Date: 11/16/2002, Morning.
Location: Red Mill, Salem's apartment.
The morning comes with the same terrible inevitability as always. It's
after he's managed to take those few hours of sleep - the ones that come
in the grey light, sneaking up when he'd given up on getting them - that
Salem's woken by the smell of cooking fat. Sizzles and clatters from the
kitchen denote an extensive amount of activity.
Salem emerges from the bedroom in a plain t-shirt and sweatpants, both
black, his long hair loose and with dark circles under his eyes. Frowning
slightly, he steps barefoot toward the kitchen area, careful to avoid a
passing cockroach.
Mel's standing there, in the kitchen, over frypans. Her shoulders are
slouched, and her head droops, intent on her work. She doesn't seem to
have noticed him... until he reaches a certain distance, and the hairs
almost visibly prickle on the back of her neck. Her shoulders tense. She
flips eggs in tight little movements.
Salem leans against the counter that separates the kitchen from the front
room, keeping it between them. "What are you doing?" he asks, his voice a
quiet rasp.
She swallows tightly and then manages a hoarse, "Making breakfast." She
flips bacon, and pokes at eggs again. "Y'like 'em over-easy?" The girl
keeps her eyes down, her head lowered.
Salem's mouth thins into a faint, vaguely irritated grimace. "Over easy is
fine. Why are you making breakfast?"
Mel moves to wipe her nose with the back of her hand, and still refuses to
look at him, over her shoulder. "No offense, but you don't look so hot,"
she mumbles, before taking a steadying breath. "Bet it's cause you're not
eating right."
Salem shifts his weight and straightens up, the frown tugging a little
harder at his mouth. He gives his head a slight shake, though, as if
trying to dislodge the prickly temper. "I eat fine. But... thank you,
anyway. You didn't have to." He pulls out a stool and sits down, rubbing
absently at his eyes.
"Toast, too," she mumbles, pulling out plates and dumping a few serves of
bacon and eggs onto one. Grease practically pools around the food, as it
sits and cools. She butters toast with odd little movements - frentic
bursts of energy, efficient and fast. His plate clatters next to him, far
too loud for the freshly awoken.
Salem twitches slightly at the sound, his face tightening. Freshly awoken
and the moon too fat... but he clamps down on his temper with ruthless
force of will. "I don't suppose you managed any coffee?" His voice has a
tone of deliberate calm. Did she provide a fork?
Cutlery clatters next to his plate, jangling against the crockery. She
doesn't answer, but instead reaches to flick at the kettle. More egg
flipping. More bacon sizzling.
Salem twitches again. Then, teeth gritted, he says, "Mel. Calm down,
please. Fake it if you must. I'm not going to bite you."
"I'm calm," she murmurs softly, with determination. "I'm not angry. I'm
not scared. I'm cooking you breakfast." Her shoulders are still hunched,
her head still down. For all intents and purposes, seeming as if she's
retreated in on herself.
Salem stares at her back, looking dubious. "You're not scared? Then look
at me."
Mel pauses in her cooking motions. Fat sizzles. She turns her head very
slightly. "You think too much of yourself," she grunts quietly, and looks
back to the pan.
Salem keeps that tight, thin grimace, all clenched jaw and tired, narrowed
eyes. Then he mutters something short and incomprehensible under his
breath and attacks his breakfast, grease and all.
When she's finished with the cooking of her own - meagre - portion of
food, Mel just stands in front of the stove with her head down and the
heels of her hands resting on the edges of the equipment. She stands there
like that for a while, then announces softly, hoarsely, "Gonna go freshen
up," before marching towards the bathroom.
Salem glances up to watch her go, grunting an acknowledgement. He regards
the closed bathroom door for a moment before returning to the eggs and
bacon and toast. "Christ," he mutters, underbreath.
She's in there a while. The toilet flushes, water runs for a long time in
the sink, and there's other various sounds from inside, as well. Cupboards
opening and closing. When the door suddenly swings open, Mel's shuffling
out with her head still low, and her eyes dull - on nothing in particular.
