Blood

[hazlogs]

Date: 11/14/2002, Thursday, Night.

Location: Outside Rina's building.

Moon: Waxing Gibbous

It is late enough that the streets are quiet, when the car drops her off.
Not a taxi, but a dark Cadillac--and she is ejected from the back seat,
with enough force to make her stumble. She lurches against the support of
a streetpost, as the car pulls away; huddling in her jacket, she stays
there for several long moments, trying to get her bearings. Her eyes are
hazy, unfocused, and she seems dazed.

A dark shadow detaches itself from the deeper shadows, tall and wrapped in
a big black cloaklike coat and a deep hood, like Death itself. Face hidden
in the darkness. It makes its way toward her, stumbling once, a near-empty
bottle clenched in one hand.

Rina draws in a breath, and turns to face him--what new threat can this
be? A bruise marks one cheek, and her eyes are shadowed, the irises almost
lost in dilated black. She leaves her crutch and takes a stumbling step
back, staring up at him apprehensively.

The figure stops a short distance away, unsteady on booted feet. "Z'jus'
me." It's Salem's voice, if she can recognize it through the slur and the
thickened accent. He takes another step forward, the streetlamp's light
revealing the half-scarred face and satanic beard, though his eyes remain
in shadow. "Shit. D'you know what fucking _time_ it is?"

The apprehension fades, only a hint of caution remaining. She shakes her
head minutely, and takes a not-entirely-balanced step back.

The bottle's in his left hand, which is attached to the wrist that his
watch is strapped around. He lifts it, squints, then takes a pull from the
bottle; the liquid inside's clear as water. "Fucking late. Fucking late,
an' s'fucking _cold_. Bloody fucking weather." He takes another swallow,
the last, then turns and flings the bottle back the way he came,
carelessly. Glass shatters, unseen.

Rina flinches at the sound of it, and her throat tightens in a swallow.
"Come inside," she says quietly. The dark eyes, guarded, watch his face.
"Y'drunk. Shouldn't be out here." She turns to lead him toward the
building.

"Prob'bly get mugged again," Salem mutters. He clumps unsteadily after
her.

She is less than steady, making her way up the stairs. A few times, he
might hear a sharp intake of breath.

Salem keeps a hand on the wall as he follows her up, head lowered.
"How's... how's y'back?" The question is thickly mumbled.

She doesn't answer. One shoulder hitches as she digs for her keys.

He's close behind her. Too close. Looming, the scent of bars thick about
him, clinging. "Where'd y'go tonight, Angel?"

Her shoulders flinch slightly at the use of the name. "Don't call me
that," she whispers. "Unless you want me t'return the favor." She pushes
the door open and jerks her keys from the lock, stalking in.

Salem frowns, bleary eyes narrowed in bemusement, then grunts and follows
her in with a low mumble of, "W'ever."

She doesn't take off her jacket, as she steps inside. No lights; instead
she gets matches, lights some of the candles scattered about the place.
And incense. "Why are you drunk?"

He heads straight for the couch, and there collapses, slouching
bonelessly. He pushes back the hood; his face is drawn, eyes weary and
bloodshot, unfocussed. "Had to... had t'get away." The bleary gaze follows
her across the room. "Easier'n a needle."

"Anytime you want it..." She heads for the kitchen. "I got it." The water
runs briefly, and she splashes her face with water.

A shudder goes through him. He mutters, low, "Shit," the word almost lost
under the sound of running water.

"Coffee or water?" Her voice is quiet, hoarse.

"Where'd y'go, Rina?" Salem asks. He twists his head around, staring
toward the bathroom. A beat later he adds, clarifying, "...T'night."

She fills the coffee pot at the kitchen sink. "Coffee," she decides,
arbitrarily. "Temple." That, evidently, is an answer to his question.
"Wanted to dance."

"Jus' dance?" Though slouched low on the couch, the way he's watching her
suggests that, drink or no drink, the moon's still near full and the beast
inside him hasn't forgotten this fact.

"Just dance. I'm gonna shower while the coffee makes up. Have some if
y'want, when it's done." She goes to the makeshift 'bedroom' and gathers
clothes, a wifebeater and sweats.

She is still wearing the leather jacket, as she passes him--headed for the
bathroom with a bundle of clothes in her arms. The dark eyes don't stray
toward him.

Salem grunts, hauling himself up from the couch as she passes, letting the
massive coat drop back to the couch like a discarded skin. "'N y'friends
in the car?" He takes a step, like he intends to follow her.

"Not friends," she says, her voice sharper as she enters the bathroom. She
dumps the clothes on the counter, and shrugs out of the jacket; it falls
with a heavy thud, as she turns around to close the door.

