd call... where are you? D'you need directions or anything?" "I'm over at the Wal-Mart." His voice lightens a touch; it's good to be wanted. "Just got off the phone with Natalie, so the new place is my next stop." The hint of a smile fades out of his voice. "Dare I ask what happened to the Dominion?" Weary again. "They couldn't keep it up. Out of money." There's a touch of bitter in her voice, something that says /she/ would not have let the obligation slide. "You want I should bring dinner?" Something makes a noise in the background, probably a drawer. "Only if it's no trouble," he answers. "Seriously. I had dinner... a few hours ago." "Then I'll bring you ice cream or somethin'," she says easily. "And maybe a lasagna to stick in the freezer. Last time I was over there, they had /nothing/ worth callin' food." Apparently the Italian Mother genes are starting to kick in, as she gets older. He lets out a low, tired-sounding chuckle. "I'll see you over there, then." "Ciao, babe." Then the dial tone. [A little while later...] 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 shaggily around his face, clean but unkempt, and he typically 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 and bitterness within the lanky, muscled frame that could be lethal if unleashed. He wears a long-sleeved cotton pullover shirt, off-white, and a pair of dark green cargo pants. The pantlegs are untucked over a pair of black tactical boots. When outside, he wears a knee-length light grey trenchcoat with a black lining. Safehouse: Common Area The foyer of this house is set off from the living room with its octagonal bump-out by a four foot high halfwall. Stairs lead up from the foyer, turning and disappearing to the right, and a steel door with a keycard lock claims the wall opposite the living room. The rest of the main floor is taken up by a small bathroom across the hallway from a dining room which is separated from the kitchen at the back of the house by another half-wall. The decor is decidedly sparse - white walls, beige carpeting in the living and dining rooms and down the hall, unremarkable vinyl in the foyer and kitchen. A used couch and a pair of recliners are grouped around a coffee table in the living room, with a foursome of wooden chairs claiming the bump out for quieter conversation. The dining room boasts a white laminate table with four aluminum and vinyl-upholstered chairs - too new to be 'vintage', too old to be trendy. The appliances and cupboards in the kitchen are new - or at least refurbished to look like it - and a door leads out to the backyard from there. Up the stairs are a number of empty rooms where anyone affiliated with the Sept can crash and an office for private meetings. The Glass Walkers have their own area accessible via a locked door off the foyer. The main doors themselves lead back out to the front porch of the house. [House floorplan at http://www.visi.com/~asher/FinishedFloorplan.html] "Two," the Galliard answers, nodding at the security door past Rina's shoulder. "Are you stocking up the tribe, or the passers-by?" Brom gets an apologetic nod before she rolls out of her chair, bottle held easily on one hand, and heads for the foyer. "I'll have to let you in to our half this time, but I'll show you where the spare keys are kept." The kin heads for the door, glancing over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. "If I had a key," she says, "I could keep our ammo stocked." From outside comes the sound of a car pulling up, but a couple of minutes pass before a knock sounds on the front door. The smile drops away from Brom's face just as quick and lets out a heavy breath, arms crossing once more over his chest. "I take it this wasn't the company you were expecting. It seems that you will soon get a full house. I should just take off." The knock draws his attention and he jerks his chin over. Natalie looks from kin to door to Get and back to door before breathing out a soft, heartfelt, "-Hell-. Brom, I'm sorry. If you can cool your jets a few, this'll just take a couple of minutes. Or if you want to run, that's fine, too." Rina gets an apologetic grimace before she moves to the front door, pulling it open... and freezing with a scowl on her face. "Thomas," she says flatly, stepping back to let the other man in. Rina drops her groceries, by contrast, and runs for the door--only waiting, impatiently, when it's clear that Natalie intends to answer it herself. Her greeting is a good deal less restrained; she lets the man get about two steps inside before launching herself at him. Letting out another grunt under his breath, Brom stands in place, arms once more crossing over his chest as he eyes the door and the one she greets behind it. He looks rigid, like a statue of rage as he goes back to being patient, or attempting