To the Farm with You

[hazlogs]

It is currently 17:40 Pacific Time on Sat Nov 9 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 48
degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the north at 7 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.61 and
rising, and the relative humidity is 96 percent. The dewpoint is 47
degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (31% full).

Setting: Salem's Apartment, Red Mill.

Days have gone by since the afternoon that the Philodox lost his temper
and delivered his ultimatum. Salem's been home regularly since then,
though never for long -- a brooding tower of alternating bad temper and
silent exhaustion. He's not slept much, and then at irregular hours. He's
been smoking a great deal and caring about the upkeep of the apartment not
at all. And he hasn't mentioned the farmhouse _once_.

It's Saturday evening, now; the halfmoon is napping restlessly in the
bedroom, tossing often and muttering incoherently under his breath.

Cat has avoided eye contact, speech, and physical presence as much as
possible for the moments the Philodox has been home. Like his namesake,
he's disappeared into corners- hidden behind a book, or curled up into a
ball on the couch, asleep. What glimpses Salem does get of the boy,
however, show the same thing; a frightened boy, the moon bringing him to
unusual levels of skittishness. He's curled up under the coffee-table in
lupus, staring out at the occasional roach in dread.

Keen canine ears are able to catch the change in the halfmoon's breathing,
the increase in tempo, a low, growly moan that's half rage and half
despair, and then a gasp. He's awake. Abruptly. "Shitting _Christ_," comes
the mutter, a moment later; the blasphemy is followed by the small noises
and less subtle scents of a match being struck and a cigarette lit.

Those canine ears flit back against his skull, a whine building in his
throat. Cat scrambles out from under the coffee table, tail bumping his
colored pencil tin over the floor with a clatter. He shies away at the
sound, cringing, then shifts to homid as fast as he can to pick them up.
Please don't let Salem come out. Please don't let him come out of the
bedroom. Meager prayers to whatever gods are left to him now.

Either the gods aren't listening, or they just don't care. Salem stalks
out of the bedroom, barechested and bleary-eyed, wearing black sweatpants
and nothing else, his long hair wild and the handrolled, filterless
cigarette jutting from the side of his mouth. He pauses at the bedrom door
to stare dourly at the cub and then, shoulders tight, moves through the
living room, passing Cat on his way to the kitchen area.

The boy freezes, head bowed and pencils clutched tight to his chest as he
waits for the cliath to stalk past him. Only when Salem's in the kitchen
does Cat move again; and it's with an emphasis on speed, rather than
accuracy, because it takes two tries to pick up one pencil. But eventually
they're all thrown in, and the box placed back on the coffee table. Then
he just sits there, glancing at the kitchen from the corner of his eyes,
just waiting fearfully.

You paged Cat with 'Has Cat been doing clean-chores-things when Salem's
been out? Dishes, etc?'.
From afar, Cat nods. With an excruciating attention to detail. Things are
spotless. Nothing is out of place, or dusty. The food in the fridge has
been neatly arranged.

Salem opens the refrigerator, then closes it with a slam after retrieving
the milk. He stalks about the tiny area, making coffee and puffing away
like a bad-tempered chimney. The ashes get tapped into the kitchen sink, a
place Cat's found them several times before. Somehow, the Philodox hasn't
gotten around to buying an ashtray.

Cat flinches at the slam of the fridge door, clenching his hands into
tight fists, nails digging crescents in his palms. The nagging familiarity
of the past tense days, coupled with Luna's pull, are driving him near to
tears. And he doesn't even have the comfort of Gabriel anymore. Just the
thought of the spirit makes the cub's throat tighten; he reaches for his
sketchbook (on the table) and flips to the fourth or so page.

Salem starts the coffee brewing and prowls back over toward the living
room. He leans against the counter separating the two areas and stares at
the boy for a moment, unsmiling, and then takes the cigarette from his
mouth and says, coldly, "Have you thought about what I said the other
day?" It's the most he's said to Cat since... that day.

The sketchbook is pressed close, his body used to shield the badly-drawn
image from Salem's icy eyes. "Ye-" Cat's voice cracks. Flushing with
shame, he tries again, "Yessir....yessir."

Salem takes a drag on the cigarette, exhaling the smoke out through his
nostrils, dragonlike. "I'm listening," he says.

Thin fingers tighten around the edges of the sketchbook, like Salem's gaze
is strong enough to rip it away from him. Not that the Walker's even
looking at it, most likely. "You...I mean...I..." He clams up, trying to
gather enough will to force the words out. "You
should...keepmesomewhereelse." The syllables all come out in a rush of
defeat and shame, and his grip on the sketchbook is as tight as Cat's
strength allows.

Salem grunts. He takes in another lungful of smoke, not hurrying about it.
"Right. The farmhouse, to be specific. It's a place on the bawn where
several Garou live, including cubs. Quentin's there." He's silent for a
beat, staring dourly at the boy, then continues. "You've a better chance
of learning your auspice out there, the basics of it if not the urban
particulars. You'll have more chance to practice your other forms. And,
this most of all, you'll be _around_ people." The halfmoon scowls. "No
cowering away and hiding. You're far too apt to do that. Shit, you don't
even leave the fucking _apartment_ unless I make you."

If running about the Umbra isn't counted, at least. Salem can see Cat bite
his lower lip, in a struggle not to cry. He will -not- cry. "P-please not
the farm," he murmurs, closing his eyes tightly against the barrage of
words he's sure will follow. "Please don't make me go there, please. I...I
don't -want- to go somewhere else."

Salem's face twists into an ugly grimace. He glowers at the cub, nostrils
flaring, the cigarette burning between two fingers. "Then tell me why I
shouldn't. Fucking _convince_ me."

