Self-Doubt

[hazlogs]

Date: 9/29/02

Currently the moon is in the waning Half Moon phase (46% full).

Red Mill Apartments #219

This one-bedroom apartment is small, sparcely furnished, and kept at a
level of cleanliness and order that borders on the obsessive. A
greenish-gray couch, obviously secondhand, holds court in the main room,
accompanied by a low coffee table and a nearly empty bookshelf. In the
kitchen nook, which is separated from the living room by a stomach-level
counter, everything is gleaming and put away. The bathroom's cramped, and
the bedroom's just big enough for a twin bed, an end table, and a dresser.

At odds with the strict cleanliness of the apartment is the obvious
presence of cockroaches; one or two can occasionally be seen scurrying
from Point A to Point B unmolested by traps, poisons, or sprays. Indeed, a
small plate with fresh canned cat food has been set in a corner near the
kitchen nook, apparantly just for the benefit of these insects.


Rina knocks on the door in the early afternoon, and then lounges against
the wall in the hallway.

The door opens to the sound of _Madame Butterfly_ playing on the stereo
and the image of a completely healed Jack Salem in black t-shirt and
sweats. The apartment behind him is dark but for whatever sunlight manages
to get through the window. The Garou eyes the kinswoman without surprise;
the thin smile he gives her is pleasant enough, but wan, and there are
dark circles under his eyes. "Rina," he says, stepping aside. "Come in."

Rina echoes that smile with a faint, slightly dark one of her own. "Hey,
Jack," she says, and steps inside. "Din't know y'like opera."

Salem closes the door behind her, setting the chain only, ignoring the
other locks. "It's relaxing," he says. There are several bowls and glasses
in the drainer by the sink, four of each, along with like number of plates
and silverware. The cockroach plate on the floor holds a bit of cake,
which the roaches seem to be enjoying, and half a bottle of tequila sits
on the counter.

Rina follows him into the dim apartment. "You feelin' okay?" she asks
quietly.

"Just tired." He sinks bonelessly down onto the couch, letting the shadows
take care of obscuring his features. "You talked to John recently?"

Rina shakes her head minutely, and watches him as she paces over toward
the couch. "Not about you," she says dryly. "Do I look stupid, or
somethin'?" She drops to a seat beside him, flopping into the cushions.

Salem frowns minutely at that, squinting as he peers at her. "Hmnh." He
shifts his position, sinking lower against the cushions. "We... hashed
things out, between us. Everything's fine." Of course, one has to wonder
then why it looks like he's running on near-dead batteries.

Rina tucks a leg up between them, turning toward him and giving him a
critical look. "Mmm-HM." Her eyes narrow. "Judging from how he looked when
he first came home, 'hash' is not a euphemism."

Salem grunts. "Had to talk with him about Quentin. And he decided to...
test my patience." His face twists into a sour, rueful grimace. "A nice
red blur. But..." He stretches his legs out and folds his arms across his
chest. "That's not what I meant. He came by again last night, and we...
discussed things. Without the claws."

"Seemed like it went aright," she says cautiously, watching him.

"We didn't kill each other, if that's what you mean," replies the Walker,
dryly.

Rina nods. "You... had a pretty good talk?" Her voice is quiet, gentle
almost, and her forehead is lined with concern.

Salem doesn't answer right away. His gaze moves away from her as he lays
his arm across that of the couch, fingers absently picking at a loose
thread. "It was... interesting."

Rina glances down, worry flickering through her expression. "If you wanna
talk about it, it's aright. I mean... if there's anything."

"I know," he says. "I _know_. I..." He trails off, tilting his head to
look at her again, studying her face in the half-light. Considering.

She looks up again, the dark eyes meeting his for a moment, concern in
them, a brooding look. "What?" she asks, almost a whisper.

"Here's a question." Salem's voice is quiet, pensive; the look in his eyes
is lost... or maybe just weary. "You may not be able to answer. Frankly,
I'm not sure myself, but..." He trails off, hesitates, then looks at her
squarely. "Am I a Philodox, or an Ahroun pretending to be?"