to. Whereever the hell the Philodox has been, it wasn't Tahiti, and it sure as hell wasn't fun. Thomas' lean face is set into a neutral mask that only hardens at the expression Natalie greets him with. "Natalie," he replies, coolly enough, as he steps inside and past Natalie... and then gets nigh-tackled by an enthusiastic Rina. A grunt escapes him at the collision, and the granite facade cracks slightly in a wan smile. He manages a deadpan, "Miss me?" Demoted to door-keep, Nat closes the door behind the gaunt-looking... not-a-stranger, then turns to face the abruptly entangled pair, her arms folded and face still set in a disapproving mask. Brom seems to have dropped off her radar for the moment, unsurprising considering the flurry of emotion and movement in the entry. Watching Rina fly across the room and Nat seemingly forget about him, Brom continues to stand in the middle of the room, looking much like the viking statue that he can silently becoming when needed to. He squints his eyes some, staring over at Thomas, before deciding to glance around the large safehaven once more, studying. The pint-sized missile wraps both arms around his waist and clings, leaning her head against his chest and closing her eyes. Abruptly, she makes a face and looks up at him with a comically wrinkled nose. "You smell like Angelo. You seedy guys and your freakin' cancer sticks." Her face, thinner than it should be and more shadowed, somehow transforms itself into a beaming angelic smile. "But yeah. It's good to see you." The smile fades away into seriousness, and eye contact that conveys something perhaps only intelligible to the Philo. Grey simply nods to Rina, the smile fading from his face as looks up from her. The steel shutters are back down over his face as his gaze skips over Brom, barely registering the other man, and settles on Natalie. "We need to talk," he tells the Galliard, as blandly as tiredness will allow. "Or, rather, I need to talk." Natalie returns the newcomer's look with equal blandness, letting him wriggle for a second before nodding. "Right." Another beat and she turns to the patient Brom with a rueful grimace. "Brom, I'm sorry. I'd like to talk to you another time, but tonight's gone suddenly tribal. You're staying at the brownstone, right? And you've got my cell?" Standing tall about six foot five, Brom has the body of a brick wall. He obviously works out on an obsessive basis. His arms are thick and his chest broad, giving off the look of perhaps a well in shape football player. He has a pair of intense blue eyes that always seem to border on anger, and a well developed scowl. Brom has long hair to about his shoulders, a dirty dark blonde that is typically tied up into a tight pony tail, pulled back from his head. He has a jagged looking scar along his neck that dips down into his shirt, and a few more along his arms that appear to have been made by claw marks. He tends to dress very plainly, a pair of beat up blue jeans with slashes and holes in them, a tight fitted black muscle shirt and a beat up looking leather jacket. Shit kicker boots adorn his feet and a large belt buckle with the picture of an axe on it. The blue eyed Viking narrows his eyes a bit, then lets out a frustrated grunt under his breath. "Fucking hell." He says and throws his jacket on, making his way for the door. "Yeah." He rumbles under his breath, reaching for the handle and jerking it open, slipping out the door. Thump. These boots were made for walking. Rina watches the Get leave through neutral, narrowed eyes, almost keeping Grey's body between her and the Viking. "I thought it was practically the new moon," she murmurs, slowly detaching herself from Thomas and glancing to Natalie. "What's got his panties in a bunch? D'you know?" Grey moves aside to give Brom a path to the door, once more giving the larger man -- and thin or no, Thomas isn't short by any means -- a flat glance. Then he turns his attention back to Natalie. The scarred face remains neutral. Natalie moves out of the way of the door, nodding a farewell to Brom as he passes. "He wanted to talk to me about joining Havoc," she says as she closes the door, her voice still neutral. "We got interrupted." Obviously. She turns and takes a step back toward the pair, her fist rocketing into the man's chin without any further warning. "/Bastard/." Rina dodges back as if she thinks the punch is meant for her; her expression crumbles when it connects, and she stumbles backward slowly, looking utterly stricken. Grey's head snaps hard to the side with the force of the blow, and he takes a step back. Recovering slowly, he turns back to Natalie, one hand coming up to touch his stubbled jawline carefully. His body is taut, and there's a hint of teeth showing in his grimace. He stares at the Galliard for a moment, that