Visiting Rina

[hazlogs]

Date: Monday, 30 Sept 2002

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (38% full).

Location: Rina's Studio

Loud music comes from within the apartment: heavy urban rock, accompanied
by the pervasive smells of paint that saturate the building.

"Just in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by..." Salem murmurs to
himself as he approaches the door to Rina's place. He shakes his head,
adds "Idiot," in Serbian, and then raps his knuckles against the door.
Hard, in order to be heard above the music.

The volume drops to a much more sensible level, and there is a pause as
she checks the visitor's identity. Then Rina slides the deadbolt back and
pulls the door open, her grin coming in somewhere between shock and amazed
delight on the brilliant-o-meter. "Jack!" She gestures him in, quickly.
"Come in come in come in, it smells awful but I'll throw the resta the
windows open..." She's wearing painting clothes, loose baggy camo pants
and a tight rib-knit shirt that does little to conceal her lean frame--or,
for that matter, her nipple ring. It's an improvement over those thin
wifebeaters she tends to hang about in when the weather's hot--at least
it's opaque, with a modest neckline, and long sleeves. There is, of
course, a good deal of splattered paint on both garments.

He should thank Gaia for small favors, perhaps. Salem manages a wry,
crooked little half-smile as he steps inside, dressed in the usual black
and black and more black -- with one bit of color in the open long-sleeved
shirt, dark red, that he wears as a layer between t-shirt and trench coat.
His nose wrinkles slightly at the paint smells, but he doesn't seem apt to
complain. "I'm not interrupting, am I? I was taking a walk and... hm." His
good eye roves the apartment for signs of the products of her work.

Rina waves a hand absently. "Nah, I needed a break. Johnny said he'd be
out late, so I figured I'd take advantage of the solitude. Y'know. Just
fool around some with ideas." It looks like she's been doing just that,
from the big torn sheets of white paper tacked up everywhere. Most are
just in black, but some of the glyph-symbols include vivid colors.

She heads vaguely for the kitchen, gesturing in the direction of the
couch. "Mi casa and all that crap," she says affably. "Wanna capuccino?"

Salem studies the glyph-covered butcher paper with interest, head cocked
in almost birdlike fashion, favoring his good eye. "Mn. If it's no
trouble," he says, shrugging out of his coat as he steps toward the couch.

Puttering about in the kitchen, she makes a few clattering noises; after a
minute she finishes loading the espresso machine and crosses over to him,
flopping down on the other end of the couch with a sigh. She slouches with
abandon, throwing her head back all the way and sprawling lazily on the
cushions. "Ugh, yeah, I needed to take a break."

Salem's coat is draped over the back of the couch by the time she's back,
and he's installed himself at one end, long legs stretched out before him,
crossed at the ankles. With the moon thinning out, finally, he actually
seems almost relaxed. "Well. Glad to be an excuse, then," he says dryly,
watching her. "Sorry about last night, by the way."

Rina rolls her head to look at him along the back of the couch, her brow
creasing in a slight frown. "Sorry f'what?"

Salem arches a brow. "Leaving you alone to Cat's tender mercies?"

She smiles a little, tipping her head back once more and relaxing. "Cat
and I were fine. I din't stay long."

Salem nods slowly, shifting his shoulders to make himself more
comfortable. "I've been trying to get him out of the apartment more. To
get him... out, without me holding his proverbial hand."

Rina takes a deep breath, and sighs, her eyes closed. "He's a tough nut to
crack," she murmurs. "And I been thinkin'..."

Salem tilts his head, regarding her quizzically. "Mmm?"

"Just tryin' to find a way in. I wanna teach Cat to shoot, for starters."

Salem rubs a hand along his jaw. "Aah. Yes. He mentioned that. I remember
that he sounded rather interested in the idea, too." He scratches absently
at a spot under his chin, then folds his arms across his chest. "I like
the idea. Give him _some_ kind of weapon he can use, since I can't see him
using his fists or his claws anytime soon." The Garou's expression takes
on a rather sour note at this last.

