Night Terrors

[hazlogs]

10/23/2002

Something is whimpering: quiet sobbing sounds that intrude on his dreams.
The scream wakes him, though--a breathless cry followed by a thrashing and
a thud from the living room. The red numbers on the clock read 3:44.

Salem snaps awake instantly and mutters, "Shit." He peers sidelong at the
cub, but Cat remains blissfully asleep. Then, swiftly, he rolls out of the
cot and to his feet, pulling on a pair of sweatpants before padding out to
the living room and the woman sleeping unrestfully on his couch.

No longer on the couch, actually; by the time he comes out, she is trying
to untangle herself from the blankets on the floor. And, by the hazy
expression on her face, trying to figure out where exactly she is. Wetness
gleams on her cheeks, where the filtered light of the moon can catch it.

"Rina?" He doesn't sound tired, not as much like a man woken out of a
sound sleep _should_ sound. He's at her side in moments, down on one knee,
a barechested shadow with hair hanging tangled around his scarred face.

She struggles for breath, drawing a hand across her face and sniffling
quietly. "I'm sorry," she says hoarsely, when she can finally manage to
speak. "I'm sorry-- I shouldn'ta stayed here."

She begins to straighten a little, on her hands and knees.

"As if I've never awakened in the middle of the night." Salem's voice is
dry. "Cat's still asleep, no harm done." He helps her untangle the
blanket.

She wraps it around her shoulders, still sniffling quietly as she settles
back onto her heels.

Salem remains crouched down next to her for a moment, studying her face in
the darkness. "Glass of warm milk?" he offers, head tilted.

Rina shakes her head, her face averted. She wipes at her cheeks with one
hand, a violent gesture. "No, no, I'm good. I'm fine. I'll-- fix some tea
or somethin' if it's aright."

"Absolutely." He straightens up, locking his fingers at the back of his
neck and stretching. "Nng. In fact, tea sounds... highly tempting, right
now."

Rina sniffs, and gets up with some help from the couch. She drops the
blanket across the back of the couch; beneath it she wears a wifebeater,
her shirt evidently stripped off at some point during the night. "Whatcha
got?" She rakes both hands back through her hair, as she heads toward the
kitchen--navigating the unfamiliar apartment by moonlight.

Salem clicks on the small light above the stove, conceding to the need for
illumination other than Luna's but unwilling to break the
middle-of-the-night ambiance with glaring fluorescence. It's enough to
give her a better view of him; she's almost certainly never seen him with
his shirt off. He's leaner than John, though no less defined, muscularly;
the only real anomaly is the handprint that appears to be impressed into
his chest. It's crinos-sized and seven-fingered, marked into the flesh
like a palm-print into clay.

Salem opens a cabinet above the sink and rummages. "Hmn. Not a lot, I'm
afraid." He takes down an open box of Earl Gray and examines it.

She turns to glance toward him. "That's ari..." --and catches in a breath,
staring uneasily at the mark. A swallow tightens her throat; she pales a
little, but says nothing at first.

Salem glances up at the aborted remark, and at the look on her face -- and
the direction of her eyes -- he turns away, his face tightening. He sets
the box down on the kitchen counter and goes for the teakettle, his back
to her now. _He_ doesn't say anything, either.

With her network of interesting scars, she really ought to know better. A
gunshot through one shoulder, an X on the back of the other, and the marks
of more than one brutal lashing on her back--she has a set to rival most
Garou. Remorse twists across her face instantly, and she turns away from
him, a hand rubbing at the back of her neck. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I
just-- I know what that--"

The night he spent at the studio after the Sept's second meeting to
discuss how to retake the caern... he's seen the marks on her, even if he
took care not to let her see his own. His shoulders tighten as she speaks;
he cuts her off with a brusque-sounding, "It's history. _Dead_ history."
His face is stony as he fills the kettle with water from the tap.

"I'm sorry," she whispers again, her shoulders hunched slightly. "I'm
sorry." She steps out of the kitchen, quickly, pacing across the room with
restless steps and ending up at the window. Taking the time, maybe, to
wipe away tears again.

Salem glances over his shoulder in time to see her move away, and some of
that tightness, born half of twitchy-trigger temper and half of the shame
of remembered humiliations, bleeds away. He sets the kettle on one of the
stove coils and turns it on, then steps out of the half-light of the
kitchen and back into the shadow of the living room, following her. "No, I
am. It's... just not something I like to talk about."

