Hangover

[hazlogs]

Date: Sunday, Aug 25, 2002.  Morning.

Note: After the talk with Rina, Salem went off and got very, very, very
drunk and didn't go home to do it, because of Cat.  He eventually passes
out somewhere.

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (87% full).


When awareness and the world of the waking start to intrude on Salem's
consciousness, it's with clashing edges. The initial juxtaposition of the
unfamiliar and the familiar bring the sight and smell of concrete walls--
the bunker Smith kept the Strider in, not so many weeks ago. It's cold,
and empty of life; the only illumination is from a stark rectangle of
daylight. An open door. Faint smells of gasoline and the canvas cloth of
the cot he's laid out on. A sterlized pillow.

...And let's not forget the after-effects of a night of drinking oneself
senseless. Blurred memories. A foul taste in his mouth that the Wyrm
itself couldn't top. And a hangover. Second time in less than a month's
time, too. Salem groans quietly and opens his eyes a crack, face twisting
into a grimace.

It's not within his immediate view, but a familiar shape sits in an
uncomfortable-looking steel-framed chair. One leg's folded over the other,
both arms folded, and the head down - the Walker Elder's eyes are hidden
by small, black, circular shades. It's only the shape that's visible,
though-- out of the main pool of light from the door, John's form is dark,
save for highlights from the too-bright white light of day. The stony face
lifts, stirring at the sound of Salem's awakening.

Salem closes his eyes again for a moment and then, with a grunt, manages
to push himself up into a sitting position on the bed, throbbing headache
or no throbbing headache. That seems to be as much as he can do for the
moment, that and place a hand over his face, the heel pressed against the
socket of his good eye, fingertips pressing at his temple.

The Ahroun simply remains sitting there, arms folded and expression grim -
eyes unable to reveal even trace emotion beyond a relaxed, unmoving
control, as he watches the half-moon pulling himself up.

Salem squints rather painfully at his watch, grimaces again, and then --
finally -- drags his gaze over toward John. There's a trace of guilt on
his face -- no masks, not today, not this fucking early in the morning
with Gaia's own hangover -- and perhaps a kind of humiliated shame and
frustration, but mostly he just looks deadened. He doesn't say anything.

The Elder doesn't move a muscle, in his regard of Salem. "Not happy,
Jack," he eventually murmurs flatly.

Salem grunts an acknowledgement and swings his legs over the side of the
bed, carefully. Standing up's something for the future. Maybe. He props
his hands against the edge of the bed and, shoulders sagging, regards the
Ahroun wordlessly, his expression unchanging.

John evidently decides to give Salem a little help. He rises smoothly,
with his usual grace, and slips hands into trenchcoat pockets. One
re-emerges only moments later, with a wallet. Jack's. The Ahroun tosses it
lightly at the floor by the cot. "Friend of a friend sees a guy with a
wallet, showing around ID of a scary-looking fuck with one eye and Satan's
features. I get interested." The Ahroun inclines his head as he gestures
towards the wallet, then slips his hand back into his coat pocket.
"S'empty."

"Wasn't much in it," Salem says dully, looking down at the wallet. He
doesn't yet reach down to retrieve it. The leather jacket's missing, too,
of course.

The Ahroun just stands there, moving slowly into the path of the daylight,
blocking it. He tilts his head slightly, considering the half-moon
impassively. Waiting.

Salem rubs at his forehead again after another moment's silence, then lets
his hand drop and turns his face toward John, mouth pulled back into a
pained grimace. The set of his shoulders grows tight as he rasps, "If you
have something to say, fucking say it."

"Big words, Jack. Real inspiring." Emotion enters John's reply, but only
to go so far as sarcasm. He pauses. "Had trouble with that alcohol order,
huh?"

Salem pauses for a moment, frowning, then shakes his head -- carefully,
lest it fall off like it's apparantly threatening to do -- and studies the
patch of concrete in front of his boots. No excuses are offered.

John sucks on a tooth, still watching Salem carefully. Eventually, he
breaks the silence, murmuring, "Start talking, Jack. Because I'm... I'm
real close to getting pissed off, here."

Salem lifts his eyes from the floor to the wall, but that doesn't bring
his gaze any closer to the Ahroun. "It's been a shit weekend," he says
hoarsely. His voice sounds like his throat's packed with sand. "A very
shit weekend."

The reply is low, and angry. "Don't /fucking/ bullshit me, Jack. You
consider this an order: /Spill/. Or don't my orders mean anything to you,
anymore? Like staying sober?" The hands are out of the pockets, now, and
flexing, as he slowly moves closer. "Have I gotta start making you
understand I'm serious with my fists, huh? Like you're some fucking new
cub?"