She looks over to him again, her eyes narrowing slightly. "The time'll
come," she says softly. "Always does. That levee gonna break, and when it
does, I hope you're there to fight the flood. 'Cause I dunno who else
/can/."

Salem looks dubiously back at her. "If it happens within the year, I'll
eat my boots," he states, cynically. His gaze turns away as he shakes his
head. "I'd settle for him not collapsing when faced with conflict. Or
being able to handle the sight of blood. He's a Theurge, after all."

"It'll be a while," she answers, lowering the dark eyes. They are deep,
haunted. "It took me... longer than a year. And nobody stole my fuckin'
childhood." She lifts one shoulder and smile crookedly at him. "Least, not
'til I was thirteen or so and didn't /want/ to be a kid anymore."

Salem looks back at her, one dark eye studying her as if trying to imagine
this theoretical thirteen-year-old Rina Vencenzo. An easier feat,
probably, than her trying to imagine Jack at the same age. "Mmn. Yes. He's
fifteen, you know. As difficult as that may be to believe."

Rina snorts. "Jesus," she mutters, looking up at the ceiling. "When I was
fifteen I had an arrest record."

"And I was clawing my way to the top of my peer group at the Sept." He
gives another brief shake of his head, unsmiling, his eyes distant.

She glances over to him again, worry in her eyes. "He doesn't do anybody
any good if we break him," she says quietly. "And it's terrifyingly easy
t'do that."

Salem frowns, turning his eyes back to her face. "I'm aware of that," he
says, a little testily, perhaps. There's a hint of frustration in his
voice, too. "Too hard and he crumples. Not hard enough, and he won't grow
at all." He exhales a sharp breath, dragging a hand back through thick
black hair. "As it is, I'm expecting him to be a cub for quite a long
while. It may be years before he's ready for Riting."

Rina nods, watching him closely. "Take it easy, Jack," she offers, her
voice soft. "Don't be hard on /you/, aright?"

Salem blinks at her, the gathering storm of anger dispersing like clouds
in a strong wind. "...Well." He rubs at his mouth, his expression a
mixture of wryness, bemusement, and pessimism. "I've... hmnh." He
hesitates, his words reluctant. "I've gotten... attached... to the boy."
His arms across his chest again, defensive, tension in his shoulders and
jaw. "I don't want to have to cull him. Or see him killed, or worse,
because he can't defend himself."

Sympathy touches the girl's eyes, and a flicker of worry for him. "We'll
all do the best we can, Jack. Nobody wants any'a that to happen." She
stirs abruptly, getting up with a restless quality to her movements,
heading for the kitchen. "You like lotsa sugar? Or none, or a little?"

"None," he says, automatically, and then abruptly changes his mind. "Just
a little." As she turns to go to the kitchen, he unfolds his arms and
passes a hand over his eyes, rubbing absently.

She gets down cups from the cabinets, and pulls a pitcher of milk from the
fridge; the noise of the excess steam frothing the milk soon comes from
the kitchen. "Y'oughta take better carea y'self," she says as she pours
coffee and milk into the broad, bowl-shaped cups.

Salem turns the eye-rubbing gesture into a pass back through his hair. He
frowns slightly toward her, his eyes narrowing. "Come again?"

"You heard me," she says quietly, stirring a little sugar into the drinks
and spooning white foam onto the dark coffee.

Salem grimaces faintly. Vaguely tense, he shifts against the couch
cushions and folds his arms. "I'm fine," he tells her, the way he's said a
thousand times before.

Rina snorts, picking up both cups and bringing them over. The look she
gives him states her opinion as clearly as that sound, and her voice is
dry. "Bullshit." Offering him one of the cups, she keeps her own and
retakes the other end of the couch.

Salem accepts the proffered cup. He regards her with a dour expression for
a moment, then relents and dips his head slightly, offering up a quiet,
"...More or less," to qualify his answer. He sips at the capuccino, using
it as an excuse not to look at her, or meet her eyes for the moment.

