Emotional Support

[hazlogs]

It is currently 20:05 Pacific Time on Tue Dec 10 2002.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is mostly cloudy. The temperature is 42
degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in
from the south at 13 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.91 and
rising, and the relative humidity is 92 percent. The dewpoint is 40
degrees Fahrenheit (4 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (42% full).

Farmhouse: Kitchen and Dining Room

Homey is the first word to come to mind when looking at the farmhouse's
kitchen. Dark, wood-paneled wainscoting covers the walls to about waist
height, dark beige wallpaper continuing to the ceiling. Twin refrigerators
occupy the north wall, facing the large six-burner stove on the south. The
kitchen counter runs the length of the eastern wall, broken only by the
double-basin sink. Cabinets run above and below the counter and a
twin-pane window is set in the wall above the sink. A small pantry is set
into an alcove alongside the refrigerators, presumably holding the deep
freezer as well as shelves of dry goods.

Some twelve feet above the floor, a large chandelier hangs from the
ceiling, lighting the dining room and casting long shadows over the bar to
the kitchen. A long table occupies the center of the dining room, three
chairs setting along each side, and one on each end. On the west wall, a
large window looks out on the trees alongside the western pasture. Set
into the north wall is a large cabinet, its glass doors closed on shelves
containing a full compliment of fine china and glassware as well as a few
decorative nicknacks. On the east, a wide bar separates the dining room
from the kitchen.

An opening in the southern wall allows passage to the front entryway of
the house, while a sliding glass door in the kitchen opens to a clearing
behind the house.

Kaz is sitting on the kitchen table, staring at her Coke.

The back door opens, and Salem clumps into the farmhouse without ceremony,
tugging off his gloves and, in general, looking ill-tempered and cold.

Kaz tells Salem, indignantly, "This Coke is /frozen/."

Salem pauses, looking up and fixing his gaze on the Gnawer. He just
_looks_ at her for a moment, then grunts and continues his way through the
kitchen toward the hall closet. "Was it at the back of the fridge? Things
tend to turn solid back there."

Kaz says, "Well, ok, you're frozen too. But I didn't try and drink you."
Salem's look apparently doesn't phase her at all, as she nods. "Yah. It
was. But I'll cope. S'hi, an' stuff."

Salem grunts by way of reply and disappears from the kitchen temporarily.
He returns shortly, sans coat and gloves. "Hello yourself. What brings you
out this way?" The cordial tone's an obvious facade; he's as dour as ever.

Kaz has, by this time, gotten a new Coke. "Sometimes, I figure I should
come abuse the lupes. Plus, there's cubs to get to know." She shrugs.

"Several of those, yes." Salem surveys the kitchen, the fridge and
cabinets and pantry and stove. Then he grimaces and simply drops into a
chair at one end of the table. "Quite the mixture, too," he says, passing
a hand wearily across his face. "A twitchy little Fang, a sullen little
Get, another sullen little Get, and a perky little Gaian. And Cat, of
course."

Kaz blinks, as she listens. "Even if I reduce the derision factor about 20
percent, that's still a lot of whacked out cubs. But yeah, you got it
right, I'm mostly here to bug Cat."

Salem rubs the side of his neck. "He should be nearby. He doesn't like the
woods. Oh, and Craig. I think Renee's having him live out here for a bit,
too, for some reason."

Kaz says, "Right. Craig. Him too." Then she pauses. "...Why doesn't Cat
like the woods?"

Salem's mouth takes on a downward twist. "God only knows. Not enough webs,
maybe. But he's making friends, anyway, and otherwise he seems fine."

Kaz says, as if not quite able to believe it, "Friends? Geez, maybe I don'
gotta come bug him, then."

"Some Fianna. And one of the Furies took him into the Umbra." Salem
grunts. "Oh, and that cockroach spirit apparantly followed him out here."

Kaz mulls this. "Well, I ain't got no problem with spirits, so long as the
rangers ain't got none, neither."

Salem folds his arms across his chest, his tall body half-slouched in the
chair. He looks tired. "Cat said that the Fury spoke to it, and he was all
excited about the idea of learning how to speak to spirits some day." Cat
excited about something can be nothing but good, but the halfmoon seems
less enthused than he should be. "Quentin's back in the city, by the way.
I think he's staying with Rhiannon again."

Kaz says, "Rock that casbah, then. I mean, I knew he was into spirits, but
makin' sure of it..." She trails off, and gives the Walker a long look.
"Why do you look more sleep depped than a brigade of college students
during exams?" she finally asks.

Salem looks sidelong at her, mouth thinning into a grimace. After a short
pause, he admits, reluctantly, "Touch of insomnia. It's nothing." He
scrubs at his face with a hand. "I don't suppose that while you were
rooting around in the fridge, you noticed a large pot of soup in there."

Kaz says, promptly, "Yes," and produces it. Then she ladles a bit out and
starts it heating. "So." She looks at him again. "Why insomnia now?"

Salem looks like he might have said something along the lines of being
perfectly capable of heating his _own_ soup, but he doesn't care, in the
final calculation, to waste the energy. He watches her, though, with a
dour expression. "Why not?" He snorts. "It's hardly the first time I've
lost a bit of sleep."

Kaz rolls her eyes. "Dude," she says, as she starts looking for bread,
"Insomnia's got /reasons/, gen'rally. Although," she adds, rattling under
the table, "You've /got/ plenty of reasons, come to think."