He's there, right at the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame.
Staring, and it's hard to read anything from his face except the fog of
drink and the heavy intensity of his stare. It's like trying to read the
face of an animal. "Who, then?"

Who, indeed. The damage is far worse than the last time; a crude, terrible
scourging laid over the injuries he so carefully cleaned up. The fishnet
is soaked with blood, enough that her skin does not show through with pale
contrast, as it does on her arms.

She isn't expecting to see him there, when she turns. The color drains
from her face, and she glances away abruptly, swallowing. "Not friends,"
she whispers.

He doesn't say anything at first; he's silent for an eternity of seconds,
breathing hard, nostrils flaring at the scent of blood. Sickened. Angry.

"I'll kill them," Salem says at last, his voice rasping out of his throat
like someone dragging themselves over a field of broken glass. "I'll
fucking _kill_ them."

Her expression is distant, numb. "No," she whispers. "I will. It's my
right. All they've done. It's my right." She closes her eyes, and bows her
head, pain in her expression. "Go... have some coffee, okay? I gotta...
get this off."

Salem stares for a moment longer and then, with a snarl, pushes off and
away from the bathroom doorway and half-stalks, half-stumbles back over
toward the couch. There's a vehement curse in Serbian as he misjudges
distance and bangs into the coffee table. A stream of slurred, angry
syllables in the same language follow.

Rina closes the bathroom door, and locks it. For a minute, she just leans
against the door, forehead pressed to the wood, her eyes tightly closed.
After a while the shower runs, for a good fifteen minutes or more.

He doesn't go for the coffee. When she emerges, if she emerges, she'll
find him sitting on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, legs
bent, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands laced together at the
back of his lowered head. Silent but for slow, heavy, rasping breath.

She comes out in sweats and wifebeater--the back of the latter spotted
with blood, sticking to her back a little. Her bare feet are quiet on the
floor, and when she speaks her voice is still hoarse, worn out. "You--"
She swallows, trying to muster more than that rasping sound. "You aright?"

"Drunk," he mutters, his voice thick. "Should've... should've known
better. Doesn't work. Doesn't help. Shit." He pauses, sucks in a ragged
breath. "Shit, shit, shit."

She stops a moment, regarding him quietly. "It's aright," she says in that
hoarse voice. "Y'safe here." Her footsteps pass, heading for the kitchen.
"Just try and breathe."

"Shit," Salem whispers, and then he falls silent.

The sink runs again, in the kitchen. The smell of coffee mingles with that
of incense. She comes back, sitting on the edge of the couch by his feet,
leaning over to hold out a glass of water. "Here."

Salem sits up, eyes and face dull, despair lurking around the edges, thick
enough that it threatens to drown even the rage. He takes the glass
without comment and drinks, not looking at her.

The dark eyes are watching him, though, their presence a weight than,
though light, can be felt. "Jack," she whispers. "Jack, tell me--"

Salem closes his eyes, his grip tight on the glass, but the water inside
it trembles slightly. "Don't. Please don't."

Closing her eyes for a moment, she rests elbows on her knees; her
expression remains taut, pained. "It's my fault," she almost whispers,
"isn't it." Not a question, but a statement of dreaded possibility.

He shakes his head faintly. His eyes open and focus dully on the glass,
holding it in both hands. "I'm just... M'just tired." The words come slow,
slurred, still thickened by that Slavic accent. He shakes his head again.
"I'm very tired, and very drunk. Should've known better."

"Yeah," she says, soft and unsteady. "Y'sound like one'a them, when
y'drunk." Her eyes close again, and she breathes. "Doesn't help, anyway. I
tried."

"Should've known better," Salem repeats, like a mantra. He exhales a slow,
weary breath and gulps down more water.

"It's all right," she says softly. "Y'safe here. It's all right." Her
dark, dilated eyes have gone elsewhere.

He finishes the glass, draining it, then stares at it like he's not quite
sure whether he wants to put it down or throw it against a wall. "Is it?"
He looks at her, then, searching.

Rina leans forward to take the glass from him. Those tired, dilated eyes
meet his own. She gives a small nod, and then looks away, as she stands to
return to the kitchen.

Salem lets out a soft, soul-weary breath and slouches, his head rocking
back against the couch, eyes open and dry as they stare toward the ceiling
-- one glazed, one blind -- and his face blank.

This time she brings back a glass of water for him, and a steaming cup for
herself. She sits down next to him on the couch, leaning down and offering
the glass without a word. Then she props both forearms on her knees again,
and stares down into her coffee cup.