She watches him, a flicker of something hard in her eyes. "I need you.
Gianni needs you. And Cat needs you. So take care of yourself, or /I'll/
start *mothering* you. 'N'I don't think either of us wants that."

Something approximating a sense of humor must still be lurking there,
somewhere in the depths of his sour mood, because at Rina's threat of
mothering -- and coming from an Italian woman, it's a fearsome threat
indeed -- he murmurs, "Yes'm," in a tone of voice that would sound more
convincingly meek if not for the sardonically amused edge to it.

Rina laughs a little, an uncharacteristically genuine laugh. Her smile,
too, is more at ease than it has been in quite a while. She curls up both
legs on the couch, and nudges him with a foot. "That's more /like/ it,"
she murmurs with mock-complacency.

Salem's mouth twitches into brief, crooked smile. "We aim to please," he
murmurs. He tilts a look sidelong at her, studying her as he nurses the
foamy drink.

Her answering smile is a thing of beauty; the dark eyes meet his, and then
the expression turns a bit wry. "You smiled. I think you lose badass
points f'hat."

"I'll go stomp some kittens on my way out," he responds, dryly. "Maybe
beat up a few old ladies."

Rina nods sagely. "That oughta do it." She sips at her drink, then, not
quite managing to suppress her smile.

The smile fades to a ghost of itself, a mere shadow that's visible only
when compared to the memory of Salem's usual sour or bland expression. He
takes another swallow, savoring the warmth of the drink. For that moment
or two, he's quiet.

Her voice is soft, a little tentative in breaking that silence. "You...
feel aright, about things with John?"

Salem wipes at a bit of foam that attempts to cling to the black hair on
his upper lip. He pauses before answering. "I think we've made our peace,"
he says, carefully. "But..." He hesitates, frowning minutely. "In some
things, he reminds me of Malone. But Malone never _tried_ to push me to
frenzy. Hmn."

Rina tips her head. "You said something about that. That he... pushed
you." Her eyes narrow a little, thoughtful. "He does that when somethin's
goin' on kinda under the surface... he doesn't like leavin' stuff alone.
Has to get at it."

"He thinks I'm too... controlled." Bitterness twists across saturnine
features. "What was the phrase he used... That I'll leave a corpse no
stiffer than it was alive." He doesn't seem to take any time or effort to
remember the wording; his face is tight. "_You_ remember what I was
like... before," he says, looking into his cup rather than at her. "And
you didn't even see the worst of it. He provoked me... and that was the
first time I lost it since I renounced. And that night in the
warehouse..." He closes his eyes. "I almost went to the Wyrm that night. I
could _taste_ it."

Rina swallows. The smile is gone, replaced by dark concern. "When-- when I
was there?" she asks, softly.

Salem opens his eyes again and stares into his cup as though he might find
answers there. "There's frenzy and then there's frenzy. Normally, you can
resist it as long as your will holds out. At the bunker, I was already
angry about Quentin, and he kept sticking the knife in, and being so
damned smug..." He grits his teeth, forces back the rising anger, and
continues when he's able to make his voice even again. "He pushed me, and
I snapped, and that... happens." The stubborn, sullen glint around his
eyes expresses how much he'd rather it didn't. "Sometimes, though, the
beast gets so... hot... that nothing can stop it. And the Wyrm rides you.
Those are the times times you're apt to come back with blood in your
mouth... or a full stomach."

Rina swallows. "I know," she whispers, looking the slightest bit pale.
Leaning forward a fraction, she looks at him intently. "But you /didn't/,
Jack. And even if you did..."

Salem turns his head to regard her, the left eye blind, ghost-pale, dead,
but not as hollow as the look in the other one. "If I had, you'd be dead.
And then either myself or John would be dead as well, and probably Quentin
too, unless he'd had the sense to run, or stay hidden. And I thought--" He
breaks off, shifting his gaze away to stare into his cup again, tightening
down on the mask. "I thought I'd beaten it," he says at last, quietly.

Rina's brows furrows, sympathy shadowing her expression. "Jack..." Her
voice is soft, pained. "Not that I got anything t'stand on, but... you
don't beat it. You never beat it, far's I know." She swallows. "It's part
of you."

