Post-Thanksgiving

[hazlogs]

Date: 11/28/2002, Thursday, night.  After Thanksgiving dinner.

By the time he comes back (from taking Quentin back to the farmhouse), 
the apartment is mostly clean, the dishwasher slshing quietly to itself 
and the tables put away. She answers the door in shabbier clothes than 
the ones she wore for dinner: loose, baggy jeans and a wifebeater, with 
a hoodie thrown on for warmth. The apartment is cool enough, with all 
that glass and no curtains.

Salem is without the Galliard cub, but he's managed to take in a
post-dinner cigarette on the way to dropping Quentin off and coming back.
He has, also, returned with something under his arm, an intricately-carved
wooden box, dark, just big enough to fit into a briefcase. "Mnh. Sorry I
wasn't back sooner. Traffic's fucking insane tonight."

Rina hitches a shoulder, and turns to lead him into the apartment. "You
din't have to, really," she says quietly. Her voice is tired, still, with
that softness he has come to expect--as if she has no energy left for
speaking. "You want anything?"

"A cup of coffee, but I can get it." He shrugs awkwardly out of his coat,
shifting the box from one arm to the other as he does so. "I, mnh, brought
this over to you, for safekeeping next month. Didn't think you'd mind."

"Brought what...?" She turns, and tips her head--and then falters a
little, looking away. "Oh."

Salem studies her, mouth thin. "I can find a lockbox for it, if you'd
rather not. But..." He purses his lips. "If I hadn't been around, this
would have gone to you."

Rina nods minutely, and turns away to lean against the kitchen bar,
shoulders slumping. "It's no prob."

Salem sets the box on the coffee table, carefully, and from a pocket
retrieves the key on its long chain. He sets this on top of the
elaborately carved surface -- it's all leaves and vines -- and then joins
her in the kitchen. He studies her face carefully. "You're sure?"

Rina nods, without meeting his eyes. "Not like it matters. There a reason
you don't wanna leave it at the apartment?"

Salem rubs at the back of his neck, looking rueful. "Just a precaution."
He folds his arms across his chest, grimacing faintly. "There's a reason
why it's usually suggested that we _don't_ write things down, but... hmn."

Rina swallows, and glances down. "Oh. Right." She looks over her shoulder,
toward the coffee table.

Salem wrinkles his nose slightly. "Plus," he adds, with a definitely sour
note, "I've picked up a roommate, and I'd rather remove the temptation
than simply trust in her willpower and self-control."

"Her?" The dark eyes return to him, and then is a flicker of something....
almost hopeful. "You're living with someone?"

"I'm living with someone," Salem confirms, without any trace of humor,
without smiling even a little. "Mel, in fact. But not sleeping with her."

Rina blinks, staring at him a moment. "Oh," she finally manages to say.

Salem shifts his weight, looking oddly uncomfortable with the subject.
"Yes, well." He clears his throat slightly. "Guardian duty starts on
Sunday. Are you, ah, sure you're going to be all right?"

Rina's hand comes up to shield her eyes; she rubs at her temples. "No,"
she says quietly. "But I'll try. You-- still have my keys?"

Salem nods, his gaze intent on her, troubled. "I do. And I'll have my
cell, at least when I'm not on active patrol."

Rina nods. "Maybe y'oughta give them to Cat. Don't-- tell him anything,
just... if there's danger and we need the guns, he can give'em to me."

Salem considers that, then grunts agreement. "Makes sense. Good thinking."

Rina hitches a shoulder. "Or someone else, if y'don't want to give Cat the
resposibility. Doesn't matter." Her eyes remain downcast, fixed on the
counter.

Salem regards her for a moment, then steps closer and lays a hand on her
shoulder. "Dinner was good. Perfect, even. Your daughter is... quite
precious."

Rina ducks her head, sudden sharp pain crossing her features. "She's not
really mine," she says hoarsely.

Salem grimaces slightly, then wipes it away. "You know what I mean," he
says, mildly admonishing. "She calls you 'daddy,' after all."

Rina's mouth tugs upward at one side, not quite in a smile. Her eyes are
lowered, her expression wistful. "Yeah," she murmurs. "Yeah, I guess she
does."

"Exactly." He squeezes her shoulder, then releases it and leans against
the counter next to her, arms folded. "She adores you, too."

Rina shakes her head, staring at the countertop. "I don't know, anymore. I
don't-- see her, enough."

Salem purses his lips, still looking at her. "You should. Get out
sometimes. Somewhere other than the Temple, or by the river."

Her head remain bowed, and she crosses her arms on the bar's edge. "I--" A
swallow. Her voice is hoarse.

"I mean that," he says, quite serious, quite somber. "You can't barricade
yourself in here forever."

"I'm afraid," she whispers. Just that, and nothing else--and there is a
terrible bitterness, a difficulty in making that confession.

Salem blinks once, then frowns slightly. "Afraid?"

"I know they're watchin' me," she says quietly. "And if they find out, if
they suddenly know that Jenny and Angela are-- the most important people
in my life, they'll use it. Use them to-- get to me. I never understood
before, how-- how it was, for John..."

His face tightens. "Shit. The Russians, right." Like he'd managed to
forget about them over the course of Thanksgiving dinner. He lets out a
sharp breath. "When I come back to the city at the beginning of the year,
we're going to take care of those bastards, even if I have to _personally_
strangle each and every one of them."

"It was one a the reasons we-- split up," Rina murmurs. "This thing of
ours-- I can't, I couldn't be so involved, she couldn't stand the danger
to Angela..."

Salem massages his left temple, fingertips absently tracing scars. "We'll
finish them. I swear it."

"I've already sworn it," she says, low and bitter and fierce. Something
about the quick-drawn breath betrays her turmoil; she is near tears. "For
all the fuckin' good it's done. Swore it the first time the sons of
bitches laid a hand on me--" Her fists are clenched, her shoulders tight.

Salem scrubs at his face with a hand. "Shit." He folds his arms across his
chest and grimaces, staring at nothing in particular, now. "It's going to
be a long month."

Rina closes her eyes tightly. "I'm sorry," she whispers. Angry, all of a
sudden, she pushes away from the bar and turns away from him. "Call, if
you need to." She stands arrow-straight.

He watches her with a rueful expression. "I will. Is there, ah, anything
else you need?"

Rina shakes her head minutely. She doesn't turn to look at him--hiding,
behind the straight posture and the lifted head, the tears that roll down
her cheeks.

Maybe he senses it, though; he's certainly spent enough time with her in
the past month to become sensitive to the subtleties of her moods. He
steps up behind her, and a hand lifts, but he doesn't quite touch her.
"Please don't cry," he says, murmuring.

Rina swallows. "Just ... be careful, and..." She stares hard at the wall.
"I'll see you next year."

Salem hesitates, then nods. "Next year. I'll be careful. _Very_ careful."
He pauses for another beat or two, then walks slowly out toward the couch
and his coat.

She turns to watch him go. "Thanks, Jack."

He glances back and smiles. It's wan, faint, a bare and tattered ghost,
but it's there. For a moment anyway. Then he inclines his head and turns
away, shrugging into his coat as he heads for the door.