It is currently 19:28 Pacific Time on Sun May 8 2005. Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 60 degrees Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northeast at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.76 and falling, and the relative humidity is 66 percent. The dewpoint is 49 degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius.) Currently the moon is in the waxing New Moon phase (1% full). 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. After several days' absense, the shit-brown Ford Torino pulls into the driveway, its motor rumbling heavily as though expressing an ill-temper. Then the sound of the engine dies away, and more time than is necessary for getting out and entering the house passes. The newest Walkercub is in the living room on the tribal side of the house, taking up space on the couch as she usually does when chores are finished. She glances up from her notebook-scribbling as she hears the engine, looking expectantly towards the door. Finally, it opens, and Thomas Grey stumbles in like something the dog cacked up. He's wearing the work attire he left the house in Friday morning, but the white button-up shirt's untucked and stained with sweat, grime, dried blood down the front. The slacks are in no better shape and sport a nasty tear in the right knee. The boots, on the other hand, are scuffed but otherwise unharmed. As for the man himself? Lank, disheveled hair, dried blood on his knuckles (and more on his face around nose and mouth, though there seems to have been a half-hearted attempt at cleaning up at some point), eyes that look like raw pits of blood and shadow, and the smell of bars, that special mingling of alcohol and cigarette smoke. He makes a more or less direct line for the stairs, one hand trailing the wall as though taking much-needed guidance from it. "Hey, Thomas," the skinny cub hops up to kneel on the couch cushions before he's even gotten completely through the door, propping elbows on the back of the couch. Cy's rather more energetic than usual, and her wreck of red hair has been tamed into two pigtails that stick up raggedly from her head. "Where you been? I wanted to ask you ab--" She trails off as she takes in her elder's appearance, and blinks. Grey, with his foot up on the first step and one hand on the bannister, pauses before turning his head to fix the cub with one bloodshot brown eye. "What." His voice is flat, though more from deep, past-the-flesh weariness than the usual careful control. The cub looks at that eye like a deer caught in the headlights, and swallows. "What hap--uh. Nothing." Her voice is small now, and a furrow of concern digs between her brows. "Right," Grey says, his voice a rasp. "Nothing." He turns away and continues up to the second floor, slowly, leaning on the bannister. The door opens only a few moments later, this time to admit Jeren. She's looking much the same, except for a small amount of dampness in her hair, and a small, polished piece of hematite dangling from a small length of twine in one hand. It's tugging gently in the direction of the stairs, and the Ragabash looks up with a small, exasperated exhale. That is, until she gets a better look at Grey. Then her brow furrows. Cy's still watching Grey's ascent from her place on the couch when Jeren enters. She glances over at the Ragabash, eyes wide with worry. Grey, for his part, either doesn't notice Jeren's arrival or simply ignores it. He continues up the stairs and disappears as he reaches the second floor. Jeren meets Cy's look with a thin lipped one of her own. She gives a small flick of the hand holding the stone, curling the object up into her palm. "...Did he say anything?" A door closes upstairs, though too close to be the one to Grey's bedroom (which is all the way at the end of the second-floor hallway). "No," the pigtailed girl shakes her head, gnawing at a thumbnail. Her expression is dark. "But he smelled like a liquor store." She frowns for a moment more, tapping a hand absently against the back of the couch. "Y'got a cell phone?" Jeren slides the stone and string into her pocket. From the opposite one, she pulls out the requested object, and flips it out, thumb pressing the green 'on' button. "Why do you ask?" Upstairs, the sound of the shower turning on, muffled by distance and the closed bathroom door. Vaulting over the back of the couch, the cub approaches Jeren with an outstrteched hand for the phone. "Gotta call Natalie. You know her number?" She's bouncing on the balls of her feet a bit with restless energy. A cheesy musical tone announces the phone is on. Jeren glances up briefly at the sound of the shower, then looks back down and punches in a few numbers on the cell, then presses the call button. The phone is passed to Cy. Cy takes it without ceremony, ducking her head as she presses the technology to her ear. She waits a few moments, pacing agitatedly. "C'mon, c'mon," she urges the ringing on the other line, expression clouded. With a muttered curse, she takes a breath and speaks into the phone: "It's Cy. Thomas just got back and--he looks fucked up. There was blood. I dunno. Y'should probably get back here. Like, /now/." Scowling, the girl presses the 'end' button and stares down at the little phone pensively. Jeren reaches for the phone as Cy ends the call. She's not quite as visibly irritated by the failure to reach Natalie, though her lips have become thinner. "--Alright. Cy, do you know how to make coffee?" The cub shoots Jeren a rather derisive look. "Duh." She doesn't hand the phone back, though--she's already dialling another number as she paces further into the living room. Kicking absently at the foot of Grey's usual armchair, she speaks again: "Yo, it's Cy. Thomas is fucked up. Thought you should know. Come check on him or something, a'right?" She lets out a wordless growl of frustration