It is currently 18:27 Pacific Time on Mon Mar 28 2005.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 44 degrees
      Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the 
      southwest at 15 mph, with gusts up to 22 mph. The barometric pressure 
      reading is 29.65 and rising, and the relative humidity is 82 percent. The 
      dewpoint is 39 degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius.)
Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous Moon phase (76% full).

[Merritt Psychiatric Hospital]

Visiting. He's admitted to the sunroom, a place with windows and plants and
      pale green. A nurse, youngish and male, goes to get her.
Grey is wet from the rain, his unkempt black hair hanging limp over his
      forehead, dripping tendrils around his ears. He looks, overall, 
      bedraggled and waits with weary patience.
Rina comes out in hospital pajamas, loose pastels, both arms wrapped around
      herself. Her eyes are a little dull, the gold tarnished and faded, shaded 
      by her unkempt hair. She almost can't look at him; her gaze remains 
      lowered, glued to the floor, as she moves to sit down in a nearby chair. 
      "I-- you-- didn't have to come here," she says hoarsely.
Grey leans over, reaching out to take her hand. His is still chilly from the
      weather. "I'll go if you want," he says, all somber and quiet. "But I had 
      to see you."
She looks to his hand; her own barely grips back, faintly, a match to the
      confusion on her face. "Has something happened?" Her head lifts a 
      fraction, until she meets his eyes; the expression of worry is painted on 
      a glacier, making only a dent in the surface. "Jenny? Is Jenny okay?"
Grey's brow furrows. "Jenny's fine, far as I know." He cocks his head slightly,
      studying her face for a moment, then forces a faint smile and squeezes 
      her hand companionably. "She's fine. I was just worried about you."
Rina glances down, hazily. "Oh," she says. "I--" She swallows. "Me. I'm
      not--myself, here. I mean it's all ... blurry."
Grey's free hand, the one not holding hers, reaches out to brush lightly at her
      hair, the forced smile fading. "It's all right. Consider it a vacation."
Her hand tightens a little in his. Tears well, abruptly, in her eyes, and she
      turns her face toward him, toward the corner of the room, away from 
      prying eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry. I was--knowing that 
      he was hurt, knowin' it was my fault, I couldn't stand it, I couldn't--"
"Shh." Quiet, soft, just like always; Grey slips into the role of comforter as
      though he'd never put it down. In the centuries since He died, the 
      halfmoon's had plenty of practice. "It's all right. You didn't do 
      anything wrong."
"Don't let them see," she whispers. "If they see they're make you go away." Her
      eyes are downcast, fierce with the need to control the tears. "Don't hold 
      me." She looks up to him, desperate. "Just help me get outta here, soon? 
      As soon as I can. I'm so sorry."
Grey's brow furrows, but he withdraws as requested, though he continues to hold
      her hand. "All right," he says slowly and then, with reluctance, adds, 
      "Though you do need help."
Rina swallows again, fiercely. "I'll be fine," she whispers. "As long as he's
      fine I'll be fine. It's the drugs. It'll take some time." She wets her 
      lips; her eyes move, flicker, as if searching for something on the floor. 
      "That place-- that place--" Her breathing is the slightest bit quick. 
      "They're not s'posed to drug you if you say no. It's a right."
Grey grunts. "Why do you think I got your father to get you out of there?" he
      mutters, for her ears only. He squeezes her hand again. "You should be 
      all right here, though. Same place you were at a couple of years ago, 
      remember? I brought Cat to visit a couple of times."
She looks to him, carefully. "I miss Cat," she says softly. "Almost as much
      as--"
Her eyes fill again with tears, and she ducks her head abruptly as they spill
      onto her cheeks.
Grey's fingers tighten around her hand. Not enough to hurt, of course, but
      firmly. "You're going to be fine. Get some rest, and you'll be out of 
      here in no time."
"Soon," she whispers. "Please God soon." She looks out toward the windows with
      their plants, and brushes a hand beneath her eyes.
Grey gives her hand another little squeeze. "Soon." Though when she's not
      looking, his expression is doubtful.
Rina looks down to their joined hands, her fingers twined with his. "I'm glad
      you're here," she whispers. They stay like that, companionable for a time.
The silence between them is a good one, the kind that only grows up between old
      friends, between two veterans in a long and brutal war. When the staff 
      finally announces that the visit's over, he leaves with an air of 
      reluctance and gives her a farewell with a promise of, "Soon."