Salem doesn't reply right away. He studies the remains of his capuccino,
both hands folded around the large mug. His expression's bleak, mingled
with the weariness that seems to drag at him lately and a sizeable dose of
disgust. "...Shit."

Rina takes a serious drink, and sets her cup aside. With a sudden
restlessness, she gets up and paces around the couch. After a moment she
leans down on the back of it, beside him, perhaps a bit too close for
comfort. "Look," she says softly, "if you--return to the full moon, it
doesn't mean you go back to--what you were, before. You're still you,
/now/, today."

Salem inhales sharply, nostrils flaring; at her words, he looks pained.
"The more I think about going back, the more it feels like giving up. The
more it tastes like failure. And I'm very... _very_ tired of failing."

Rina nods, and touches one hand gingerly to his shoulder, giving it a
gentle squeeze. "Kinda thing you gotta figure out, I guess," she murmurs.
"I don't think you're-- lyin' to yourself or anything, unless y'try to
bury the rage and not acknowledge it... that's part of you. Always. And it
/isn't/ wrong to accept it."

Salem swallows. His shoulders are tense, and the steadiness of his
breathing has an air of forced calm, something that goes unreflected in
his face. "One thing about the Demon," he says. "He didn't have any
doubts." He tries for that characteristic dry sarcasm and only partially
succeeds.

"Welcome to the world of the living," Rina says lightly. She moves, then,
to stand directly behind him, sliding both arms around him in a chaste
embrace; her head ducks beside his own, and she adds, dryly, "Get used to
it."

Salem manages a wan half-smile, his hands tightening around the capuccino
cup. Tension. He takes a sip, then affects a light tone. "Do I have to?"

Rina ducks her head against his shoulder, and nods against it, murmuring
something affirmative. Slowly, she pulls away, straightening to massage
his neck absently. "Stuck with it, I'm afraid. Sucks, I know, havin' a
conscience, bein' human..."

Knots of tight, stressed muscle resist the ministration of her fingers.
He's gone quite still now, torn between pulling away and giving in and
letting himself relax. "Alas," Salem says quietly, in reply. He looks at
the remains of his drink, then drains almost all of it.

"Chill out a little," Rina murmurs, the casual effort turning serious as
she feels the challenge against her hands. "You're among friends. Need to
relax some, y'know? Just every once in a while, where it's safe. Y'safe
here."

"It's... difficult, sometimes," Salem admits, after a pause to finish off
the dregs in his cup. It becomes something to hold in his hands now, and
remains useful in that capacity. He inhales a deep breath and then lets it
out, slowly. Relenting.

"That's it," she murmurs, her voice soft. The contact never ventures
beyond the line of propriety, never oversteps the casual intimacy she
might show a friend... but she stands so close to him. After a moment she
ducks her head, to kiss the top of his head. "There," she whispers.
"Better, huh?" Her hands are strong, insistent, gentle enough to slowly
urge aside the lingering tension.

His eyes drifted closed sometime soon after the choice to surrender was
made, and his breathing's turned slow and even. The tightness in him is a
stubborn thing, but it gradually erodes. "Mmn," he answers. He wets his
lips and swallows. "Yes."

"Oughta do this every once in a while," she says softly. "'S'good for ya.
Gotta take some time to breathe, chill out, y'know?" After a bit longer,
she releases him and steps around to retrieve her cappucino.

"Mmn," Salem says again, in agreement this time. He opens his eyes as she
moves away and lets his head drop back so he can study her ceiling. "I
should get a lot of that, end of the year. Sepdet's getting people to
volunteer to stand as guardian for a month out of the year."

Rina blinks in surprise, as she sits down with her drink. "Good idea,
pullin' shifts like that. Bring a good coat, though." Tipping her head,
she adds, "So you're going in November, or December? Or is it a moon
thing?"

Salem stretches his legs, shoulders shifting against the couch cushions as
he adjusts his weight. Otherwise, he seems determined to expend as little
energy as possible. "December. It'll be a slow month at work. Lo can do
without me. And I'll avoid most of the holiday insanity." His mouth twists
into a minor grimace of distain.