Salem takes it, lifting his head, and drinks, all mechanically, his mind
elsewhere, drifting. Long moments pass before he speaks again and then
it's in a whisper. "M'sorry."

Rina lifts her head, drawn from her thoughts. "Why?" she whispers
hoarsely.

"Burdening you," comes the answer. He enunciates, forming the words
carefully around a vodka-thick tongue. "You have... enough to deal with."

Rina lets out a breath. A rueful, unhappy smile touches her lips. "Burden
me," she says hoarsely. "Lean on me." Her head is bowed between tense,
marked shoulders. "Give me a reason to be alive. Somethin' to do. And
don't apologize."

He doesn't laugh, not even a bitter, humorless chuckle. Nothing. Salem
bows his head over the glass, eyes closed.

She drinks for a time, without speaking. Eventually she sets the empty cup
aside, and dares to touch him: a tentative stroking of his hair, as if he
is a watchdog who might turn on her.

He doesn't turn on her, though his shoulders tighten slightly. Otherwise,
the Walker doesn't move.

Rina swallows, her touch pausing a moment; then she combs finger through
his hair a litle, as if setting things to rights. "Sorry," she whispers.
"I didn't--" Her hands is gone, then, rubbing at her knee.

Salem shakes his head. "No, s'not-- shit." He lifts his head, rubbing at
his eyes. "My... my mother used t'do that."

Rina laughs softly, a sound devoid of humor. "I don't know any lullabies,"
she murmurs. Her hand comes back, though, and she strokes his hair again,
gently. Begiining to comb through it with her fingers, and working the
elastic free.

Salem murmurs, "S'a'right. Hers were in Serbian." He closes his eyes
again, breathing slowly.

"Shhh," she whispers. Her hand moves a little slower, as seconds of
silence tick past. She works out the tangles at the nape of his neck,
gentle and relentless. "I don't sing anymore, anyway."

"Why not?" His eyes are still closed, his breathing even. He grunts softly
as her fingers pull too hard at a knot, but otherwise the attention seems
to be having a calming effect. He shifts his weight and leans against her
leg, cheek rested against her knee.

"Just... other things," she says hoarsely. Her fingers run through his
hair, combing out the full length of it, returning after it falls to
stroke his temple. Her touch is light, careful.

"Ah," he says. Loose hands still clasp the glass of water, which is nearly
empty -- fortunate, because it seems apt to slip out of his slack grasp.
"Like Tatt."

Her fingers begin their work again, raking up from the nape of his neck;
she pauses a moment, then. "Y'want another glass? Y'oughta drink plenty."

Salem grunts. "Not thirsty."

Rina lets out a breath. "Y'should." She lacks the energy, or the will, to
argue. Spreading her fingers, she lifts the length of his hair, letting it
slide through them.

It's long, maybe the longest she's ever seen it, and thickly black. It's
been a while since it's been cut, and although his care to it has been
somewhat indifferent these past days, it looks _good_ long.

Salem shudders slightly. He doesn't move away from her, but his eyes open
to stare at the middle distance, unfocussed and vague.

"What?" she barely breathes, as if the silence is fragile, or she fears to
disturb him.

Her hands still smell faintly of blood.

"Nothing," he whispers. "Just..." His throat works. "You don't have to
stop."

Rina swallows. "I was gonna ask if--" She takes a careful breath. "If
you'd help." Her eyes are closed, to keep the tears from overtaking her
control. "It's... I think it's pretty bad."

"I know it's hard for you but--" Nervous, and quick.

Salem blinks, his brow furrowing. He shifts away in order to look up at
her from his place on the floor, confused. "Help with what?"

Her touch drops away, and she averts her eyes when they flicker open. "My
back. It's--I could use some lidocaine on it, or somethin'."

There is something about her expression--bleak, and hopeless, and broken.
A darkness in her eyes, worse than he has seen it since the news of John's
death.

Her back. Her arms. Her wrists. The Walker's vague gaze travels from her
face and down her arms as if he's only just now remembering. His throat
works again. "Shit. Of... of course. Shit." He puts the glass down on the
coffee table and levers himself up to his feet. Too fast -- he closes his
eyes, swaying.

The bruises are developing, now, though the indentations on her wrists
have faded. The lines aren't as hard, or as deep, but a faint purplish
tint has come to them where the bones are closest to the skin.

She doesn't look to him. "I didn't--" Her voice is a whisper, and she is
close to tears. "I didn't want--"

Salem shakes his head slowly. "Too rough?" He opens his eyes again and
looks toward the kitchenette before starting toward it, carefully. "Un'er
the sink, right?"