Rina nods quickly. "I understand," she whispers, uncomfortably fast. She
is quite clearly trying to stop the tears, to keep herself steady after
the nightmare. It isn't working, at least not enough for any semblance of
normality.

Salem slows as he approaches and stops less than a foot away from her,
hesitant. After a few heartbeats, he reaches out and touches her shoulder,
lightly. Between the shadows and his own mask, it's almost impossible to
read his face.

She doesn't turn to him, or lift her head; her eyes are closed, as she
struggles for calm. For breath, past the closing of her throat. For
self-control. She can't explain--there aren't words for the nightmare and
the worry and the scars, all roiling together. Her skin is an unexpected
softness, but what lies beneath feels tense, hard beneath his fingertips.

The dark eyes flicker open, downcast and unfocused, glimmering with the
threat of tears. Her hands clench into fists at her sides.

Salem squeezes her shoulder, offering reassurance. And then he's gone,
moving back into the kitchen to attend to the tea-making, and to give her
the privacy he'd so desperately want, if in her place.

She steadies herself a little, and paces across to the bathroom, slipping
inside without turning on a light. After blowing her nose a few times and
splashing her face with water, the young woman returns to kitchen much
nearer her usual self. "I like Earl Grey," she says cautiously.

Rina pages: Hoarse, obviously.

"Good," he replies, inserting a note of quiet humor into his voice.
"Because that's all we seem to have." He picks up the box and offers it to
her. Two mugs sit on the counter already. He arches a brow, perfectly
composed. Leonard Nimoy, eat your heart out.

She takes it, and looks up to offer him a faint, only slightly unsteady
smile. Then her attention turns to unwrapping teabags, dropping one into
each cup, and neatly closing up the box again. "You're not--mad at me?"
she asks, without looking back to him.

Salem shakes his head, turning his face away in order to keep an eye on
the teakettle. He leans against the sink counter as he does so, arms
folded across his chest and partially obscuring the fleshcrafted mark.
"No. Never."

Rina swallows. "I am," she says softly. "He--" She faces the counter
herself, eyes unfocused and downcast. "I really would've done it. And
no--no matter what he said he couldn't deserve that. No matter how I
convinced myself in my head that he was better off... nobody ever is, for
real, when someone close to'em dies. I just-- wasn't thinkin' right, and
it hurt so much..."

Salem keeps his gaze on the kettle. "I can imagine. But..." He pauses, jaw
tightening somewhat, and then shakes his head, letting out a breath. "I'm
glad you failed. I... mmn." He looks at her, finally. "The man who said
that nobody would mourn if you died didn't know you."

She ducks her head, and there is a silence, the space of a breath or two.
Her eyes remain distant, her expression bleak. "I'm sorry about-- about
the rave." The voice betrays torment, a relentless conscience forcing the
admission of guilt from her. "What I did, the way I acted... everything. I
want you to know-- It--it won't happen again."

The water's starting to boil, just beginning that bubble and churn. Salem
lets it sit over the heat for a bit longer. "You weren't yourself," he
says, still not looking at her. "I... hmn. You're forgiven."

Rina swallows, silent for a moment; then she nods. "If that's for real...
thanks," she answers hoarsely. She steps back from the counter, leaving
the way clear to the two waiting mugs; it is, after all, his kitchen. In
the confinement of that space, she doesn't seem to know where to stand, or
what to do. Both arms hug tight around her upper body, as she watches him.

Salem turns to look at her; his expression is rueful. "Forgiven and
forgotten." Then he turns back to shut off the burner and take the kettle,
now steaming quite vigorously, from the heat. With controlled, graceful
motions, he steps over to the counter and pours boiling water over the
teabag in each mug.

She changes the subject adroitly, leaning back against the counter that
marks off the kitchen. "How's the kid doin'?"

He sets the kettle back on the stove. "Cat? Hm." Salem pulls out a stool
and takes a seat, pulling one of the mugs toward him and toying with the
teabag. "Better some days. It's... slow. I don't think he's a hopeless
case, though." He's reaching for that optimism, but the usual cynicism
makes that task difficult.

Rina nods. "Good. I'll hafta get him out to the firing range, sometime.
And maybe Gianni can take him in hand, give him some spine." It takes an
instant to realize she's mentioned him; she glances down, turning to pick
up her own cup of tea and swirl it a little. Her expression twists
slightly, the worry surfacing briefly before she stifles it again. "He
really likes Cat."

One corner of Salem's mouth quirks upward. "Everyone likes Cat. One has to
work _not_ to like him. Imagine that charm turned on a reluctant spirit."