Rina's brow furrows. "You /work/?" She looks utterly nonplussed.

Salem blinks and lifts his head, arching a brow at her. "Repo," he says.
Then, dryly, "I have bills to pay, after all. And Cat goes through Dr.
Pepper like water."

Rina frowns, watching him over the cup. "Hm. We should pull you in t'do
some debt collection."

Salem gives her a thin, slanted smile in return. "Intimidating deadbeats.
Something I seem wholly suited for."

One of her shoulders lifts and falls, gently. "You gotta be good at
somethin'," she murmurs. "Intimidation's useful." Lowering her eyes, she
sips at her drink.

Salem turns the empty cup around in his hands, slowly, studying the thin
dregs at the bottom of it. "True. It's not so much what you do as what
they _think_ you'll do, after all. It's difficult, though, to find an
employer who isn't completely spooked, is willing to be flexible, and
doesn't... ask difficult questions."

Rina lets out a breath, and props her feet on the coffee table, leaning
back into the cushions. "Fuckin' right. We gotta kick the damn Russians
outta this town. Start runnin' shit right."

Salem grimaces. "Indeed." He tilts a sidelong look at her. "Anything new
on that front? Good _or_ bad?" The confession earlier, along with the
neckrub, seems to have done some good. There's still a faint tiredness
lingering there, but he seems... more focussed. More _there_.

Rina shakes her head minutely. "Other than me hidin' like a fuckin' child
in here?" She glares across the room at nothing, irritated.

Salem studies her face for a moment, then grimaces in sympathy. "I'd go
insane." He studies his cup again, then sits up and sets it on the coffee
table. "When did this start, by the way? I don't remember there being a
Russian problem when I was last in town..." His eyes narrow.

She turns her face away, to keep the haunted, sickened expression from
him. Her voice has a hollow sound, though, and that betrays as much as her
face might. "Coupla years ago."

It's Salem's turn to be concerned now, though there's a hesitancy about
him. He turns in his seat toward her, one arm resting along the back of
the couch as he regards her, head tilted to favor his good eye. "What
happened?"

Rina lifts a shoulder. "They moved into town, mostly vice and
prostitution... early last year. Sig's pack ran into 'em first. Said they
were lined up with the Enemy. Women in cages, in the basement..." She
looks across the room, straight ahead, expressionless as she downs her
cappucino.

Salem is watching her very carefully now. "Russians," he mutters,
disgusted. He shakes his head. "Then what?"

Rina is silent for a long time, her eyes narrowing. "Then nothing," she
finally says, clipped. "Then war. We been tryin' to root them out, but for
a long time we've had nothin'. No manpower to speak of. They got more of a
hold on the street than I do, now."

"Mnh," is all Salem has to say for a while. He shifts his gaze away,
wandering it over the nearest canvasses. After a moment, he remarks,
wryly, "It's been almost a year since I got back, and some days it feels
like I just returned yesterday. Still..." His eye moves back to her. "Do
you know why they're after you specifically? Or are they just trying to
eliminate _all_ members of the competition?"

Rina tips the mug all the way back, and rises. "When they got here," she
murmurs, "I was the closest thing to competition. There wasn't really
anything in the city but a coupla small-time dealers; the Garou busted
down a prostitution ring maybe a year before that... maybe it was more. I
f'get." She paces to the kitchen, a peculiar tension marring her grace, as
if she is fleeing the conversation by walking away fast.

Salem hesitates, then gets up and follows after her, pausing to retrieve
his empty cup. "Rina," he says, and then stops. There's that wariness
again, though this time it's for her sake, not his own. Concern furrows
his brow and tightens the line of his jaw.

She is working mechanically in the kitchen, filling the espresso machine
again, her hands trembling slightly. "You want s'more? I'm gonna make
s'more." The movements match her abrupt departure, just a little hasty.

