It is currently 15:14 Pacific Time on Thu Jun 23 2005.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly sunny today. The temperature is 69
      degrees Fahrenheit (20 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in 
      from the northeast at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.12 and 
      falling, and the relative humidity is 48 percent. The dewpoint is 49 
      degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (88% 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 right, 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.The living room holds a comfortable couch and a 
      pair of easy chairs, a maple coffee table matched by side tables beside 
      both of the chair. A large plasma television holds pride of place along 
      the far wall, flanked by maple glass-front cabinets that hold assorted 
      media equipment.

The 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 table is in the Mission 
      style, all clean straight lines, and currently seats six, though there's 
      evidence of another leaf to make it larger.

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.

Grey sits in his usual chair in the living room. The television's off and
      there's a book open in his lap, but he's not reading it. Instead, the 
      Philodox stares broodingly toward the windows, lost in thought.

Quite unsurprisingly, Jeren's been absent of late--her phone's been on, she's
      been replying to voicemail, and her SUV has been sitting in the driveway 
      for the majority of the time--but visibly, she just hasn't been around. 
      This goes doubly true for the past few days--one might be able to argue 
      that she hasn't left her room except to use the bathroom or sneak down to 
      the kitchen. 

And now, huzzah, the Ragabash appears to be making an appearance. She comes
      down the stairs without any ceremony, rather flat-footed, and wearing 
      clothing that is extremely wrinkled. Her hair? Messier than ever, which 
      again is not surprising. She doesn't appear to notice Grey--it's straight 
      back to the kitchen for this cliath, and a moment later the sound of the 
      tap is audible.

Jeren's arrival jolts Grey from his thoughts, and he looks up in time to see
      her pass. For a wonder, he's actually clean-shaven today, a detail that 
      somehow manages to make him look younger. More like his actual age, at 
      any rate. After she's passed by, he sits still for a moment, mouth tight, 
      fingers tapping lightly against the arm of his chair. Then he puts the 
      book aside, stands up, and prowls toward the kitchen.

Jeren is bent over the sink when Grey enters, in the process of filling up a
      tall glass for the second time with tap water. She drinks it in slow, but 
      nevertheless rather large gulps, eyes narrowed tightly on the sink's 
      drain.

Grey stops in the kitchen doorway, hands buried in jeans pockets, his
      expression unsmiling and hard. "So," he says, flatly, "what is it /this/ 
      time?"

Whether you blame the full moon, or other, unknown circumstances, Jeren's
      return remark is hardly cordially toned. "What is what this time?" She 
      doesn't lift her eyes from their current study--drains are, apparently, 
      very interesting.

"The reason you're acting like a wet sponge," Grey retorts, hard and
      unfriendly. His hands come out and brace against the sides of the 
      doorway. "What is it this time?"

Jeren's lips tighten against her teeth. Abruptly, she empties the rest of the
      water glass into the sink and turns around, looking hard at Grey, though 
      not directly at his eyes, not challenging. She doesn't answer right away, 
      she looks to be debating responses, but then she says, simply, "The Great 
      Hunt failed." It's a matter-of-fact tone, as if she just commented on the 
      weather.

"I weep," says Grey, sounding not the least bit sympathetic. "And what was it
      the last time? Because I got angry and used my fists on you. How many 
      fucking days did you slime about wearing the /same fucking blood-stained 
      shirt/? Jesus fucking Christ on a crutch." He grips the doorframe on 
      either side of him.

Jeren's jaw tightens. She visibly bites back a retort, instead opting for the
      standard breathe in, breathe out technique. One that's not being terribly 
      effective just now. "--Thomas, not now," she says finally, stiffly. 
      "We're both too pissed off."

"Look me in the eyes when you say that," Grey says, his own eyes narrowing.
      "Are you in charge or not?"

Jeren's mouth quirks--it's a grimace, not a smile, but her eyes do flick
      sharply to the side, meeting his, challenging his. "Until Natalie gets 
      back," she confirms in the same, stiff tone. "Unless you're challenging 
      me for it?" This last is...hard to read. It's not stiff. It's almost a 
      prodding, a poking. Didn't she just say they should refrain from this? 
      What a good example she sets.

Grey bares his teeth at her and then looks away, pushing off the doorframe with
      the same motion. "No. But if you're in charge, you should damned well act 
      like it." He's turning away, presumably to head back down the hall.

Something about this response seems to irritate Jeren further. "Fine. Then if
      I"m /in charge/, don't turn your back on me when we're talking, Thomas 
      Grey. And since we're on these happy sort of questions, where the fucking 
      hell have you been?"

Grey stops, his back stiff, and after a moment's pause turns back again. He
      clasps his hands behind his back, radiating suppressed temper underneath 
      the formal pose. "Visiting a friend."

Jeren waves her hand. She, in contrast, isn't making any attempt at being
      formal or composed. "I don't mean that. I mean /where/ have /you/ /been/? 
      For all of this? You weren't at the Hunt, you weren't at the Revel, you 
      weren't at the Farm raid, and if I play Theurge for a moment and hazard a 
      prediction, you'll probably not be on the Smog Bane raid either."

Grey's jaw tightens. His reply is very... controlled. Controlled and dead cold.
      He addresses his reply to the wall past Jeren's right shoulder. "For the 
      Hunt, I stayed behind on the Bawn in case of attack. After the moot, I 
      had to take charge of the cubs, and thus did not participate in the 
      Revel. And as for the farm raid..." He shifts his weight subtly, shrugs, 
      and tilts his head to bare throat. "For that, I have no excuse. Only that 
      it slipped my mind until Natalie told me you'd come back from it."