Cat's mouth opens, his lips move, but words don't come out right away.
"I...I'm sorry," is all he can think of. He winces, perfectly away of how
-pathetic- he sounds. But it's impossible for him to be anything but
desperate, now. A pause for air, renewed note of pleading. "I kn-know I
made a mistake, and I didn't mean to break your trust. I'm sorry, I won't
do it again, I promise. I'll try harder. Miz Rina said she'd teach me how
to shoot." "Please don't send me there, please...you don't
-understand-..." He ducks his head, almost doubling over the sketchbook in
the attempt to keep his face and the page out of Salem's view. He will not
cry. "Please don't send me away..."

Salem shakes his head sharply, turning away with a dissatisfied scowl. He
flicks ash into the sink and stands with his back to the distressed cub.
"What the fucking hell is _wrong_ with you, Cat?" The boy's reply, the
manner of it particularly, seems only to have aggravated his temper,
rather than mollify it. His voice is full of frustration. He turns back,
glaring. "What, do you _like_ living like this?"

The cub chokes on a sob, cringing over his sketchbook, rocking back and
forth ever so slightly. "You don't understand," he murmurs tearfully,
although no tears have been shed, yet. "I'm sorry, I'm trying. I'm
-tr-trying-, I-" He cuts himself off. Moments tick by, silence reigning
supreme. Finally, the quiet answer. "Yes."

"Jesus." Salem sets the cigarette down at the edge of the sink and passes
a hand across his face. "Jesus Christ."

Cat shifts the sketchbook in his arms, pressing it to his lips and keeping
his eyes shut, against what he envisions Salem's face to be and against
the memories that haunt him still. "I'm sorry," he whispers again,
shoulders shaking as his self-control crumbles. It's not merely an apology
for the past few days, or his transgressions, but for his whole life.

Salem pinches at the bridge of his nose, quiet for a moment. Then, much
more calmly, he says, "It isn't permanent. In fact, next month I'll be
down there myself as well. I'm taking Guardianship duty for December." His
voice is even, if a bit strained around the edges.

There's an audible sniffle from Cat, and he rubs his nose with the back of
his hand. "It's...not...permanent?" he mumbles lowly.

Salem takes up the cigarette again and leans against the kitchen sink
counter area, staring humorlessly at the cub. "No. You _are_ a Glass
Walker, after all, and you belong in the city, ultimately." He brings the
smoke to his lips and inhales. "But part of your education's out _there_,
too. You'd be out there for a stint eventually anyway."

The cub doesn't meet Salem's gaze, choosing to study the floor instead. "I
don't like farms," he says softly, hesitantly. He's not exactly arguing
the decision, especially now that he knows it isn't permanent- he'd been
frightened to death that it was -but he's simply letting the Philodox
know. Slowly, a few fingers relax around the sketchbook, stiff and
painful. "Will...will Miz Rina still come visit?"

Salem grunts, exhaling smoke. "Yes, well, it's not much of a farm. And
kinfolk are allowed to come to the house to visit, yes."

A long, long pause, as Cat mulls over this new information. "Can Gabriel
come too?" he asks, voice thready. But hopeful, rather than meek or
pained.

The Philodox frowns, his eyes narrowing. "Who?"

"Gabriel," Cat repeats slowly, eyes flicking upwards- not to Salem's face,
but in more of the direction of the kitchen, anyway. "He's a 'roach
spirit, and he's my friend." A pause, and then he adds a little
defensively, "He took care of me when I...I..." Well, defensive spirit and
Cat only get so far even in the best of times.

Salem's mouth takes on that irritated, angry little twist that Cat knows
so well. "I see." He takes a drag on the cigarette and taps ash into the
sink. "I'm sure he'll find a way to follow you there, if he chooses too."

The pout on Cat's face lessens greatly, but Salem's dour mood doesn't call
for smiling. Finally, perhaps for the first time in days, Cat tries to
meet the Philodox's gaze. "And...y-you'll come visit me too?"

Salem wrinkles his nose at the question. "Christ. Of course. I'm not
_abandoning_ you, Cat. I'm simply putting you somewhere you'll have a
better chance to learn."

From the guilty look in his eyes before he looks down at his sketchbook,
it's clear the cub had a very different impression of what was to happen
to him. "Sorry," he murmurs.

Salem's lips thin. "Forget it," he says curtly. He sets the cigarette back
between his lips and heads for the bathroom, leaving the coffee to
continue brewing. "Pack yourself a bag, then. I'll drive you over
tonight."

Cat's head whips up again like a deer caught in the headlights. "Tonight?"
he echoes, blinking in disbelief. The sketchbook is clutched tightly
again. "Tonight?"

Salem, nearly at the bathroom, stops and turns, giving the cub a frown.
"Yes, tonight. Why?" His voice gets an acidic touch. "Do you have a date
or something?"

The look on Cat's face is unreadable, save for the confusion and disbelief
that this change, this overwhelming change, was happening -right now-. "No
sir," he mumbles, when he remembers he was asked a question.

For once, though, miracle of miracles, Salem relents. "Fine," he rasps.
"Tomorrow, then. But early." He vanishes into the bathroom and shuts the
door firmly behind him.

Cat glances furtively at the bathroom door, then down at the sketchbook.
It's by no means a likeness of Gabriel, but the colors are close enough to
remind the boy of the spirit he's so fond of. The sketchbook is closed,
and then he stares at the cover. He wasn't terrified like he'd been only a
few hours ago- terrified of being cast aside. Even though he was going to
a farm...it'd be temporary. Temporary. The cub closes his eyes with a
silent sigh. Even so, he was still afraid.