She looks... quite frankly, like hell, eyes slightly puffy and dark around
the edges. Pale skin looks far too familiar, but she moves with a little
extra confidence - as if her efforts have made an improvement. "We're
nearly outta shampoo," she murmurs, before fixing him coffee. "Sugar?
Milk?"
Salem shakes his head. "I prefer it black." He pauses a beat, then looks
up with a frown. "...'We'?"
She doesn't answer, but simply brings her plate over, and his coffee. She
sets them down far more gently, eyes lowered, and shoulders still hunched.
A slight nervousness to her actions could be the effect of the rage... or
something else. "When you goin' to work? You should get more eggs while
you're out."
Salem's eyes are still on her, his fork motionless against his
nearly-empty plate. "It's Saturday," he tells her flatly. "And I _hope_
that you're not planning to stay."
"Lotta cleaning needs to be done, too," Mel murmurs - eyes searching her
plate desperately, as she fiddles with her fork in one hand. The other
hand rests, clenched tightly in her lap, and her breath's quickened
slightly. "I could do the shopping, though."
"I don't need a roommate," Salem insists, his voice dropping into a low
rasp. "Or a housekeeper." He's still staring at her in that intent,
unencouraging way.
Appearing almost to panic, her eyes darting about so much, Mel bites her
lip and stands up, abruptly. "In fact, I should probably start now..." She
moves to the sink, slipping pans and utensils into it and running water.
"S'easier to clean stuff if you do it right after it's used, y'know," she
stammers, scrubbing furiously at one pan, even though the sink isn't
filled with water, yet.
Salem's voice turns from rasp to something nearly a growl. "_Mel_." Then
he takes a breath, forcing a calmer tone. "Don't you have a place to stay
at the Women's Shelter?"
Mel pauses and swalows tightly, when he growls her name, but after a
moment collects herself and starts scrubbing again. "This place could
really do with a woman's touch. Might as well be a coffin, the way you
keep it," she mumbles quickly and softly.
Salem's irritation overwhelms his appetite, and he pushes his plate, which
still holds a few bites of eggs and half a piece of toast, away. "Your
opinion wasn't asked for," he says, rather coldly. "I'm sorry that John's
death is hitting you so hard, but this isn't a good place for you to
stay."
"Don't talk about him," Mel mutters in what's almost a whisper. Acidic. A
warning. She continues scrubbing at the pan.
Salem's eyes narrow. "Fine. You still can't stay here."
Her chest rises and falls more quickly, now, shoudlers moving with the
increased pace of breathing. She rests her hands in the sinks a moment,
looking around desperately again, then the girl simply buries herself in
her task, head down and gestures frenetic.
The Garou's stool scrapes against the floor as he pushes it back and gets
up. His bare feet are nearly noiseless under the sound of running water,
but his approach is tangible nonetheless.
Mel's breathing quickens even more, and her hands start to tremble, even
as she scrubs with them. Her shoulders hunch a little more - she's
obviously frightened, now, and struggling to master it. The rise and fall
of her chest is interrupted only be a pause to swallow.
Salem's arm reaches across her vision and turns off the water. Black hair
and lean muscle, no scars. "You don't _want_ to stay here," he says.
"Trust me on this. You'd be better off at the Shelter."
Mel swallows again - audibly - and freezes. Not with terror... but
thought. Lips crack open and she murmurs hoarsely, "Are you taking on his
job?"
Salem arches a brow. "Which job do you mean, in particular?" He folds his
arms across his chest and looks down at her, frowning. "He and I worked
together on several occasions. Though he never mentioned you to me."
She doesn't move a muscle. "He paid me. To watch people. So he'd know what
was going on. All sorts of people. Like you."
Salem's eyes narrow, the blind one squinting nearly closed. "He paid you
to spy on me?"