one good eye burning. Then, quite deliberately it seems, he breaks the gaze. His hand drops back down to his side as he turns his head away, tilting it to expose his throat. "I've been waiting," Nat spits out, "A damn -year- to do that." Her eyes narrow at his throat-baring, and most of the tension drains out of her like the ubiquitous bathtub. "--Come inside, both of you." Which 'inside' becomes clear as she moves to the other door in the foyer and punches a quick code into the pad near the door, then pulls the door open to hold it for the others. "Need any help carrying, Rina?" Rina looks as if she's the one who just got punched--in the stomach. Her eyes are down as she shakes her head, and she looks almost near tears as she walks over, picks up the grocery bag and her helmet, and steps into the Walker half of the house. Grey closes his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath and letting it out. His own tension seems to leak away slowly, and when he opens his eyes again, he just looks drained. Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat, he moves through to the tribal side of the house. Safehouse: GW Main Area Like the public safehouse, the foyer of the Glass Walker's private area is set off from the living room by a four-foot-high half-wall. The steps to the second floor disappear off to the left, mirroring the other set. There the similarities end - where the public area is painted unoriginal white, the walls of the Walker house are a dusty pastel teal above polished maple hardwood floors. A hallway leads back toward the kitchen, pausing at a computer room on the left outfitted with enough bells and whistles to satisfy a small LAN party. At the back of the house, through an arch, the kitchen is big enough to comfortably allow two active cooks and boasts a half-sized refrigerator and full pantry in addition to the usual stove/fridge/sink combination. A dining room, nearly as large as the kitchen, is set off by another half-wall like the one in the foyer. The furniture throughout the house is in better condition than next door, though only a few pieces are close to new. Stairs in the foyer lead up to the second floor, while a doorway tucked under the curve of the stairs heads down to the basement. A heavy door in the foyer with a monitor and intercom beside it goes back to the area set up for communal use by the Sept's Garou. Nat stands a few inches over average height for a woman, about five foot eight. Everything about her is square: her face, her jaw, her shoulders, her torso. There is a modest curve to relieve her figure, a hint at a waist but little beyond that. Her hair's a medium brown, perhaps a hand length long and purposefully tousled. Blue-green eyes are widely set underneath a pair of thickly stroked eyebrows; the square shape of her face and jaw emphasizes the large proportions of her nose and lips. She wouldn't catch any eyes except for that little niggling feeling of 'predator' in the way she looks at people, and the suggestion of prior and pending violence in the small scars pocked across her face and hands. Her accent is flat Midwestern unobtrusive, her age roughly twenty. Dark indigo jeans nearing an honorable retirement top dark brown steel-toed work boots. The jeans aren't low-riders, or flared, or fashionably ripped, but the sort you'd buy off the shelf at any Fleet Farm. Her tee-shirt is pale leaf green with a splat of blue-steel 'lead' centered on her belly and the faded words 'OILE I LEA' above. Nat comes in behind the Philodox with an air faintly reminiscent of 'sheep dog', the door snickting closed behind her. "Welcome back to St. Claire, Thomas. I'm glad you're here." She's as sincere about these words as her little outburst of a few seconds ago, though the two moods are worlds apart. "We've got a hell of a lot of catching up to do." Her thumbs hook into her pockets, the movement automatic. "You look like you need a cheeseburger. Wanna go back to the kitchen?" Her eyes slide over Rina's at the invitation, including the Kin within it. Rina's heading in that direction the minute she walks in, in fact, to put away the contents of the grocery bags. And to splash her face with water at the sink, for some reason. "Fine," Thomas rasps. His gaze sweeps over the interior as he follows Rina into the kitchen, and he notes, rather distantly, "The place looks good." "Thanks." Nat continues to play Corgi as she follows the pair back into the large kitchen - it's almost the size of the one at the Dominion, if not as well-equipped. A deluxe coffee and espresso-maker has pride of place in the center of one of the larger counters. "We -just- got it finished up: less than a week ago. Help yourself," she adds, nodding toward the fridge. "Assuming Kevin hasn't cleaned it out, there's half a pizza left from supper. Mushroom and ham." Rina quietly unpacks two frosty glass baking dishes covered with foil, and several little cartons of Ben and Jerry's Mint Cookie and New York Super Fudge Chunk. She turns on the oven to about 350, and sticks the Ben and Jerry's in the freezer without speaking a word. There is, however, an eloquent snort at the mention of leftover pizza. You paged the room with 'Is there a place to sit in the kitchen, or is that for the dining room only?'