Salem's hand lands on her shoulder, feather-light. "Rina," he says again,
and, slowly, "If... you don't want to talk about it, I understand. I'm
sorry I mentioned it. I just..." He trails off, as though at something of
a loss as to how to procede.

Her hands rest on the edge of the counter. There is a tension in her
shoulders, a hard wiry tremor that betrays what her steady, emotionless
voice does not. "Let's just say there's some bad blood between me and the
fucking Russians, 'n'leave it at that."

Salem nods once, moving to stand next to her; his touch lingers at her
shoulder like he's forgotten it's there. "Fair enough," says the halfmoon
gravely. "As I said, I'm sorry I brought it up."

Rina shakes her head violently. "You didn't," she mutters, looking down.
"I did." Closing her eyes, she takes several deep breaths, evidently in an
effort to exile that particular demon back to the depths of her soul where
it lurks.

Salem squeezes her shoulder. Gently. Like he's worried he'll break her.
Then his hand drops away, and he turns to lean back against the counter,
arms folded, sighted side toward her so he can watch her face.

She keeps her eyes lowered as she fills the metal cup with fine-ground
coffee and tightens it into place. One hand flicks the switch, and she
fixes her eyes on the red light. "If I had enough soldiers I'd fucking
kill them all. Down to the last errand boy."

Salem drags a hand back through his hair, fingers combing roughly through
the thick strands. "If there's anything you need me to do..." His eyes
narrow again. "At any time..." He trails off, letting that hang in the air
between them.

Rina nods minutely. "I know," she says quietly. "I know."

Salem nods as well. He rubs at his mouth, then folds his arms across his
chest again. "Mnh." It's a neutral sound, more placeholder than anything.

"You any better at dealin' with regular people, since-- the change?" she
asks quietly. Her eyes focus ahead, downcast.

Salem hesitates. "Some," he answers, after that brief pause. "Most are
still... spooked, but less than there used to be." His eye lingers on her
face; pensive, he frowns, teeth catching at the inside of his lower lip.

Rina nods. "I think once we got it together enough to move, I'm gonna make
things how they oughta be. Give everybody somethin' to handle, name capos
and swear'em in. Do it right."

She is still pale, her expression intent now, full of unspoken thoughts.
Both hands ball up into fists and tap the countertop, lightly.

Salem shifts his weight, turning toward her, one elbow resting on the
counter. "Sounds like a plan," he says in reply, still watching her, all
of his attention focussed on her, his expression solemn.

"So." She looks over to him with a thin half-smile, an expression that
does not touch those haunted eyes. And now that he knows, the injured,
fragile thing can be seen there. "You up for another round?"

Salem mirrors that smile and, like hers, it's not reflected in his gaze,
which remains dark. The ex-Ronin knows about hauntings, yes. "Absolutely."

Rina lowers her eyes, and turns from him to get the milk out of the fridge
as the steam and the burning smell begin. "Cool." She glances over her
shoulder, and returns to him; the smile is more genuine and at the same
time more fragile than before. "I'm--glad you'n Gianni worked it out," she
murmurs.

Salem inclines his head slightly. "Ye-es..." He returns her smile with one
of his own, ghosting and brief. "He's a good elder. Even if we don't see
eye-to-eye on some things." A flicker of hardness appears in his good eye,
then vanishes. "I don't think I'm going to renounce back, though."

Rina nods, glancing away to watch the milk as she steams it. "You got
plenty a time to think about it," she says quietly. "But I like you just
fine the way you are." This time she smiles only to herself.

Salem lets a rather pleased half-grin slip past the mask as her
attention's turned away from him. It's audible in his answer, though.
"Really? Good."

Rina nods minutely. "Really." The second cup of coffee is shared over much
more insignificant talk--mostly about her art, since it is easy to rouse
her on that subject. When she finally lets him out, it is a quiet, polite
farewell, without the closeness that might make him uncomfortable--and her
smile is true.

And the Walker Philodox -- whatever he might or might not be in future,
he's still a Philodox tonight -- leaves with a somewhat lighter step than
when he arrived. Lighter than its been in months, perhaps.