"He was a good man," she whispers hoarsely in the dead man's defence. Her
shoulders tremble.
Salem's mouth works, like he's got a bad taste in it suddenly. "When he
wasn't being an arrogant bast--" The Walker cuts himself off, one hand
coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Nevermind. You were saying."
"You didn't know him like I did!" Mel growls, rounding on the Walker.
"Don't talk about him like that!" Tears in her eyes. The trembling is a
mixture of grief... and anger. As if she were prepared to almost strike
the Devil in the face.
Salem's hand drops away from his face, his body going rigid with a spasm
of rage. She gets a glimpse of white teeth as he clamps down on it. "I
knew him," Jack snarls. "He was practically my _brother_, and I knew him
damned well, little girl."
Her eyes widen in pure terror, and she ducks her head, shaking. "Then why
would you /say/ th..." Mel's child-like tearful mumbling is cut off by
another swallow. She closes her eyes and draws in a deep, shaky breath.
"He used to sit in a bus shelter. Across the street, there's a big
bill-board. We used to meet there. The bill-board was advertising some
kind of real estate development, just out of town..." she mumbles softly.
The Walker breathes slowly and steadily, his right hand opening and
closing as it hangs by his side. He listens, and then, with an air of
deliberate calm, steps back toward the counter and sits down again. "Why
are you telling me this?"
Mel glares at him, then lowers her eyes again. "It's a stupid
advertisment. It's meant to be clever. It's all blue lake, and green
banks, and a few houses visible, and the point of view is from someone
paddling a canoe, with a lady in front. There's text on it that says, 'Get
the Monday Morning Blues'. Because there's blue colours everywhere." She
sniffs, and folds her arms tightly over her chest. One shoulder lifts for
her to rub her eyes on it. "It's stupid, like I said."
Salem drags a hand back through his hair. The way he's looking at her
suggests that, underneath the irritation and bad temper, he's not really
certain what to think right now. "Yes, and?"
Swallowing, Mel continues. Eyes on the floor. "Anyway. He used to turn up
early, sometimes. And I used to turn up late. Because..." She takes a deep
breath, suddenly looking miserable. "Because he used to just sit there and
look at that stupid, stupid billboard and just he'd just /smile/." Her
voice breaks on the last word, but she recovers quickly - though her lower
lip trembles. "And he'd /stop/ if he thought you were looking," she
mumbles, voice breaking a little more. "/That's/ what you don't know. You
only saw him when you were looking." A tear rolls down her cheek, getting
caught at the edge of her lips.
He's silent for a bit, his face unreadable but for a hint of bitterness
around the eyes. It's in his voice, too, when he finally mutters, "And he
accuses _me_ of putting up walls. Christ." Salem rubs at his eyes again.
"Fucking Christ."
"Don't call him that again," Mel whispers softly, and turns timidly back
to the sink to continue scrubbing. The movements are slower, now, and
subdued. Lacking energy.
"Don't tell me what not to say," Salem responds, rather sharply. The
mismatched eyes stare dourly at the girl's back. "But enough. Why do you
want to stay here?"
Mel pauses in that tell-tale way, so very briefly, before continuing to
scrub. "You need me. I'm useful," she murmurs with determination.
Salem purses his lips, studying her thoughtfully. "Only a fool turns down
a good source of information," he says at last, slowly. "But that doesn't
answer why you want to sleep on my couch. I'm not exactly an easy man to
live with."
The girl just hitches one shoulder in a rough shrug, as she scrubs.
And only a fool knows when to stop butting his head against an immovable
wall. Salem grimaces faintly, then shakes his head. "Fine," he rasps. "You
can stay. _If_ you agree to certain rules."
Mel turns her head suddenly, an eye watching his, warily.
Salem's gaze is steady. "One. When I tell you to leave, to make yourself
scarce, you do so without question. There are certain aspects of my
business that require privacy. This means that you don't just go outside
and listen at the door either. Is that clear so far?"