. Natalie pages to the room: There's plenty of counters to lean on, but no chairs. THere's room for a table, but there isn't one in here. Yet. Grey glances over at Rina at the snort and just barely smiles, just for a second or two. "I'm fine, thank you." Leaning an elbow against one of the counters -- still on his feet, still in his coat, like a stranger who expects to be sent away in short order -- he rubs his chin again, then rakes long fingers back through shaggy black hair. "I'm not sure where to start." "Quoting from _Sound of Music_," the Galliard half-drawls, "Start at the very beginning, it's a very good place to start." Her thumbs free themselves as she crosses to the fridge, pulling it open to bring out a plate covered with plastic wrap and three large slices of pizza underneath. "And for the love of Pete, take off your coat and stay awhile. I'm not going to throw you out." "You want any lasagne?" Rina asks, glancing over to him worriedly. "Or I got you Ben and Jerry's. You oughta have a snack, anyway." Grey's jaw tightens briefly, tense, and it's strange -- for those who'd notice such things -- how he's not quite looking at either of them now. "Lasagne would be wonderful, thank you, Rina," he says, keeping his voice even, and he straightens up to shrug out of the grey trenchcoat. Except for the boots, it seems he's decided to forgo the black hole approach to his wardrobe. "First of all, it's Thomas Grey now, not Walker." He looks at Natalie. "Is there a place I should put this?" Natalie frowns at the offer and acceptance of lasagne, gives the fridge door a sharp yank to pull it open - seal's a bit stiff, it would seem. "There's pegs back by the door. But you can just lay it over there," the low wall between dinining room and kitchen is given a nod as she replaces her offering back within the chill chest. "Thomas Grey, huh? Good. Calling you Walker the Walker was just too damn weird." Fridge door closed again, she turns to place her back against it and watch the pair. "Good," Rina murmurs. "You look like you've been living on street garbage and ramen noodles. God only *knows* what you had for dinner." She turns her back to the counter, standing a little straighter and crossing her arms over her chest, watching the man with big worried eyes. "I like Grey," she says a bit more gently. "It suits you." Grey drops the coat over the half wall between the dining room and kitchen and leans against it, arms folded across his chest. "Secondly." He pauses, glancing downwards, then looks back up at Natalie. "Are you still Elder?" Nat's taken to watching the Philodox, apparently trusting her ears to let her keep track of Rina's whereabouts. "/There's/ a hell of a question, but yes. I am. And I'm Challenging for Fostern at the next Moot, so if you want it back, you've got about ten free days." Confident, isn't she? "Come /on/, Thomas. Give. You've got a year's worth of story backed up, and I know right where my pliers are." Rina's jaw tightens visibly, and it's a good thing Natalie doesn't catch the look shot at her by the woman's dark eyes. She looks back to Thomas, chewing on her lip. Grey is shaking his head already when Natalie talks about him wanting the Eldership. He grimaces again at the Galliard's impatience and straightens up from his lean; the beast under his skin snarls, and its impatience is echoed in the sharp, abrupt snap of his voice. "Fine, then. We'll skip to the end." Teeth visible, he yanks up one sleeve of his long-sleeved shirt and bares his right forearm, holding it out for them to see the scar carved into the flesh there. Carved deep, as by Crinos claws. Discolored with ash to make it permanent. Rina may not recognize the glyph, but Natalie should know the ~Charach~ glyph when she sees it. "I'm not Fostern anymore." Angry. Angry and /bitter/. Rina makes a choked sound, and turns away, her shoulders hunching. She stares at the counter, and holds back several strong currents behind empty eyes. He can see Nat's eyes go big, her hands dropping to her sides in shock as she stares at the glyph. "...The /hell/?" Blue eyes flick from it to his sullen, scarred face and back again as though she's expecting - hoping - for the scar to have changed while she wasn't looking. She pushes slowly off the fridge and up onto the balls of her feet, then just as slowly back down. "Oh hell, Thomas..." Her