26 Aug 2005, Friday night, after the rabid wolf incident.

[...Some time later, he calls Rina.]

The phone call comes late Friday night; the callerID shows that it's Grey.

She picks up after only a ring or two. "Yeah?"

Rina pages: Cell?
You paged Rina with 'Yeah.'.

"Rina." His voice is hoarse, shaky. "Good. You're, ah... are you busy?"

"No..." A wary concern sounds in the words. "No, I'm here, what's going on?"

She can hear him breathing -- raggedly, though he's trying to control it. "I
      wonder," he says, carefully, "if you might come by the farmhouse. I don't 
      trust myself to drive."

Rina swallows. "Yeah..." The cellphone picks up sounds of movement. "Yeah, I'll
      leave now. You hu-- should I bring anything? Does anyone need... medical 
      attention?" Really, she probably means 'does anyone need /opiates/.'

Grey sounds like he could use something calming, though considering his
      history, opiates is probably the last thing he needs. "No, ah..." There's 
      a scuff of movement, the sound of porcelain being knocked into, and a 
      ragged, whispered curse in Serbian. "Minor bleeding still, but I'm... 
      I'll /be/ fine. I think."

Rina lets out a breath. "Okay. I'm on the way, I'll be there soon's I can."

He breathes a relieved-sounding sigh. "...Thank you. I'll be out on the porch."

*click*

True to his word, he's sitting on the porch steps when she arrives, hunched
      over with arms folded close to his chest. His clothes and hair are 
      stained with recently-dried blood and sweat; tangled locks of the latter 
      hanging in his pale face. He looks, in short, like he's been through a 
      war.

The Ducati is not the best vehicle for dirt--she usually doesn't drive it to
      the house, but this time she speeds dangerously along the driveway to the 
      farm, skidding to a wild halt not far from the porch. She moves fast, 
      worry propelling her up to the stepsas she strips off her helmet. Dark 
      eyews scrutinize him, search out his wounds.

His right arm's been wrapped in gauze; the sleeve of the blue workshirt's torn
      and ragged. He keeps it close to his body as he stands up, carefully, to 
      meet her, free hand groping for and gripping the bannister. The halfmoon 
      seems none too steady on his feet, perhaps from blood loss; it's hard to 
      tell, at a glance, what else is damaged, if anything.

Her brow furrows. "We'll take your car, leave the bike here. Keys?"

The Ford Torino's parked nearby, just off the gravel driveway.

Grey nods and, awkwardly, digs in his right pocket with his left hand,
      eventually coming up with his keys and handing them over to the kin. 
      "Sorry to put you to the trouble." He's recovered some small amount of 
      composure since the phonecall, though it's tentative. "I just..." He 
      grimaces and shrugs one shoulder. "Sorry."

Rina shakes her head quickly, looking up at him with undisguised worry in her
      eyes. "No. Don't be. I'd rather you called me, y'know? It's all good." 
      Her hand covers his for a moment.

Grey nods quickly, avoiding her eyes. "Thanks," he rasps. Cold fingers close
      around hers.

She holds on for a moment, and then takes the keys and heads for the car.
      "Aright. You wanna go to the house?"

Grey follows after her, stumbling once and swearing in a gritted-teeth,
      automatic way. He uses the car to steady himself as he makes his way 
      around to the passenger side. "I..." He hesitates, leaning against the 
      door and flicking a raw, pleading look her way. "I wouldn't mind seeing 
      your new place."

She heads quickly to his side, supporting him for a moment before opening the
      door for him. "Easy. Jesus, you got worked, didn't ya?"

"Don't really remember," he mutters, avoiding her eyes again as he levers
      himself into the seat and starts the process of buckling up with the 
      wrong hand. The tremor in it isn't helping. "There was a wolf. Rabid. 
      Went after me. The next thing I know, I'm in Crinos on the ground, Touch 
      Deer and Reggie bleeding all to fuck, and..." The belt's being stubborn 
      and uncooperative; he curses again, more frustrated over this little 
      thing than one ought to be.

She paces around to get into the the driver's seat and, after getting in,
      rescues him with the seatbelt. "Christ."

Grey curls his arms close to his chest, the uninjured one over the other.
      "Fucking Thrall," he mutters. "Fucking /Get/." In the light of the car's 
      interior, his face is shockingly pale and drawn, his eyes reddened.

"Oh, hon," she says very softly. A tiny shake of her head, and then she starts
      up the car, pulling away from the farmhouse.