as she flips the phone shut rather forcibly. Jeren grunts. She trails after Cy, rubbing at the back of her neck. "Hey, it's not the phone's fault. Who else did you call?" Again, she reaches for the phone; this time a little more insistently. "I need you to make him some coffee. I don't know how." The admission is clipped. Cy passes the phone back without protest, then blinks at the confession as though Jeren was some alien life form. "...Oh-kay. Whatever. I'm on it." She turns to head into the kitchen, ignoring the Ragabash's earlier question. The cub rattles her knuckles along the wall of the hallway as she goes, obviously agitated. As Cy moves back to the kitchen, Jeren glances down to the phone, frowning faintly at the number displayed. Even so, her expression isn't necessarily disapproving. Without turning the phone off, she tucks it back into her pocket and turns toward the stairs. She hesitates a moment at the bottom before starting resolutely upward. The shower continues to run. Down in the kitchen, Cy has coffee brewing in no time--unlike Jeren, the cub has had a lot of practice. She passes back out into the living room, looks around, and growls to herself. "Yo, Jeren!" She lifts her voice enough to be heard from the lower floor. Jeren has only ascended to the very top of the stairs. As the shower's still running, whatever she might be thinking of doing is on hold, so she's leaning against the wall, arms lightly folded. "Yeah?" she calls back down. "Just--don't bug him." The girl's circled around to the foot of the stairs now, frowning up at the Ragabash as she issues her order in a lower voice. The shower turns off. The bathroom door remains closed. Jeren's jaw tightens. There's a flicker of frustration across her face, but rather than respond directly to the order she asks, "Is the coffee done?" "Getting there." Cy kicks aimlessly at the lower step, letting out a breath. "... 'M worried about him." She sounds even younger than the age she resembles for a moment, almost speaking to herself. Shaking her head, the pigtailed cub snaps out of it and goes back into the kitchen. Jeren runs her fingers sharply through her hair before once again folding her arms over her chest. She's trying not to watch the bathroom door directly, but her gaze does keep trailing back to it. The bathroom door opens in one of those instances when Jeren's not looking at it, releasing the wet figure of the prodigal, the leanly muscled figure draped in a dark blue, knee-length robe. He's clean now, overlong hair hanging wetly in his eyes and over his ears, but his eyes still have that raw, bloodshot look to them. Seeing the Ragabash apparantly standing sentinal, Grey stops short, his jaw tightening. It takes the cub a few more minutes the emerge downstairs, and when she does she's carrying a steaming porcelain mug in a dishtowel. "'S hot," she warns needlessly, trudging her way up the stairs to where Jeren's leaning. She pauses then, gaze on the bedraggled older Philodox. Jeren's eyes dart sharply back as the door is opened, and for a moment she falls into her usual habit of studying the taller man. Then her gaze drops to the floor between them, and she murmurs, "Would you like me to get those clothes cleaned and patched, or toss them?" she finally asks. Grey's nostrils flare, some uncomfortable emotion flashing across his scarred features. Anger or shame, more likely a little of both. In truth, his eyes flick away barely an instant after Jeren's; he shifts his weight and finds himself eyeing the cub and her mug. "I'll take care of it," he rasps, turning back to Jeren and studying her right shoulder. He steps back, withdrawing into the bathroom long enough to gather up the sad little bundle of cloth and his apparantly indestructable boots. Cy just hovers wordlessly near Jeren with the mug, watching the older Philodox from behind a ratty strand of hair that's escaped into her eyes. Her expression is unreadable, but she's biting her lower lip. Jeren nods faintly, offering no argument. However, when he re-emerges, words escape from her mouth that aren't quite so carefully thought over. "--I'm sorry." Grey blinks. His brow furrows, and his frown is both puzzled and wary. "For what?" He glances sidelong at the cub, then back to the other Cliath. No words from Cy, nope. She's just looking at the coffee. Jeren sticks her tongue between her teeth, shoulders stiffening, before she continues. "--The other night. You know. With Signe. Heh. I'm...a royal hypocrite at times, and an asshole." Again, she ravages her hair with her fingers. "--So. For that. I'm sorry. I do owe you one. And I've been meaning to say so all week." She gestures toward the cub. "...Cy made you coffee." As if that wasn't really obvious. Grey looks at Jeren like he hasn't the slightest idea what she's talking about. "Signe...?" Then he remembers. "Oh. That." He shrugs, looking downwards as he turns away from the pair and toward the end of the hall. "Forget it." "You can," Jeren says in that same, uncomfortable way that makes it clear she's just trotting out whatever reaches her tongue first. "I won't." She mentally flails for a moment, then settles for an abrupt, "G'night, Thomas," and retreats to her own room--which is thankfully closer and only requires her to move a few steps from her current position. That leaves Cy in the hallway, blinking uncertainly at the retreat of both adult Garou. She frowns at the mug in her hands and hesitates. In that time of cubly hesitation, Grey reaches the end of the hallway, goes into his room, and closes the door behind it. No light flicks on to leak underneath the door, but for once, no music leaks out, either. Jeren's door doesn't completely close, but likewise, she doesn't turn on the light. And a moment later, the sound of bedsprings can be heard, followed by silence. The teenager curses under her breath, hissing, "/Stupid/," to