Her gaze breaks from his in a brief moment of recognition, and a deepened
frown. She nods tightly.
"Two," says the Glass Walker, "is that you stay out of my bedroom, whether
I am in it or not. I won't tolerate snooping."
Mel gives a faint snort, to indicate what she thinks of that, but turns to
the sink to continue washing up, and nods.
He pauses a beat, thinking, then adds, "Three and four. Do not give out my
phone number, and do not bring anyone here. No visitors. Clear?"
The green-eyed girl turns her head again, regarding Salem with a piercing
stare. "Crystal," she replies evenly and quietly, then turns back to pay
attention to her task.
Salem grunts and gets up. "Good. That'll do, for now." He pushes a lock of
hair back away from his face, eyes her back for another moment, then
shakes his head and heads for the bedroom. "Do you have a last name, Mel?"
he asks, over his shoulder.
There's a pause. "No. ...But you can call me Kitty if you're feeling
playful." The girl's lips are twisted into a wry, teasing smile, but her
eyes are purely challenging.
Salem pauses at the doorway to the bedroom to arch an eyebrow at her. He
doesn't look like he even knows the meaning of the word. "Noted," he says
blandly, and vanishes to gather clean clothes. He emerges shortly
thereafter and heads for the bathroom.
Watching him - all the way from bedroom to bathroom - it's only when he's
closed the door that Mel allows herself to almost crumple with a sigh of
relief. She closes her eyes and shakes her head, leaning over the sink,
and looks over with a sad glance to her jacket on the couch... and the
letter tucked into the pocket, there. A few more moments of standing with
her eyes closed, and she returns to the task of washing up - almost
complete.
The bathroom door remains closed for a long time, longer than it did when
she was in there, and most of that time's with the shower running. When
Salem finally does come out, he looks a good deal better. There are still
circles under his eyes, true, but the wayward stubble's been shaved off
around the neat, thin beard, and his clothes -- t-shirt and BDUs -- are
clean, unrumpled. He's in the process of dragging a brush back through
long, wet black hair as he emerges.
Having put things away, and sitting at the table eating the remains of her
breakfast, Mel looks up and blinks in faint surprise at the sight of Salem
in those clothes. She makes a vaguely haughty sniff and looks down to her
meal again.
Salem's eyes narrow. "You have a problem?"
"Never seen you like that," she replies simply, with mock gruffness.
Hiding a faint blush by keeping her head down and eating.
Salem squints slightly, giving her an odd look. "Like what?"
Mel looks up, expression cool and neutral. She waves a fork idly. "Wet
hair. T-shirt. You're always wearing coats and stuff." He looks back down
and continues eating.
"One usually does wear a coat outside, when it's cold." Salem's voice is
humorlessly dry, face pulling into a grimace as he tugs at a particularly
nasty knot.
Mel wrinkles her nose. "Smartass," she mumbles, finishing off the food and
standing abruptly. She moves to the sink once again and washes more -
still licking her lips.
"So I've been told," comes the reply. Salem goes back into the bedroom,
leaving the door open, still working on taming the thick wet mass.
The girl shakes her head a few times, and shuts off the water at the sink
with a violent motion before heading to the fridge and eyeing its interior
critically. "I meant it about the eggs, though. Milk, too. You also need
some bi-carb soda if I'm going to do anything exciting, here," she calls
out to the bedroom. "The plain flour probably has weevils in it, too," she
mutters under her breath. "Bachelors."
A large brown cockroach stares at the girl from on top of the fridge,
antennae waving. A smaller sibling scuttles across the floor toward the
little plate of cat food.
"Make a list," Salem calls back from the bedroom.
Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Mel adds testily, "And the roaches are
eating that cat's food."
Salem steps back into view, his hair combed back from his face and his
boots in hand. "The cat food," he says flatly, "is for the roaches."
Letting her chew on that, he stalks toward the couch and sits down to put
on his boots.