Grey hunches in on himself, his head lowered, tendrils of unkempt hair hanging
      like a curtain in front of his eyes. He watches the deceptively cheery 
      and welcoming-looking farmhouse dwindle in their retreat.

"You wanna talk about it?" she asks, softly.

Grey shakes his head slightly, but a moment later changes his mind. "Every time
      I turn around, something goes to shit. Every time I fucking stand up, 
      life kicks my legs..." His voice comes perilously close to cracking, and 
      he pauses to swallow. "Kick my legs out from under me," he finishes."

Wincing, Rina tries to keep her eyes on the road. "You frenzied, yeah? And
      someone threalled out?"

Grey shakes his head. "/I/ Thralled." His jaw tightens. "...At least, that's
      what I'm guessing, since I was trying my damnedest /not/ to frenzy, and 
      afterward vomited up bits of /someone/..."

Stricken, she fixes her attention straight ahead. "Jesus, Ja--" She catches
      herself before saying it, another wince crossing her face. "Man."

"...And when I came out of it, I couldn't feel my legs," he continues, as
      though not hearing her comment. "I mean /nothing/. Jamethon came by to to 
      heal, and the fucker made me /beg/ for it." He chokes on the word, 
      anguish and anger. "The--" The next few words are in Serbian and don't 
      sound very polite.

Her expression is pained, tense. "Get," she growls.
"Fucking assholes," she mutters. "Except for Signe."

Grey reaches up with his left hand and wipes them over his eyes, rubbing them.
      "Signe," he says tiredly. "...Right. That reminds me. She gave birth 
      recently."

Rina perks up a little. "Yeah? Well, that's /some/ good news anyway. Boy or
      girl?"

"Both." Grey leans his head against the window, unsmiling and weary. "Two boys
      and a girl, Natalie said. The girl's sickly, though. Going to need 
      hospitalization to survive."
Grey adds, "At least for a few months. I think."

"Triplets?" She glances over to him, stunned. "Was she on /fertility/ drugs or
      somethin'? Good Lord."

Grey shrugs gloomily. "Fuck if I know. Maybe. This was part of her Adren
      challenge. Though with Megan absent and the hospital a smoking cinder... 
      who knows."

"Megan's gone?" She sounds puzzled. "Hunh."

"Gone or out of communication, who knows." Grey continues to stare out the car
      window. "I heard she was having a difficult pregnancy, but I don't know 
      when she was supposed to be due."

Rina swallows. "Well fuck, if she was carryin' all /that/ around, no wonder..."

Grey shakes his head. "No, I mean Megan. Don't know if Signe's pregnancy was
      difficult or not." He grimaces. "It's not like she /talks/ to me."

"How're y'feelin'?" she asks quietly, with a quick glance over to him.

"Like shit," he answers, bluntly.

Rina wets her lips. "You'll need water... did you drink anything at the farm?"

Grey shakes his head, rocking it against the window. "Couple mouthfuls from the
      bathroom tap."

Rina stays quiet for a long time, as they drive down almost-empty highway. Her
      attention is on the streets, as they enter the city.

Grey remains quiet as well, sunk into gloom as he watches the shadowy streets
      go by.

"I'm glad you're okay," she says very quietly. Navigating the streets, she
      heads into the north end of the Montrose.

Grey glances over at her and manages a wan ghost of a smile. It vanishes pretty
      quickly, though, too weak to sustain itself. "I can walk, at least."

"Good," she replies. "It's a third-floor walkup." A wry smile touches her
      expression, eclipsed by worry when she glances over to him.

She parks not far from the north edge of the district, outside a tall, old
      building with classsic European lines.

Grey leans over to squint up at the building, interest flickering to life.
      "This where it is?"

Rina nods, as she kills the engine and slides out of the car. "Yeah." She
      circles to help him out, and points up to one of the windows. "That's my 
      window."

Grey, leaning against her like a drunkard, follows the her pointing finger to
      the window in question, then nods. "All right." Jaw set, he works at 
      keeping as steady as possible for the walk up to her new home.

"Feel free to give some weight," she says quietly, as they fumble through the
      business of the door. "I won't break."

Grey mutters something that he's fine, but nonetheless lets her support and
      steady him. "Thanks." His interest remains constant as they step inside, 
      curious to see the new place.

"You're not too bad off," she murmurs. "We'll get some fluids in you... good
      night's rest, you'll be aright."

She helps him gingerly up the stairs, a shoulder beneath his arm on the weaker
      side. "Easy..."

Grey nods faintly. "Could do with a shower, too," he says, which is certainly
      true. "Ought to shif--" He stops himself with tight mouth. "You know. To 
      heal." He glances down at his injured arm. "Rabid wolf. I'd better do it."
Grey frowns. "Re-wrap it, I mean." Self-directed annoyance.