voice has gone thin and thready, hollow. "Yeah, yeah, you've got a hell of a story to tell." Rina doesn't move until the oven beeps. Then she mechanically puts in the tray of lasagne, and sets the timer, and leans on the counter again as if it can hold her up. Grey pulls the sleeve back down and pushes his hands into his pockets. He takes a deep breath, pulling his interior frothmonster back on its leash. He nods at Natalie's words, gives Rina a brief, apologetic glance, then addresses his words more or less to the opposite wall. "Around the turn of the century, back when I was still an Ahroun, I was in Vegas helping some of our tribemates fight to take a caern away from the Bone Gnawers." He grimaces. "/That/ turned out to be shit, since our /people/ there were fucking /sick/ with the Wyrm... but that's another story. I met a woman there, Metis, Ragabash. Ronin. Mercenary. Fighting for our side. We ended up paired up much of the time, in battle, and..." He grunts. "I found a lot to admire about her. Didn't go further than that, though, until one night when it was quiet, and there was a lot of alcohol, and." He shrugs. "A mistake, I thought. Lapse of judgement. We parted ways soon afterward, but kept in touch. As I said, I admired her, and the feeling was mutual." Natalie doesn't even twitch when the oven beeps, but continues to watch Thomas. Now that the story's on its way, she seems content to let him tell it in his own way. Grey continues talking, his voice rough, almost a monotone. Once leashed, the rage seems to go to sleep... or collapse unconscious. "I tried to persuade her back into the Nation... more than once. She'd /chosen/ to be Ronin, though, and had objections to the way the Nation was run." There's a hint in his voice which suggests that he likely agreed with her. "Some time after I'd settled in again in St. Claire, a Philodox now, Beta to Smith's Elder, she called me up. Needed a favor. I'd promised myself I'd look out for her. I was gone, I think, a week or so. What happened in Vegas happened again. After I came home, I think it was, that I realized I cared for her more than is, /traditionally/ speaking, at least, legal." Natalie breathes another, "Hell," but makes no other move to interrupt. Despite her earlier threats of pliers, she doesn't seem as though she's about to leap at him or otherwise cause damage." Grey shifts his weight, once more giving Rina a look that's both regretful and, again, apologetic. Then he turns more toward Natalie. "She knew the danger. I knew the danger. We were careful." He grimaces again. "I hated it. There was no other choice, though. Nevermind that she's sterile, that no Metis offspring were possible. Nevermind that I've got Homid bastards scattered across Europe and America, probably. Nevermind that ever since I Renounced I've done my /damnedest/ to keep close to our kin, to make them feel wanted, needed, /valued/." He spits out a short, curt Serbian word, angry again; he shakes his head in disgust. "We kept it secret. I would have married her if I could. But we kept it secret." He takes in a breath, lets it out. "Then she disappeared." Rina straightens, and turns to watch him with more than a little concern for what follows. She wets her lips, presses them together hard. Natalie continues to watch, to listen, her face impassive. Grey rakes his fingers back through his hair, rubs the back of his neck. He's looking at the opposite wall again. "I tried every method I could to get in touch with her and failed. Questing Stone produced no results no matter how often I tried it or on what side of the Gauntlet." He folds his arms across his chest. "/That/ is why I left." His voice has dropped back into a monotone. "Took me almost a year to find her, and when I did, she'd gotten corrupted. I don't know how, except that it wasn't voluntary. If I'd found her a month later, she would have been irredeemable... but I didn't, and she wasn't. I called up a friend I knew at another Sept, the one I'd Renounced at. We got her there, got her Cleansed. But it went out hard, and she talked during it. Screamed." He looks at Natalie. "The rest, you can imagine. My friend spoke up in our defense, but she wasn't the Judge in charge. Lara was Scorned, scarred, given the Jackal's Voice, I was scarred, Satired, and the only /good/ thing I can think of in all of this is that she's finally gotten scared enough to rejoin the Nation. The Children of Gaia said they'd life the Jackal from her once she's passed their tests and been accepted into the tribe, and my friend -- one of our Family -- said she'd keep me up to date on how she's doing. And, so." He's no Galliard, really; the story just seems to peter out there. Whatever comfort Thomas might take in the "good" part of this whole sordid tale seems small at best, right