Rina swallows. "Yeah." She opens her eyes, and looks dully across the
room. "I should lay down." She doesn't move, though--just sits there,
tears breaking free to slide down her cheeks.

He returns after a few moments of rummaging with the bowl of first aid
materials. "Lidocaine, lidocaine..." He mumbles under his breath, thickly,
and takes a seat on the couch next to her. Another mutter, a couple of
words in Serbian.

Rina pages: It's... bad. Last time it was delicate and artsy, and not much
with the broken skin. This is... like they considered flogging her to
death and decided to stop *before* flaying her to the bone. When they
dropped her off, she could barely walk. There's enough blood that more
than half of the back of the tank is no longer white.

Rina wraps both arms around herself, and shivers. "Cold," she whispers.
She stares ahead and down, her eyes unfocused. "Least he didn't--" A
sickened look crosses her face, and she ducks her head.

Salem looks up, and that expression of sick, dull anger throbs across his
scarred face again. He stares at the blood soaking through her tank top
and utters a low, thick noise that's as much lupine as human, half growl,
half groan. "Better remove that. The top. F'you don't mind."

Rina swallows, and shudders. She nods minutely, closing her eyes a moment
to steel herself. Then, with a breath, she strips it off over her head.
Despite her best efforts, a bitten-back whimper comes from her throat, and
tears well in her eyes. She hasn't yet turned away from him--but he can
see enough to turn his stomach.

Rina looks thin, half-starved, the once-cut muscles of her upper body
beginning to soften and grow slack from neglect. She clutches the tank top
in both hands, arms half-wrapped around her body still, as if to protect
herself.

It's fortunate that he's seen messy wounds before, though seeing it on
_her_... Salem makes that sound again. It takes him longer to steel
himself, but eventually he does and applies the peroxide with an unsteady
hand. "Should... should bandage that up again, after. 'N's'probably better
to stay... inside, for a few. Days. 'N rest." He's doing his best to be
gentle, but it's not like the last time. Her hurts are far worse, and he's
far from sober.

She flinches, at first, biting back sounds of pain as he cleans the
ragged, ugly wounds. To make matters worse, her shoulders shake with
sobbing, and she hardly seems to have enough strength to sit up straight.
A faint tremor can be seen in her hands.

Salem pauses, then shifts further to the edge of the couch. "Better lie
down."

Rina nods minutely, closing her eyes. "I d-don't... feel good," she
mumbles. "Don't know'f'I can make it that far."

"Fuckers. Mother fuckers." Salem takes a deep breath. "Here, then. On the
couch. I don't... fuck. Probably drop you."

Rina nods unsteadily, shivering again. "They know," she says softly. "They
know he's-- gone--"

"Fucking kill 'em," he says, in a slurring growl. "Teach them, y'not...
y'not _alone_." A beat as he shifts around to make further room. "Lie
down."

Rina nods, and swallows. It takes some determination to move. Careful, and
stiff, she finally lets the shirt fall, and turns from him to lean onto
her arms, curl her legs up on the couch, and then stretch out on her
stomach. More than one sound escapes her, as muscles protest and new
bruises make themselves known--but finally, She lays there with her arms
pillowing her cheek, eyes closed as she tries to breathe.

He watches, and looking at his face, it'd be easy to imagine that he's
feeling every cut and bruise. Once she's settled again, he continues
treating her wounds. "Easy t'forget, what it's like... t'be human," he
slurs quietly, after a few moments. "Physical pain... it goes 'way faster.
Still hurts, though."

She cries out once, sharply, as peroxide bubbles vehemently in one of the
bloodier places. By the time he finishes the unpleasant job of cleaning
everything--and judging from all the foaming of the peroxide, it was
likely necessary--she is limp and quiet, tears drying on the upholstery.
He's not entirely sure if she is conscious.

Salem continues the task regardless, focussing with all of a drunk man's
concentration. It takes him some time, but eventually her back is cleaned
and treated and the pain-killing gel applied. He treats the marks on her
arms as well. Occasionally, a Slavic mutter escapes him, but it's so low
and thick that even if she knew Serbian she probably wouldn't understand
it.

Her arms are not so bad, the skin-carving mostly old and scabbed. She
comes around, when he tries to get at them; her forearms are acting as her
pillow, and she is reluctant to give them up to his ministrations. She
doesn't speak any protests, and in the end lets him do as he will. The
dark eyes stare out into the room, hooded and empty and dazed.

"Sit up." His voice is hoarse and quiet. "Jus' for a bit. Need t'wrap it."