Rina studies his face for a long moment. "I don't know," she says quietly.
"Sometimes people /are/ born under the wrong moon. And you... y'seem
easier in y'self, than when you were... than before." She ducks her head.
"Rage is a part of every Garou," she says softly. "The war, the need for
blood... those things are in the heart of every moon. So I don't know. I
think you are a good judge, but..." Lifting her eyes again, she looks at
him with a touch of regret. "I don't know much about how you are... with
them, y'know?"

A flicker of bemused surprise passes across his face when she says he's
seemed easier with himself, and then his mouth takes on a rueful, bitter
little twist. Salem looks away again, plucking at that loose couch-thread
again. "John thinks I'm lying to myself," he says dully. "And maybe I am.
I don't know." One-handed, he manages to wind the thick thread around his
finger, tightly. "Most of the time, these days... I don't know anything
anymore." The confession comes hard, like it pains him to drag it out.

Rina's expression shadows, and she gives a shake of her head. "I don't
know. If you think it's true, then... you can go back to that." Looking
up, she offers him a small, sympathetic half-smile.

Salem, looking away as he is, doesn't see that smile. "Yes," he says. The
lack of inflection speaks of a lack of energy rather than the usual
controlled, careful modulation. "I know."

There's a soft tapping on the door, so soft it may be lost if there's any
music playing. "I'm back," is the muffled announcement. Cat's outside the
door with his hat jammed over his head, looking as waifish as ever, hands
covered in bright yellow mittens.

"Jack..." She touches his other hand, briefly, drawing back after that
tentative contact. She breaks off, then, as Cat comes in--glancing
startled toward the door.

There is, indeed, music playing, and it's _Madame Butterfly_ again; the
cub should be getting to know this particular opera well. The apartment's
nearly in darkness, the only light coming in from the window. Salem jerks
sharply as the door opens, startled, pulling tight on the loose couch
thread but not snapping it. His shadowed face appears rueful as he regards
the shorn cub; he shakes his head and unwinds the thread from around his
finger. "Welcome back. Have a good walk?" Tired or not, he manages to
insert a note of pleasant lightness into his voice.

Rina smiles brilliantly, rising from the couch and pacing over to the boy.

Cat blinks, looking mildly surprised- at Rina's presence or Salem's good
behavior, it can't be told. He nods though, stepping over the threshold
and closing the door behind him with one hand, quirking a very small smile
in return to the Kin. "Uh-huh. Quentin said he was gonna stop by the
Yellow River place, so he dropped me off here." A slight pause, and then
it's the cub's turn to be light. "Feeling better?"

Rina glances to Salem, to watch his answer.

Salem remains seated, watching the pair of them as he rubs at the grooves
that the thread dug into his finger. "Fine." And he is, too -- when Cat
woke up this morning, the Walker was back in Homid form and without a
scratch on him, apart from the usual old scars. Something about a mother's
touch; Salem hadn't gone into detail, and indeed had acted overtired all
day. He still sounds tired, too.

"Cept he needs some rest," Rina murmurs, mussing Cat's non-existent hair
affectoinately.

Where Tatt had done the same and gotten a reluctant blink out of the boy,
Cat frowns slightly and makes only a half-hearted attempt to bat Rina's
hand away, the other hand holding the hat close. "I'll be quiet," he
promises Salem with great solemnity.

"Of that," Salem remarks to Cat, "I have no doubt." He marshalls what
energy he has and gets to his feet. He rubs at the back of his neck,
looking at the kinswoman. "And you're right. I do. As poor a host as that
makes me."

Rina shakes he head minutely, and crosses the room to Salem. "Don't worry
about it," she says, giving him a quick, tentative hug.

Salem lets her, his reaction to it oddly awkward, without the usual
dignified, feline air of equanimity. He squeezes her shoulder -- the
_right_ one this time, and gently -- before disengaging himself and
vanishing into the bedroom.

Cat doesn't follow Rina's example in hugging Salem, but a curious, pleased
little smile comes on his face as the Walker cliath leaves. Once he's
gone, the smile becomes a grin for Rina, but whatever about is a mystery
solved only by the cub.