now. Rina swallows, and just watches him--conveying what she might say with eyes rather then words, a clear pain and sympathy. Natalie takes in a deep breath and lets it out while raking fingers through her hair, unconscious mimicry of the older man. "Hell. And now you're back." One thing that hasn't changed in the past year - Nat's still mistress of the obvious. "I... I've got a lot to think about. I think I'm gonna... head up." She glances back toward Rina, then back to Thomas again. "Bedrooms are upstairs. You can have the one at the end of the hall. Don't... when you go up, keep it down. I don't know if Kev's sleeping, but if he is, don't wake him. I'll get you sheets, and the like. We'll talk tomorrow." Grey nods. "Tomorrow," he echoes. Rina turns to get something from the freezer--and then frowns at a bit of paper stuck on the door. Rina presses her lips together, hard, and then turns with admirable poise to get plates out of a cabinet. Well, it's admirable poise considering the tears welling in her eyes. Natalie moves to go, lips tightening into an awkward smile at finding Rina -right there-. She sidesteps awkwardly and strides down the hall without so much as a goodnight for either of them. A few moments later her feet go thumping up the stairs - pausing about halfway up before comtinuing. Grey watches Natalie go with dull eyes, and a brick wall of weariness settles down on his shoulders. He rubs his face tiredly with one hand and then looks over at Rina. "Not the reunion you'd hoped for, I know," he says quietly. She bites on ther inside of her lower lip, bowing her head for a moment. "I'm sorry," is all she can come up with. "Fuck. I'm so sorry. I wish-- I thought it would work out for you, I--" She faces the counter, with the plate sitting empty before her; tears roll slowly down her cheeks and splash onto the stylish square of pottery. As Nat's footsteps recede up the stairs, a second, lighter, set may be heard coming back down them. Like Nat's, they pause for a moment halfway. Then they continue downwards, and the door at the stairfoot opens once more to reveal Kevin, looking rather hollow-eyed and rumpled as though he's been sleeping in his clothes. He takes a couple of steps inside the room, then pauses as he notes Rina's evident discomfiture. "Things /don't/ work out for me," Grey remarks, with no small bitterness, as Kevin comes in. He looks over at the new arrival, his expression dour and his mismatched eyes intent. Kevin Lockwood is a somewhat gangling mid-teenage boy. Starting at the top and working down, he possesses very dark brown hair that might be mistaken for black in some lights, that's starting to grow out and look bushier than it did when he first showed up on the scene, and which, regrettably, he's taken to spiking up with gel; a long face with a rather large nose in the middle; brown eyes under heavy eyebrows; a downturned mouth, and a distinct Adam's apple. His prominent chin seems to be sprouting a few whiskers, as befits his age, though not enough yet to be seen by a casual glance. Below the neck, his body looks fairly slim and fit, though it's masked by a scruffy blue sweatshirt and grey sweatpants, both on the large side for his slim frame, and a rather worn pair of trainers. His legs seem a little long for his body, as though he's just undergone a growth spurt and his lower limbs reacted to the hormones before the rest of him. Rina swallows, and wipes a hand across her eyes before looking over to the newcomer. "There's lasagne in the oven if you're hungry," she says. "This is... Thomas." Kevin takes one more step forward, hesitates, then shrugs and passes through the arch to the kitchen. This brings him close to Thomas, whom he regards keenly. "'m Kevin," the cub introduces himself cautiously. "I was just gonna make myself a sandwich, but if you guys have spare lasagne..." Rina stands on tiptoe to get another tray. "Lots," she says. "I made it yesterday. And there's managott' I'll put in the freezer, too. So if you get hungry have some real food, okay?" She looks over at kevin pointedly. "None of that boxed-up crap." "Kin or Garou?" asks Grey, looking back at Kevin after a brief glance toward Rina. "Garou," Kevin replies. "Ragabash cub. Also known as Long-Climb-Ahead." His eyes drift to Rina too. "I'm trying not to gobble up resources till I can replace some of them," he explains. "What the hell's manawhatsit, anyway?" Rina seems more comfortable with something to do; she gets out forks and rips 'bachelor napkins' from the paper towel rack. The plates are popped briefly into the oven, under the lasagne, to get warm. It smells... well, only the memory of a divine homemade lasagne will serve to desribe that smell, rich with garlic. "It's just a kind of pasta, stuffed with cheese and meat, with gr-- with sauce on