It is currently 21:07 Pacific Time on Fri Jun 10 2005. Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 59 degrees Fahrenheit (15 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 3 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.93 and rising, and the relative humidity is 89 percent. The dewpoint is 56 degrees Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius.) Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (25% full). 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 wooden 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. Rina rattles around in the kitchen, mixing something with vodka. Grey's car pulls up with a rumbling growl, dies with a cough as the headlights dim and go out. A minute or so later, the man himself lets himself in with a rattle of keys, already tugging loose the plain black necktie. The movement in the kitchen falters, freezes; Rina stands still, looking down into the tall glass and listening intently. Grey mutters under his breath, whether English or Serbian, it's hard to tell. He stops to consider the door into the Walker side of the house, then seems to reconsider, mouth twisting into a grimace. Turning away, he pulls off his tie, tosses it onto the coffee table, and then drops himself onto one end of the couch. Rina drinks down half the contents of the glass, wincing. The clink of ice betreays her presence, and then the freezer door, as she fetches the vodka to top off the screwdriver. Grey looks in the direction of the kitchen, brow furrowing. "Kaz?" "'S'just me," Rina answers. "I can leave if you want." She doesn't come out, instead studying the slow dance of ice cubes and liquid in her glass. Grey drops his eyes, staring tiredly down at his boots, then rakes fingers back through his shaggy hair and pushes to his feet to carry himself through the dining room and into the kitchen. "I apologize for the other night," he begins. Leaning one hip against the counter, her back turned to the entryway, she doesn't turn or even lift her head--but the line of her back, covered only in a white t-shirt with red banded trim, reveals tension. "Nothin' to apologize for," she says quietly. "I was stupid and needy and didn't even ask. So." "So," Grey echoes. He leans against the edge of the half-wall between dining room and kitchen, staring dully at her back, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped. "You're not stupid." "I trust somebody who doses me to the gills with heroin and leaves me for dead, and you tell me I'm not stupid?" Her voice is sharp with bitterness and self-recrimination. "Get real. I should know by now, you don't owe me /shit/. I'm the one who owes you, and I oughta act like it." She swallows more of the mostly-vodka. "Rina," he begins, about to start a weary argument, but then stops and rubs a hand over his face. "You still planning to move out of the studio?" he asks, changing the subject. "Yeah. Soon." She drinks down another swallow. "You want anything to drink?" Grey looks sorely tempted, but shakes his head. "I probably shouldn't." He doesn't sound like he'd take much convincing, though. "I brought some good ginger beer. And Weinhard's vanilla cream. Not just alcohol. This stuff is crap anyway." The low, matter-of-fact words fail to entirely hide her raw feelings; she still hasn't looked toward him, her head down to hide her eyes. Grey sniffs once. "What are you drinking?" "Screwdriver. Cheap-ass vodka." Grey grunts. He still has that longing, tempted look on his face, but says only, "Maybe a glass of water," as he folds his arms across his chest. "Trust me. You don't want this crap." She tosses back the rest of it, and rinses the glass in the sink, dispelling the scent of alcohol. Her eyes are dull, numb, and betray the traces of recent tears; she tries to keep them from him as she fetches another glass down and fills it with ice and water. Grey isn't the most perceptive or empathetic person in the world -- far from it -- but he knows that look and knows it well. His own eyes show no such signs, but they're perhaps equally dull as he watches her. "I'm sure I've had worse." "Probably," she agrees, summoning up a pale echo of her smile as she looks up and hands him the glass. Grey accepts it with a mutter of thanks, his eyes meeting hers for a brief second before ducking away. Several overlong locks of hair fall forward over his bad eye as he takes a sip. "If you--" Her voice is rough, hesitant. "If you ever feel like you can talk-- whatever it is--" She swallows, and turns to busy herself refilling her own glass with innocuous water. "It doesn't have to be me. But talk to somebody. Anybody. Do whatever you need to do." Grey's jaw tightens as he stares down at the ice in his glass. "There's nothing to talk about," he says, a bit defensively. "I beg to differ," she says quietly. Grey's weight shifts subtly backward. His gaze flicks up toward her and then away again, back to ice floating in cold water. "Beg all you want," he answers, tightly. "I'm just. Tired." He takes another sip. "That's nothin' unusual," she murmurs darkly. Grey's brow furrows; he looks up sharply. "What's /that/ supposed to mean?" "Just that you're always tired," she murmurs. "You don't get enough rest." Rina glances over to him, worry shielded in her eyes. Grey grunts, staring at his glass again. "I suppose that I can't argue that." He shrugs, making the ice clink. Swallowing, Rina ducks her head. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. "For everything." Grey shrugs again. "Not your fault." He straightens up. "I'm going to try to get some sleep, if you don't mind." No sarcasm in this; his tone toward her is honestly deferent. "I'd love it if you actually succeeded," she murmurs wryly, and sets her glass aside. Grey actually manages the faintest of smiles at this, but the expression is overburdened by weariness and cynicism; it vanishes quickly. "Good night, Rina." He lifts the glass of water a bit. "Thank you for the drink." Jeren is coming home late, it would seem--the rattle of keys comes from the front door, followed by the Ragabash herself. No sound of a vehicle beforehand, and since her car has been in the driveway all day, one can assume she walked to wherever she was off to. She looks generally tired, but in a better humor than she's shown in the past few weeks. Leaning her hip against the counter, she watches him with a wistful half-smile. "Sure.." Glancing over to the entryway, she looks back to him and murmurs, "Night." Grey turns and heads back toward the front of the house, giving Jeren a glance and a nod as he passes by. He remembers to collect his necktie from the coffee table before he disappears into the Walkerside.