"I'll wrap it for you," she says quietly. "It'll be fine. I trust you." They
      reach the landing, and she digs into her pocket again for the keys. "And 
      I /have/ done it before."

"Wear gloves," he says. Even angst and weakness can't quite prevent the streak
      of stubborn protectiveness where she is concerned. "Fucking thing was 
      foaming. Doubt I'll catch it, but I might be carrying for a few days."

"Sure..." Her smile is awkward, tender, as she helps him into the apartment.
      "Lemme make you a pallet, okay? You-- do your thing, and I'll grab a 
      blanket and be right back." She looks up at him and offers a small smile.

Apartment and Studio

A short entry hall opens into a large, bright livingroom lit by tall windows
      and two sets of French doors, all on the far side from the entrance. An 
      archway on the right side of the hallway leads into an alcove kitchen and 
      an open dining area. At the left side of the living room, a hallway opens 
      onto the bathroom, closet, and bedroom. 

Rina's apartment constantly smells of paint, and the windows and glass doors
      are perpetually left open to air out the fumes of her work. The 
      furnishings are eclectic and mismatched, and the wall space of the living 
      room is dominated by shelving and, in some places, paintings. The shelves 
      tend to be hand-constructed, mostly in metal and rivets, odd bits of 
      hardware exposed, one set of polished brushed-metal shelves suspended 
      from thin steel cables. The paintings are disturbing multimedia 
      landscapes, depicting science-fiction cities and cyberpunk vistas of 
      light and metal. In the center of the livingroom, a sofa with a 
      wildly-curved back, upholstered in spring-green velvet, sits with a 
      unique coffee table and two artsy-looking steel chairs that are half 
      sculpture. The coffee table is another work of modern art, a collage 
      piece made of mixed metals, recycled circuit board pieces in shades of 
      blue and green riveted together and set under a layer of clear Lexan, 
      half an inch of empty space in between. The shape is curvy, to match the 
      sofa's long S-contoured back. Against one wall, under one of the wide 
      landscape paintings, a TV sits on top of a birchwood cabinet, perhaps 
      four and a half feet wide by three feet deep, with five shallow drawers. 
      Some might recognize it as a flat file for art storage. A big 
      cushy-looking area rug in shades of natural, brown and green covers the 
      floor in front of the TV. 

A quarter of the room, one of the far corners with plenty of sun, clearly acts
      as a workspace; her easel is set up there, and the hardwood flooring is 
      protected by a sheet of vinyl taped over it, splattered with countless 
      colors of paint. In the opposite corner, away from the light, shorter 
      bookshelves of pale wood split off a small office area, with a small 
      modern desk and an elegant black mesh chair. The desk almost always holds 
      a slim notebook computer and a phone, and little else.

She doesn't leave his side until he has something to lean against--probably the
      wall, or the closed door.

Grey nods absently, his gaze wearily taking in the details of the new
      apartment. He smiles faintly and notes, "Smells like paint." Keeping 
      close to the wall, he takes a careful step, then pauses and looks at her. 
      "The bathroom's where?"

"Oh." Embarassment comes to her face, and she points to the hall. "Second door."

"Thanks." The bloodied and battered Philodox summons up another faint smile for
      her before shambling off to the bathroom. The jeans /might/ be worth 
      saving, the sneakers certainly, but the workshirt and t-shirt are all 
      over blood, the right sleeve of the former almost completely ruined from 
      the elbow down.

She pulls out an extra blanket, folds it into quarters, and lays it out on the
      floor not far from the opening of the hallway. Then she digs through a 
      half-unpacked box until she comes up with what she's looking for--an old 
      t-shirt that must have belonged to John, and a pair of oversized sweats. 
      She folds them up, and sets them aside to put in the bathroom when he's 
      out; then she heads for the kitchen to find a mixing bowl and fill it up 
      with cold water. A towel goes under the bowl, so he doesn't have to worry 
      about drinking neatly, and this is set by the folded blanket.

A rather damp, but not dripping, black wolf half-emerges from the bathroom
      after an extended period of shower-running. He bears more than one new 
      injury, though much of it's nearly healed due to the application of 
      Mother's Touch. Only the right foreleg still looks pretty raw, and he 
      holds it up off the floor, wobbling on three legs. The grizzle of 
      prematuring grey is more visible in this form, around his muzzle and eyes.

[We both had to go to bed at this point.  Basically, Grey stays the night in lupus
 to heal up.]