it." Her voice is quiet. "It's good for you. And don't worry about replacing it. You can buy me groceries sometime later. Grey nods slightly, unsmiling still. "Thomas Grey. Philodox. Welcome to the family." The greeting sounds automatic and hollow. Almost hesitantly, as if dreading the answer, he asks Rina, "Is Cat still around?" Kevin shifts from one foot to another as Rina heats up the plates. He's quite plainly noted that the atmosphere is tense enough to be cut with a knife, but equally plainly is reluctant to ask any questions about the situation. "Thanks, Rina," is all that escapes his mouth past the block of his British reserve. Rina doesn't lok toward him; she just presses her lips together, hard, and shakes her head. The tears roll down her cheeks again, and, irritated, she brings up a hand to dash them away. "I'm sorry," she mutters. "Sorry. No one's here, now, except Nat and Tu. And Kevin. So you really /should/ be fucking Alpha." "And do what?" Grey's own reserve has been kicked, clawed, beaten, and otherwise badly abused. It's worn thin, and bitterness spills out from him again. "Drag the rest of the tribe down with me? Oh, yes, that would look /very/ good for the Glass Walkers. An Elder who's a god-damned charach. Yes, very fucking good." He takes a breath, seems to notice that Kevin's still there, and looks away again, grimacing. He spits out something vulgar and angry in Serbian. "At least you're--" Whatever she was about to say, Rina bites back; she gives a quick shake of her head. "Forget it," she says hoarsely. "You're probably right, in your infinite fucking Philo wisdom. Sorry I said anything." The tears roll silently down her cheeks, as she rummages fiercely through the kitchen drawers. Kevin isn't there, oh no. He's trying to tuck his thin form out of sight in the inadequate space between the fridge and the sink. He looks uncomfortable; but he'e evidently not passing up his chance at lasagne. He may be a garou cub, but he's still a teenage boy with appetite to match. Grey mutters under his breath in that same Slavic language and rubs at his eyes. "I was never meant to be Elder," he says after a few moments of this. "It was a fluke, that's all. A mistake." "No it wasn't," Rina says tightly. "You were the best we had since John. The best in a fucking long time before that--" Turning her face away sharply, she gets a potholder and a towel out and slams the drawer. "I'm just not gonna talk," she mutters. "Some fucking welcome back. She punches you and calls you a bastard for no fucking reason. Nice to see you. We all missed you. And then me with the nagging, and the bitching. I'm a fine contributor to this lovely gala." All the while she is yanking things out of the oven, serving the food with anger for sauce, chopping out the innards of lasagne with violent stabs of the spatula. Kevin, while trying to make himself small, is the little pitcher with big ears, and he's evidently soaking up each word spoken. At the mention of punching, he raises his eyebrows twitchily. Grey's jaw works as he chews on his next possible words and, with effort, swallows them. Not talking seems to be a good idea. He just shakes his head and glowers at nothing in particular. There's a hurry in the way she gets plates onto the table, explained quite clearly by the broken words that follow. "Please just eat, okay? Excuse me. I have to go." She has to go fast enough to cry some more, apparently, somewhere away from the two of them. "Rina..." Kevin says, then tails off for want of any good conclusion to the sentence. Grey doesn't even say that much, and he seems to be, right now, ignoring the fact that Kevin exists. Sitting down at the table, he stares down at the perfect, wonderful-smelling slice of lasagne in front of him, then methodically begins to eat, taking no obvious joy in it. Just fuel for the machine, ma'am. She only stops when she hits the stairs, huddling at the bottom of them and stifling her sobs in both arms. Kevin sidles out from his hiding spot, snatches up a fork, and takes a mouthful of lasagne too. His eyes start a three-point circuit, from his plate to Grey and over to Rina at the bottom of the stairs, then back to his food. Grey finishes his food in short order, not saying a single thing to Kevin, not even looking at the boy; he's too wrapped up in his own cocoon of anger and weariness and angst. When the food's gone, eaten but sadly unappreciated, he puts his dishes into the washer, then goes out and heads upstairs. If Rina's still there, he doesn't look at her; he /avoids/ looking at her. Kevin watches Grey leave silently, then stabs his fork into the lasagne again. "Welcome back to Miseryville," he mutters. "Population: you." Somewhere in the middle of eating, they might hear the heavy steel door close, as stealthy as is possible.