Morning Snippet

[hazlogs]

12 Sept 2002

The day starts as it usually does, with Salem waking around five in the morning and disappearing for a couple of hours. He returns around seven, showers and dresses -- black, black, and more black, and has Cat _ever_ seen anything in his wardrobe that isn't a dark color? -- before going to wake the cub sleeping on the couch. That is, if said cub isn't awake already.

No, he's asleep, curled up on the couch. Books make his pillow. Ever since Rina had brought the books back, the cub hadn't been able to stop reading them. He's actually gone through them all once, but he's re-reading them again. The title of the topmost book is covered by Cat's hair, which has started to become unmanageably long.

Salem eyes the sleeping figure for a moment under the spare blanket and mutters, "Pillow, too. Remember that," to himself. Then he takes the boy by the shoulder and shakes him toward wakefulness. "Time to get up, Cat."

The top book slips of the small pile and onto the floor, as Cat sits up groggily with one hand to his head. Whenever someone woke him from a sound sleep, he got a headache. "Mornin'," he mumbles, shifting about uncomfortably and rubbing at his eyes. Sleepy.

"Morning," the Philodox says, briskly. He heads for the kitchen area, where the automatic coffee pot is keeping the morning brew warm. "Go get cleaned up. We have a lot to do today."

Slowly Cat bends down to pick up the fallen book, placing 'Aren's Call' back with its brethren before getting up from the couch. He yawns, scratching at his wrist as he trots into the bathroom and prepares for taking a shower. He has to fish the cockroach that's taken residence on the shower floor out, though.

There's another one perched on the tube of toothpaste, feelers waving at the sleepy boy. While Cat showers, Salem gets breakfast together, scrambled eggs with bits of ham shredded into it, and cheese. There'll probably be toast, too, and orange juice. And coffee -- for the cliath, not the cub. Black, like the contents of his closet.

A few weeks ago, the thought of touching a roach would have given Cat the willies at the least, a fit at the most. Now he picks them up carefully, almost tenderly, and sets them down as a pair just outside the bathroom door, before closing it and getting into the shower. The water wakes him up, and in six minutes the cub's drying himself off and brushing his teeth simaltaneously.

The CD player is on by that time, playing Vivaldi; through the bathroom door, violin notes dance energetically toward spring. Optimistic music. Happy music. A good omen, possibly?

Cat's a theurge, not a galliard, and so any clues to Salem's mood via the music is lost on him. Damp hair sticking out wildly in every direction (giving him the appearance of a harrassed dandelion), the cub gets dressed, carefully. The pantlegs are rolled up neatly, the shirt tucked in. His hair is a lost cause, but neck-down, he's presentable. Satisfied, he slips out of the bathroom after checking that Roach One and Two were not on the floor.

The roaches have scattered off to do roachly things. Hearing the bathroom door open, Salem glances up from scrambling the eggs and regards the boy critically. However cheerful and perky the music sounds, the halfmoon looks as stern and dour as usual. "Brush your hair," he says. "Then set the counter."

Obediently Cat turns about into the bathroom, picking up his brush and wincing as damp-and-already-knotted-hair meets the teeth of the brush. A few more minutes with that interesting struggle. The small boy manages to brush the blond mess out, gives his reflection a parting frown, and then sets the hairbrush by the toothbrush. Toilette for the day completed, he heads back out into the kitchen and starts picking up the pairs of spoons, forks, and knives to set the counter.

"Have you thought about where you want to have lunch?" Salem asks. He glances over at the cub again, watching him with that one good eye.

Cat looks up, the silverware in his hands as he tilts his head to consider the question. "Um, no si- Salem." He caught himself, but a flicker of worry in blue eyes all the same. "I d-don't really know a lot of places in St. Claire. M- Reh...Rina showed me a bookstore called Dark Wine and Roses," he offers as helpfully as he can.

Salem lifts a brow. "I know it. You want to eat there?" The eggs are nearly done; Salem leaves them for a moment to pop a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.

Clink, clink. Clink, clink. Two places are neatly set, and Cat puts two plates on a counter near Salem so that he can put food on them when he wishes to. "Is that okay? Maybe you know another place. I, um, I don't mind. As long as it's food." He smiles a bit.

"Mnh." Salem eyes Cat a moment. He doesn't smile back, but he does give the cub a nod before finishing up with the eggs. "Dark Wine and Roses it is, then. Go pour yourself some juice." He turns off the electric burner and dishes out hammed and cheesed and scrambled eggs onto the plates.

When Salem goes to take his seat at the counter, two glasses of orange juice will greet him. Yes, Cat spilled a little on the counter when he poured, but he cleaned it up with a napkin quick enough, and slipped into his own seat to wait patiently for breakfast.

Eggs, toast, butter and -- for Cat -- grape jelly. Salem sets the plates down and seats himself opposite the boy, then starts eating. As usual, he's not much for small talk, and the meal will likely pass in silence unless Cat chooses to speak up.

Cat says nothing but a mumbled grace before reaching for the butter and jelly, spreading liberal amounts of both on his toast, which is eaten quickly. He's a growing boy, and puts away his meal like it's his job. Eggs, more toast, all find space inside the cub's thin body. It's not until his plate is virtually empty that he talks, his eyes blinking at Salem questioningly. "Today, I get my hair cut...right?"

Salem's plate gets emptied more slowly, but then, he's not a growing boy. Taking a sip of coffee, he nods. "You get your hair cut. That'll be first. Then, we go clothes shopping." His eyes narrow very slightly. "Do you remember what I said last night, about who you are if anyone outside of family asks?"

There's a quiet sense of wavering in the blue. Then Cat smiles, rather suddenly. It's one of those poster-boy smiles for children at prestigious private schools. "My name is Cat Hopkins, an' this is my uncle Jack." Just as suddenly, the impromptu smile fades to a smaller, tenser version of itself. "I kind of ad-libbed...but Mi- John said I needed a new name. So. Um." An uncertain silence.

Salem arches a brow slightly at the name, but he nods approvingly. "Cat Hopkins. Mmn. It'll do." He finishes off the last of his eggs, then wipes his mouth with the napkin and rises. "Eventually, we can see about getting you some official identification... but it's not vital right now." He gathers up his plate and silverware and heads for the sink. As always, cleanup follows immediately after the meal.