herself. Steeling her nerves, she pads down the hall and stares balefully of the door to Grey's bedroom. It's a long time before she knocks--just the most tentative rapping of knuckles. After a few moments, his voice is heard from within. "It's open." Safehouse: Grey's Room It's a spacious bedroom, if not as big as the one across from it. The door at the end of the second floor hall opens into a small space about five feet deep which, to the left, opens out into a wider area. Windows along the longest wall and near the top of the other outside wall provide plenty of sunlight, and the room is bright for most of the day. The walls are a dusty pastel teal above a polished maple hardwood floor, and the furniture, though not new by any means, is in good shape. Though the room doesn't lack for tidiness, there's a certain absense of the little touches that would give it personality; either its inhabitant hasn't made it a home yet or simple doesn't care to personalize. A neatly-made double bed is set lengthwise against the longer of the two interior walls, its head near a small nightstand which holds a reading lamp and an alarm clock. The closet door, which is usually closed, is across from the foot of the bed, and a large, solid-looking dresser stands against the middle of the longest wall, on the other side of the bedroom. A small stereo sits on top of it. There's a somewhat venerable armchair in the corner made by the two exterior walls, and a low bookshelf (mostly empty) squats along the shorter of the exterior walls, underneath the windows. Another hesitation, before the door cracks open just enough to admit the skinny cub into the darkened room. Cy steps in like a nervous version of the proverbial knight entering the dragon's lair, except she's got a coffee mug instead of a shield. She blinks, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. The boots have been set down next to his still-new Chuck Taylors; the ruined workclothes lie in a rumpled pile near the door. Thomas Grey is a shape in the darkness, seated on the edge of the double bed with a stack of CDs (all within jewel cases) in his lap. His face is in shadow, but he seems to be looking at her, or at least in her general direction. "Coffee's gonna get cold," the girl murmurs, by lame way of explanation. She hesitates again before crossing to set the cup and dishrag on the nightstand. There's a rustle as she pulls something paper from a jeans pocket, and sets it atop the mug. Another moment of hesitation. Grey nods faintly, murmuring a quiet, "Thank you." He looks down at the stack in his lap; though it's hard to see, the top one seems to be some sort of classical album. "Tomorrow," he adds, in that same flat, distant tone, "we'll go over the rest of the Creeds." "You should rest." Her words are hurried, almost blurted, and she winces to herself in the dark. "I know," he says. "I will." Cy pulls in an audible breath, watching what she can see of his shadowed profile. "...Did you get hurt?" Silence stretches out for one second, two, more. Finally, he shakes his head. "Just a fistfight." Pause. "I think." He shrugs, squints at the CD cover, then tosses it into the little wastecan near his nightstand. The slam of a door downstairs punctuates the silence. The cub nods wordlessly, letting out a breath as if she was holding it. "'Kay. Well... g'night then, Thomas." Ducking her pigtailed head, she turns and goes for the door. "Good night, Cy," says Grey, blandly. A second CD flips through the air and joins its sibling at the bottom of the wastepaper basket. Rina bursts in, nearly colliding with the girl after her headlong bolt up the stairs. She stops for a moment, squinting at Cy and then at Thomas. Grey's bedroom is dark, light oozing in from the doorway, and barely reaching the seated figure on the edge of the bed, still damp from his recent shower and clad only in a dark blue bathrobe. A steaming cup of coffee, brought by the worried Philodox cub, sits on his nightstand. He's startled by the kin's sudden arrival, looking up sharply and going, suddenly, very still. Stepping back in from the near-collision, the cub blinks, then gives the kinswoman a rather meaningful look and a nod. With a look over her shoulder, the girl sidesteps Rina and slips out of the room. Rina swallows. "What happened?" she says quickly, worried eyes trying to search his indistinct form. Grey's hands tighten on the stack of CDs in his lap. Seconds drag by without an answer from him, and the shadows make his face completely unreadable. Her brow furrows a little, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face, vague in the darkness. "Can I turn on the light?" "I'd rather you didn't." His voice sounds tight, apprehensive; the quickness of the reply confirms it. His head bows, face toward the things in his lap. "Okay," she says cautiously. "Will you... could you talk to me at all? Tell me... what's wrong?" Grey's bowed head shakes back and forth, slowly. "Don't want to." His voice is just above a whisper. Then, apologetic and guilty, he adds, "I'm sorry." The last word ends abruptly, in a hitch of breath. Paralyzed, she stands there for a moment without breathing. "Okay," she whispers, catching in a bit of air after. "I'll be outside this door. When--" Revising, she takes a careful breath. "If you want --anything." He nods slightly, gripping the stack of CDs with shoulders that, even in the darkness, look hunched and tight. "Thank you." She turns and steps outside, closing the door with exaggerrated care--and sitting down in the hallway, her back against the wall. Rina pages: Would he likely move her if he found her sacked out in the hall? Long distance to Rina: Grey can see that, yeah. Carry her into the bunkroom and put her to bed. And I think he /will/ talk to her, confide in her... he's just not ready to talk about it at /all/ yet. :} Y'know?