Salem's jaw clenches, teeth grinding together, his upper lip lifting
enough to show a gleam of teeth. He squeezes his eyes shut in pain. "Or
like your fucking fiance?" he spits out, his tongue moving faster than his
wits. A spasm passes across his face, hands gripping the edge of the bed
tightly.

The speed at which the larger man crosses the distance between them is
frightening. A balled-up fist is the first thing to strike Salem, across
the jaw, but not the last by any means. In his dazed and weary state, the
adrenaline doesn't come fast enough for him to even register - in those
first few instants - exactly what's being done to his body. One thing's
for certain, though. He's relocated, to the floor, hurled almost bodily by
the enraged Ahroun.

By the time the Philodox starts to move to defend himself from the
assault, it's over, and he's on the floor, the pain in his jaw in ruthless
competition with the pain in his head. Much too late. Levering himself up
onto his elbows, he stares at the Ahroun for a moment, lips compressed.
Then he tilts his head back slightly, baring throat.

John stands over him-- breathing hard, and with his fists balled, out to
the sides. The glasses cover eyes full of murderous rage. "Fuck you," he
rasps tightly. "Fuck you. What the /fuck/ would you know?"

Salem slumps back against the concrete. "Nothing. Nothing at all. You hit
her, and I almost killed her. What the fuck _do_ I know?"

The Ahroun lifts a hand to pull the glasses away from his face. To show
the true face of that frustration, and anger. Wide-eyed and fixed entirely
on the ex-Ronin. "What do I have to do? What makes it all better? Can you
tell me that, huh? What do I have to do, /Judge/?" The last word's spat
with acid - a mocking twist.

Salem's face twists into a spasming grimace, teeth gritted. His reply
comes out as though the words were dragging themselves out with thorns,
barbed wire drawing blood across his soul. "Don't hit her. Not in anger.
Not in punishment. Not because she's driven you sick with worry, or
because she's being a reckless idiot, or..." He stops, pressing the palm
of one hand against his forehead. His eyes are squeezed shut again.

John's face tightens, brow furrowing deeper in concern and shame, than the
anger of moments ago. He slips his glasses into his pocket, and
straightens out his shoulders, as he turns away and takes a few restless
steps towards the doorway again. "Why'd you get drunk last night, Jack?"
he demands, in a low rumble.

Salem doesn't look like he's planning on getting up off the floor any time
soon. He doesn't answer the question right away, and when he does, his
voice is tired. "Talked to Rina." His hand drops away from his face and
rests on his chest while his good eye, bloodshot, stares blankly at the
ceiling.

The Walker Elder looks over his shoulder, sharply, at that. "And how
exactly do those two events have a cause-effect relationship?"

Salem sighs. "I don't know," he answers quietly. "I hardly remember what
she said. She's fine, though." He gets his elbows under him and starts
painfully levering himself up into a sitting position. A note of
self-deprecation enters his voice as he adds, "I don't know why. It made
sense at the time."

John turns a little more, now, to inspect his Tribesmate more closely. His
eyes narrow. "Holdin' out on me, Jack. Why? What've you got to lose, 'Dark
One'?"

Salem grimaces. "Don't call me that."

The Ahroun smiles tightly - entirely devoid of warmth or humour. "Yeah.
I've heard the names. 'El Diablo'. So what aren't we doin' right, here,
huh? What /have/ you got to lose?"

Judging from his expression, the former Ronin likes _that_ little moniker
even less than the first. "Nothing. Everything. It's not important," he
rasps, groping for the edge of the cot so he can use it to pull himself
upright.

John nods a few times, minutely, just watching Salem with thinned lips.
"Was I ever like this?" he murmurs softly to himself, and then shakes his
head, turning for the exit.

Unsurprisingly, Salem doesn't have an answer to that. As the Ahroun turns
to leave, he makes it unsteadily to his feet, dragging together the last
shreds of dignity about himself as he does so. It's a poor cloak at best.

"You know the way home," the Ahroun grunts, as he reaches into his pocket
for the shades. They're slipped back onto his face, and his hands return
to his pockets; his graceful progress takes him to the few steps up to the
steel door. "A walk'll do you good," the Elder rumbles, without looking
over his shoulder. He adds, low and wry in heavy tones, "It's a lovely
day."

Salem doesn't reply, and neither does he immediately follow the Ahroun
out. Instead he sinks down onto the cot and rests his head in his hands,
too tired even to swear.

A car door thumps closed. An engine starts, and a van pulls away, over a
gravel path.

[Eventually, Salem starts the long (several hours) walk back.]