Rina swallows, wincing with dread. She manages to get her feet off the
cushions, but she only manages to get up onto one elbow before she slumps
again, shivering. "I'm sorry," she says hoarsely, like a pathetic,
stumbling drunk who has vomited on someone's shoes. "I'm sorry." Her
shoulders shake, and she ducks her head into the shelter of her
arm--crying in earnest now. "Please I-- I'll do whatever y'say, just stop,
just don't--"

Salem stares for a moment, baffled, then groans. "Rina..." He gets up,
moving around to the end of the couch, kneeling down at her head. His hand
touches her hair, fingers running through it; he speaks urgently, and
underneath the hated Slavic slur, she _knows_ that voice. "Rina, s'me,
s'Jack. Salem. Family, 'member?"

Confusion twists across her face, and she lifts her head by an effort of
will, to look at him. Her eyes are so terrible, so empty... He has seen
eyes like that, on half-starved children in the bombed remains of cities,
in the rubble of buildings, staring out at the ruined world with those
soulless, lifeless dark eyes. "Jack," she whispers. "Don't leave me. Don't
leave me. They /know/--" She gets up to one elbow again, driven by the
need to tell him.

Salem's brow furrows. "...Know?" Sudden misgiving. "Know what?"

She is out of breath, sagging as she props her self on an elbow, her head
bowed. "They know he's gone," she says hoarsely. "Know-- what he was. What
I am-- too much."

"Bloody fuck," he whispers. His eyes close. "When?"

"What?" she murmurs. "I don't understand."

Salem opens his eyes again and sits back on his heels. "When... how long
have they known?"

Rina opens her eyes to stare dully at the cushions. "I don't know," she
says hoarsely. "I don't know. Maybe all the time. Somebody said they
were... Wyrm, somehow. I don't know." She slumps again, laying her head
down and closing her eyes, tears welling at the corners.

Salem is silent for a moment, absorbing this, and then shakes his head.
"Tell me... tell me 'gain in the morning. For now... jus' sit up, Rina...
please? So I... S'I can wrap you up."

Rina nods into her arm, and after a few moments she takes a deep breath
and pushes herself up to her elbow, then less steadily to the length of an
arm. That small stretch across the shoulders, as she draws her knees
forward, causes her to grit her teeth--but in the end she sits on the edge
of the couch, leaning on one hand, her head bowed. "I'll--" She swallows.
"I'll be okay. It wasn't so bad, this time."

"Fucking Russians," Salem mutters, and yes, his voice is still tangled
with the Slavic accent, but there's real vehemence in it. His hands are
unsteady, but he wraps her upper body with extra care, covering the wounds
with clean, sterile whiteness.

Rina swallows, closing her eyes as tears slide down her cheeks. "Don't
leave me," she pleads, her voice hoarse and unnervingly frightened. "Don'
leave me."

"M'here," Salem murmurs. He drops the remaining gauze back into the mixing
bowl and touches the back of her neck lightly. "I'll stay. Y'can lie down,
now."

Rina obeys weakly, collapsing into the cushions with the relief of the
injured. "He said," she whispers. "He said--"

Salem sits down on the floor, arms folded across his chest as he leans
against the couch, near her head. "Said what?"

Rina's voice is choked. "Anytime he-- wants to, he can--" She shudders.

"Don't," he whispers. "He can't." The bleary eyes are stubborn and fierce.
"M'here. Not alone."

Rina swallows. "I kept askin' why," she whispers. "I hadn't moved on them.
On him. No reason for him to-- to put the hurt on me. An' he said 'Because
I can.' Just that." Her voice is rough, fierce, suddenly. "I'll kill him.
Tear out his fucking /heart/. If he even has one, the--" Something in
Italian follows, a curse she spits out with all the venom she can muster.

Salem bares his teeth in a humorless way that only superficially resembles
a grin.

She sobs quietly, then, only the sounds of her ragged breathing betraying
the tears.

The un-grin fades slowly off of Salem's face. Blankly, he stares at her
for a moment, then lurches to his feet and stumbles off to fetch back
blankets and pillows. He says a few swearwords -- in English, thankfully
-- under his breath in a slurry whisper, but is silent as he returns to
the couch. Carefully, he covers her.

Her hand reaches, weakly, for his. Her eyes, though they open, remain
empty. "Don't go," she whispers.

Salem sits back down on the floor as before; his head rests against the
couch. His hand closes around hers and squeezes it. "M'here."

She laces fingers with his, and then just holds for a long time.
Eventually, her hand loosens, relaxes in his, and she sleeps.

Salem remains awake far longer, though he eventually dozes off as well in
that position.