Delivery to Rina

[hazlogs]

Date: 11/16/02, Saturday evening.  After moonrise.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining. The temperature is 50 degrees
Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
south at 18 mph, with gusts up to 23 mph. The barometric pressure reading
is 30.16 and rising, and the relative humidity is 96 percent. The dewpoint
is 49 degrees Fahrenheit (9 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (93% full).

Location: Rina's place.

The knock comes on her door not long after nightfall, after moonrise.

The volume of the music inside drops, abruptly. "Yeah?" Her voice is
hoarse, vague.

"It's Jack," the familiar voice calls back, through the door.

Rina slides back the deadbolt, and opens it up. She looks tired, gaunt;
the bandages are gone, though, faint red lines creeping over her shoulders
beneath the wifebeater tank. From some hidden reserve of vitality, she
musters a quiet smile for him.

Salem looks like he's gotten some sleep, at least. Not much, but he looks
a damned sight better than he did Thursday night, or Friday morning.
Still, when he takes off the dark glasses, she can see that those dark
circles continue to linger under his eyes. "May I come in?"

Rina pulls the door open, and leans against its edge, watching him with
dark, huge eyes. "'Course." A faint, wry half-smile. "You look... better."

Salem steps in, tucking the sunglasses into a pocket and unbuttoning his
coat. He's just finished off a cigarette; that much is clear by scent as
he passes her. "Got some rest," he says. He glances back at her,
unreadable. He's all control tonight, but with the moon hanging full,
that's no surprise. "...And a message."

Rina closes the door, and bolts it--turning to him, at that last, with
slightly narrowed eyes.

Salem glances toward the windows, then back at her, his mouth taking on
that characteristic rueful twist. "From John. Posthumous, of course." He
reaches for the inside pocket of his coat and withdraws a sealed envelope
with her name written on it in Smith's handwriting. Wordless, he offers it
to her.

Her face freezes at the mention of his name--and a strange, desperate
expression crosses her features for a moment. The dark eyes fall to the
envelope, and she swallows. Then, carefully, she reaches out to take it,
turning it over in her hands.

Salem pushes his hands into his coat pockets, looking tense. "I imagine
that you'll want to read that in private," he says quietly.

"Yeah," she says in a small voice. "Yeah. Thank you--" She stares at it
numbly for a moment longer, and then slowly walks toward the bed.

Salem hesitates, watching her with a torn expression, then sighs and
starts for the door. He pauses after a few steps. "Do you, ah, want me to
come back later?"

Rina pauses, as if recovering some measure of awareness. She nods
woodenly, without looking back to him. "Yeah, I think you better," she
says, soft and hoarse.

Salem mutters, "Right." He tugs his coat closed. "I'll return in an hour."
His face is tight as he reluctantly leaves.

[...]

He returns in an hour, nearly on the dot; if anything, he's a minute or
two early. Salem pauses at the door, listening for a moment before he lets
himself in.

He can hear her crying--soft, muffled sobs coming from the direction of
the bed. She huddles at the foot of the futon, on the floor in a heap,
knees drawn up and both arms cradling her head.

He hardly hesitates, this time. There's a click as he closes the door
behind him and bootsteps as he crosses the floor, and then he's there on
one knee beside her, touching her arm, and then her hair with
November-chilled fingers.

This time, it is not quiet. There are no stifled, soft sounds of grief, no
efforts to shut it away. For once, she has let go of all the tough
silence, the need for self-control--and she is sobbing hard, those broken
cries sharp against the hard surfaces of the apartment. Her shoulders and
head lurch slightly; both arms are curled upward to shield her face, but
they seem limp, strengthless, her entire body wracked in the grip of
tears.

Salem bends down to pick her up off the floor and draw her to him, within
an embrace that smells like cigarettes and aftershave, still cold; was he
standing outside her building that whole hour? He strokes her hair, saying
nothing.

The unfolding is reluctant. Salem's embrace supports her out of necessity;
he feels the weight held up by his arms, the sure knowledge that she would
crumple right back to the floor without him. Her voice is hoarse from
crying, sobbing, screaming without sound--not only in the past hour, but
for weeks on end.