Jeren sighs, and a lot of the tension, the visible tension, at any rate, seems
      to drain right out of her. "Well you two were a little...occupied, that 
      night." Her lips twitch momentarily. "Sorry. I guess I'm just tired of 
      being the lone Walker." Pause. "No, that's not even it. I don't know what 
      the hell is."

Grey remains quite rigid. /His/ temper hasn't gone anywhere. "With all due
      respect, then," he says in clipped tones, "I suggest you figure it out 
      and get over it."

Jeren does bare her teeth this time, eyes narrowing. "With all do respect," she
      repeats icily, "You don't hold the copyright to the art of brooding over 
      private issues to the exclusion of other more pressing things. /I/ am 
      doing my part, whether I'm 'sliming' around or not."

Grey's nostrils flare, and his gaze shifts to focus directly on her. "/You/
      are... and no one else, is that it?"

"No," Jeren says, slowly. "/I/ am. And /Natalie/ is. And /Kevin's/ on his rite.
      /Tu/ is doing what-the-fuck-ever. And /you/? You're...teaching cubs and 
      babysitting."

Apart from the seething, ravening beast ill-hidden under his skin, Grey's lean
      face is unreadable. His body is absolutely rigid. "...Fuck you, Ms. 
      Harper," he says after a beat of silence. "If you truly think that is 
      /all/ I do around here, then say the word and I'll leave, and /you/ can 
      handle my share of the bills. Otherwise, you may sit on it and spin." 
      Self-claimed omega or not, the former Shadow Lord has plenty of offended 
      nobility in his bearing; the quality of his breeding is almost as loud as 
      his temper.

Something, something unnameable changes in Jeren's expression--it's subtle, but
      it's there. "Fuck you right back, Mister Grey," she returns, but without 
      managing the ire she had in her last sentence. "If I wanted you to leave, 
      I'd have told you ages ago. No, that would be /your/ decision, to turn 
      tail. And I don't think you would."

"Don't pretend you know me, because you don't." Grey takes a tighter hold of
      his temper. His voice remains chilly. "That being said, no, I don't plan 
      to leave to abandon my duties here."

"Maybe I know you better than you think," Jeren says. Her tone has turned low,
      even--infuriatingly so, in fact. There might even be a hint of smugness 
      buried in there. "I think you won't leave for the same reason you won't 
      challenge me for Beta. I think you're afraid. I think you're especially 
      afraid of winning."

Maybe it's something she said. Maybe it's the way she said it. Fury leaps out
      of the halfmoon's eyes and skins back his lips; it's with great and 
      obvious effort of will that he chokes back frenzy. This battle, brief 
      though it is, prevents any verbal reply for several seconds.

Jeren takes a very small, involuntary step backwards. Who's the one who's
      afraid again? She glances sidelong to the rest of the kitchen, then back 
      to Grey, and squints. "Basement." It's more order than question, more 
      statement than order. "Then you can show me how wrong I am."

Grey regains enough presence of mind to find his tongue again. "No." He turns
      his face aside, refusing to look at her.

Jeren exhales sharply. "/Look/ at me, Thomas. /You/ came to /me/. You were all
      about telling me to get over things. And this isn't the first time you've 
      said it. So...fine. Go to the basement with me. /Prove/ to me I'm wrong 
      about what I'm saying. /Prove/ I haven't been acting like the Beta I 
      should. Do it before you lose control anyway."

Grey's mouth twists into a scowl. "No," he says again, stubbornly. "Because I
      likely /will/ lose control." He bares throat and steps back, retreating 
      stiffly, hands coming unclasped from behind his back. "You win."

Jeren makes a grumbling, irritated noise that doesn't quite make it into words.
      "I don't /want/ to win. I want you to prove I'm wrong." She gives chase, 
      though she doesn't try to close the distance between them.

Tu is heard well before he is seen making his way to the Walker side of the
      house. He pauses long enough to take stock of who is about, heading 
      towards Grey when he spots him. "Hey, I wanted to ask..." he pauses as he 
      senses the mood, and sees Jeren. "Am I interrupting?"

Grey turns his back on her rather than backpedal the entire length of the
      corridor. "Talk sense into her, please," he says to Tu. The Philodox is 
      visibly irritated in that could-snap-and-frenzy-at-any-moment way. "Tell 
      her I will /not/ indulge her masochistic fantasies."

Jeren bares her teeth again, though it's lost on Grey since his back is to her.
      She doesn't precisely answer Tu. "None of this has anything to do with 
      /me/. And you don't have to fight me, Thomas. Just prove me wrong. Name 
      your terms. Stare me down. /Anything/. Don't just bare throat and run 
      away to your room again."

Tu flicks his gaze between the two other Walkers, weary of whatever it is he
      walked in on. "He says you're right. You say you want to be proven wrong, 
      which really means you want to be proven right about something?" He looks 
      back towards Grey. "So, what is it that needs proving or disproving?"

At 'run away to your room again', Grey stiffens, his hands snapping closed into
      fists as another spasm of repressed fury goes through him. "If you care 
      that much about it, Jeren, see me when I'm not close to ripping your 
      fucking face off." His voice is thin and tight. Barely, he manages a dip 
      of the head toward Tu and an almost apologetic-sounding, "Excuse me," 
      before he stalks off, yes, to the second floor.

Jeren hisses after the swiftly retreating Philodox, "Count on it!" This time,
      however, she doesn't chase him. She turns sharply, moving back toward the 
      kitchen, the fingers of her right hand twitching testily at her side.

Tu steps out of Grey's way as he passes. He waits a few moments for Jeren to
      collect herself before inquiring further. "What was all that about?"