"It's like the f-- damn Professional," Mel mumbles to herself, shaking her
head still. "A plant would've been nicer. And smell better, too. Get air
freshener when you're out."
Salem glances up, lips thinning. "Write it down," he says flatly. "That
is, by the way, the fifth rule. I meant what I said about not harming the
cockroaches."
Mel grumbles softly, "I get it, alright." She reaches up and fingers one
of the pierced loops in her eyebrow. "Pen and paper," she mutters to
herself, and continues her inspection - moving from the fridge to the
pantry, now. "What do you /eat/, these days?"
The counter has, conveniently, a cup of pens and pencils sitting next to
the telephone, and there's a notepad nearby. "Food," the Walker says
curtly, doing up his bootlaces with quick, efficient motions.
"Real helpful," she mutters dourly. "Any allergies? Some kind'a special
diet I should know about? If I cook stuff, 'r you gonna /eat/ it?"
"No allergies, no special diet, and I will if it's edible." Salem tightens
up the laces of the other boot, then looks up, unsmiling. "Do you _still_
want to live here?"
Mel's bright green eyes are on the notepad as she scribbles things down.
"Are you going shopping, now?" she asks, evenly.
Salem grunts. "After I run a few other errands, yes." Boots laced, he gets
up again and approaches the counter.
She turns and regards him, ripping off the page with the shopping list,
and offering it over. Those green eyes regard him calculatingly. "How much
is the rent on this place?"
Salem takes the list, skimming it briefly before stuffing it into his
pocket. He eyes her just as calculatingly, then names the monthly rent --
it's not the cheapest place in town, but it's close to that. He takes the
pen from her, then, and scribbles a phone number down on the next page of
the pad. "My cell."
The paper virtually disappears in her hand, with a flourish - and her eyes
never leave his. "Right. So what're the errands? Y'gonna go see her
again?" Tone cold.
Salem's eyes narrow, the corners of his mouth tugging downward. "I will
probably be checking on Rina, yes." His voice is just as cold.
"Gonna do the grocery shopping before or after?" the girl queries. "Just
wanna know if I need to eat out tonight, s'all," she adds wryly.
Salem eyes the girl rather suspiciously for a moment, then grunts.
"Probably before. But I should be home tonight."
"Hey. Thing I gotta ask," Mel pipes up, frowning a little. She seems
somewhat hesitant about it, sucking on a tooth. But speaks before he can.
"You guys. You, and John, and Rina, and all the others. You people aren't
mafia... I know that much. But are you gonna tell me what the deal is?"
Salem looks steadily at her for a long moment, then turns away, heading
for the hall closet where his coat's hung up. "You don't want to know," he
says. "Trust me on this."
Mel frowns darkly, as she watches him. Then turns her eyes to the rest of
the room - empty and crawling with cockroaches. "I'll need a key."
Salem grunts. "Of course." He adjusts the set of the coat on his
shoulders, then vanishes into the bedroom again, emerging with a pair of
keys on a plain metal ring. He tosses them to her, underhand. "The smaller
one's for the doorknob. The other's for the deadbolt."
"I'll be home in time to make dinner," she notes firmly, watching him all
steely-eyed. "If you're home too late to eat it, then you get it cold or
fed to the cockroaches."
Salem frowns, and his own gaze, though blind on one side, is just as hard,
if not moreso. "Don't push it," he warns. "I can tolerate quite a lot, but
my patience has limits."
"Only when people hit the truth, I'll bet. Or when they think they have,
but correcting them would only be worse." She smiles ruefully. "You got
nothing to worry about from me, Mister. Keep the posturing low and I'll
keep the prying low."
Salem studies her with narrowed eyes, then grunts something that sounds
like, "Fine," and heads for the door.
Mel simply studies him in return as he leaves, all the way up until he's
out the door and it's closed. Whereupon she seems to deflate again,
shoulders slumping and an elbow moving to rest on the counter. Her chin in
the heel of her hand. "Men," she mutters tiredly, and sighs.
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