A glass-fragile smile comes to her lips, at the thought. "Theurge, huh?"
She tugs the teabag out and steps across to throw it away. "He's a good
kid..."

Salem nods his agreement. "Get him a spine, and he'll be a marvel." He
dunks his own teabag a few more times, then likewise disposes of it.

"Does he... I mean, does it bother him when I touch him? I know he doesn't
like contact, he's real overdefended..." A glance to Salem, wry, as she
leans against the stove, where she can face him. "Kinda like some other
people I know."

Salem snorts. "No idea what you're talking about," he says, quite deadpan.
He takes a sip of tea. "But as for Cat, well. He seems to like you."

A tiny smile comes, as she drinks a little; the dark eyes remain lowered.
"I just... get this urge to mother him. Make him eat enough, and
everything." Wryly, she adds, "I think it's genetic."

"You _are_ Italian," Salem agrees. "And Gaia knows he could use some
fattening up. I think he's grown all of half an inch."

Rina's smile widens a touch. "Good," she murmurs, taking another sip. "He
could use some height." A glance to the windows, and then she looks over
to him. "You got any plans, today?"

Salem looks past her to the large red numbers glowing on the clock on the
bookshelf. "One of the Fianna wants to learn Rite of Wounding. I'll be
meeting him on the bawn to give him a lesson. Other than that..." He wraps
his hands around the warm mug and gazes into the tea. "The usual. Patrol,
et cetera."

"I could hang with Cat, if y'want. Maybe go to the library. Promise not to
get shot this time." A faint, humorless smile accompanies that, and then
she drinks idly, watching him over the rim of the cup.

He utters a short, quiet sound of amusement, not quite enough to be a real
chuckle. "Heh. Well. If you _promise_..." One corner of his mouth quirks
upward. "The more he gets out, the better. He has a habit of trying to
hide out here whenever possible."

"This doesn't remind me of anyone I know," Rina murmurs, lowering her
eyes.

Salem arches a brow, quizzically, a touch of a frown around his mouth.
"Hm?"

Her smile is quiet, her attention directed to the floor. "Oh, nothing. You
gonna drive or run?"

"To the bawn?" Salem looks wry. "A little far to run, even for me. I'll
drive down to the farmhouse, then go by foot the rest of the way."

Rina nods, and glances over to him, speculative. "Who's the Fianna?"

Salem sips at his tea slowly. "Luke. Called Runs-at-Dawn. Elder of his
tribe, apparantly... not that this is saying much. They haven't been the
same since Brian and the others took off."

Rina nods. "Good fucking riddance," she murmurs. "I like the new ones
better." Her face colors slightly, but she makes no other comment--instead
finishing off her cup of tea.

Salem really does chuckle at that, a low sound underlayed by the tension
that comes from the moon's pull. All things considered, though, he seems
surprisingly relaxed; never underestimate the power of hot tea. "They're
definitely less insufferable, yes."

Rina sets the mug aside, in the sink; then she lets out a breath and
flashes him a winning smile, beautiful despite the faint redness around
her eyes. "When does Cat get up, usually?"

"Usually," says the ex-Ronin, "I get him up when I do, at five, to join me
for part of my run." He drains the mug. "Tomorrow he gets to sleep in. I
don't imagine he'll be up before nine or ten."

Rina looks again toward the windows, where the predawn sky is lightening
to a deep purplish hue. "Today, y'mean." She wraps both arms around
herself, and rubs at them, chilly.

Salem follows her glance toward the window, mouth twisting into a rueful
expression. "Today. Right." He shakes his head. "I may sleep in as well."
He stretches, then gets up, setting his empty cup into the sink.

Rina smiles faintly. "Yeah, get some sleep. You can have the couch if it's
more comfy there."

He pushes a stray lock of hair out of his face. "No, it's fine. I've slept
on worse." His head tilts as he studies her. "Will you be all right?"

Her eyes are averted, as the smile fades. "When he comes back," she says
quietly. "I'll be fine. It won't be long."

Salem's mouth twitches into a brief, ghosting smile. "Just a few days." On
his way back toward the bedroom, he pauses to give her shoulder another
light squeeze of reassurance. "If you need me, I'm right in the next
room."

Rina nods minutely, glancing over to him and offering a much prettier echo
of that smile. "Yeah... I'll be aright."

Salem dips his head; in another era, the gesture would have been a bow.
"Try to get some more sleep," he suggests, and then heads into the bedroom
to attempt to take his own advice.

She watches him, her eyes bright and intent as he walks away.