Salem holds her up and holds her close, fingers running through the dark
strands of her hair. He doesn't say that it's all right or tell her not to
cry, or to shh. He mutters her name once, perhaps, though too quietly to
tell for certain over the violence of her sobs, and keeps himself braced
against the storm of grief.

The bowed head moves slowly against his chest, twisting and tensing as if
she can somehow escape the pain physically. Both hands frame her skull,
press to her temples, fingers raked into her hair. Moaning, keening, she
lets out the hurting until she is utterly spent--it leaves her leaning
against him in the end, her face in her hands as she tries to breath,
quiet sniffles and hiccups of breath coming from her.

He continues to stroke her hair, slowly, and a few moments of quiet go by.
His eyes lift, staring out the window at the full moon, and the gentleness
in his fingers stands in sharp contrast to the rage-tension within him.
"Better?" he asks, finally, softly. "Or worse?"

"I'm, I'm all right," she half-whispers, swiping at her eyes with the back
of a hand. "Just, just... it all came crashin' in an' I couldn't,
couldn't--" A sniffle, and she straightens up enough to stand on her own,
breathing, regaining what little composure she can scrape up.

"I know." Salem's tone is wry. His fingers make one more pass over her
scalp, touching briefly at her nape as he pulls away to look down into her
face, head cocked slightly to favor the good eye over the blind. His hands
are on her shoulders, lightly, carefully. "Can I get you something? Glass
of water?"

Rina nods quickly, wiping at her cheeks again. She doesn't lift her head
much.

"All right." He leaves her then, stalking toward the kitchen; he sheds the
big black coat on the way, draping it over the back of the couch.

Rina swallows, and makes use of his absence to go through five or six
tissues in rapid succession; then she comes out toward the couch, wiping
at her eyes.

Salem returns with the glass and, standing, offers it to her. "He left a
box of papers, to be opened on his... his passing," the halfmoon explains.
His face is solemn. "Business matters, and letters for various people." He
exhales a sharp breath. "There's a will, too, apparantly, with a lawyer."

Rina takes it, looking up at him for the first time. She nods minutely,
and drinks down a swallow or two. "Thanks," she says hoarsely.

"You're welcome." He smooths down the front of his t-shirt with an
absent-minded gesture and then pushes his hands into the pockets of his
BDUs. "Wish I could do more."

Rina swallows, meeting his gaze, a guarded look in her own. "You don't
know how much you-- how much of a difference it makes," she says. Soft,
hesitant words, so careful... she is almost always careful, around him.
"If it wasn't for you, the past few weeks, I couldn't-- I wouldn't be
alive."

Salem blinks; whatever he was expecting her to reply, it wasn't that,
obviously. "I, ah, well." He rubs at his jaw, something at a loss for
words. "I'm glad... that I could do that, for you, then."

Rina sniffs quietly, and lowers her eyes to drink again. "You... want
anything?" she asks, hoarsely.

Salem shakes his head. "Thank you, but..." His lips thin as he glances
toward the window again. "I should go," he says, looking back at her.
"Moon's full." He sounds irritable at the fact, irritable and rueful.

She drinks slowly, downing several swallows; then she steps aside, to set
the half-empty glass on the coffee table. "Yeah, kinda," she answers,
turning to offer a wry not-smile.

A moment later, she closes the distance between them, to slide her arms
around his waist. The embrace is close, chaste but disturbing, her hold
tight, her head leaning against him for a long moment.

Salem returns it, though much more carefully than he did just moments ago;
his heartbeat's clearly audible. Eventually he disengages from her, his
eyes on her, somber as ever. "I'll be in the area," he promises, and turns
away to reclaim and shrug back into his coat.

Rina nods minutely, taking a deep breath. "Be careful," she says quietly.
Wrapping both arms around herself, she watches him go.

"I will," he says. He looks back at her for a moment, and then inclines
his head in a rather quaintly formal gesture and heads out, closing the
door behind him,