"Don't know _what_ you could be referring to," Salem retorts, quite sour.

Kaz snorts. "Yeah, sure, whatever." She finally finds the bread, and then
starts looking for butter. "So which do you think it is?"

Salem's eyes narrow. "Playing psychiatrist, Kaz?"

Kaz shrugs. "No. I ain't got the trainin'. An' if you want me to shut up,
well, it ain't likely, but I'll think about it. But," she says, finding
the butter, "after we got the Caern back, an' I was off down in SF, I kept
wakin' up for no good reason durin' the night. Couldn't sleep again.
Stared into the blackness, it stared back, all that good shit. /I/ figured
it was Max dyin', but that didn't help it stop. It wasn't til I figured
out it was the guilt part of things, not the missin' Max part of things,
that was keepin' me awake... Well, actually, I /still/ couldn't sleep. But
at least it made /sense/."

Salem regards her stonily, mouth thin. "You think John's death is keeping
me awake? Hmnh. Maybe. There's Rina, too. She's still... grieving." He
exhales a breath and leans forward, propping his elbows on the edge of the
table. "It is, also, extremely damned _quiet_ out here at night." He gives
his head a short, quick shake. "Doesn't matter. Really. It'll pass."

Kaz shrugs again. "Who knows? But sometimes, if you figure it out, it
stops suckin' hoovers so hard. Anyways. Yeah, eventually, it'll pass." She
hesitates, and adds, "I-- Is Rina havin' a real bad time of it?"

Salem hesitates in answering that, though the dark, bleak look that
flickers across his face says volumes. He 'hmnh's again and studies his
hands, frowning at the hint of dirt under his nails. "They got married
just before he went off to Seattle," he says quietly. "Eloped."

"So that," Kaz concludes, "Would be a yes. I, this, well, lemme be blunt.
Do you need some time off from bein' an emotional support? She ain't never
gonna stop needin' that, so if you do..."

The cellphone clipped to Salem's belt abruptly emits a burring ring,
forestalling his answer. The Philodox grimaces tightly and picks it up,
answering with a flat, "Yes?"

Rina's identity is easy enough to surmise, by the nonverbal sounds that
first come across the connection. A choked noise, a gasped-in breath: she
is crying again. It takes her some time to pull herself together enough to
speak, and there are several abortive attempts.

Kaz busies herself with soup.

Salem looks up, meeting Kaz's eyes with a tired and somewhat rueful
expression. He's silent a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice
gentle; his free hand comes up to rub absently at the scarred side of his
face, near the blind eye. "Rina? Calm down. What's the matter?"

Rina tries to take deeper breaths, and gradually gains enough equilibrium
to speak. "Jack--" Her voice is hoarse, fragile. "I can't-- I can't do
this, I can't--"

Kaz buries her head in the fridge, finding more Coke. No editorial
comments here. Nope.

Salem closes his eyes, focussing on the phone call, his head lowered.
"It's all right," he answers. "It's fine. Where are you?"

Rina swallows convusively, and sniffles, before she manages to breathe
again. "The-- the bridge," she answers, throat constricted.

A frown tugs at the corner of Salem's mouth. "...Travelling?"

Rina sniffles, and takes several desperate breaths. "I-- I'm sorry I
shouldn't've called you-- I j--" Between the gasping sobs, she swallows
and tries to steady her voice. "I d-- I didn't know what else t'do--"

Salem says, quietly, "Don't apologize. You can _always_ call me. You know
that. What happened?"

Rina swallows. "Nothing, nothing happened--" Her voice is hoarse,
unsteady; he can hear the occasional whiz of a passing vehicle. "I w-went
to the Rialto and they were there, Lyra and Quentin, and they had a fight
and-- it doesn't matter, I j-- I just can't /do/ this anymore, I--"

"It's all right," Salem says again, like it's a mantra. "Lyra and Quentin
had a fight? About the, ah... the incident?"

"I don't know what it's about," she says unsteadily. "She-- she doesn't
want anybody goin' after the guy. I just-- I just left, I had to."

Salem grunts. "Why...? Nevermind, I'll ask Quentin about it." There's a
sound of a chair scraping against a floor, and footsteps. "Do you want to
come over? You can, if you need to. Always."

Her breathing evens out, a little, though the tears are still audible in
her voice. "I-- is anyone gonna care if, if I-- stay out there? I-- I'm
scared...."

"It'll be fine," he assures her. "Someone made a pot of soup yesterday. I
was just about to have some."

Rina sniffles quietly, trying to master the hysterical tears. "I'll-- I'll
be there when y'done, aright? M-- maybe half an hour--"

"Take your time," says Salem. "Drive safe. I'll see if I can scare you up
some tea. Or hot chocolate. This place seems to have an excess of hot
chocolate." He's inserted a touch of wry humor in his voice, like the
night when they'd discussed Ozzie and Harriet, with him as the latter.

"'Kay," she says, fragile and unsteady. "I'll be there soon."

"Good." He's a rock. A nice, firm, welcoming rock. "I'll see you soon."

[*click*]

It's some time later, when the Ducati pulls to the end of the drive, and
she walks alone down the lane. Her face is pale, streaked with tears. As
she heads for the porch she strips off her gloves, and tries to wipe at
the traces with her hands.

He's waiting for her on the porch, standing, bundled up in the big black
hooded coat. Seeing her coming, he goes to meet her, boots crunching on
the gravel.

Rina keeps her eyes lowered, as the distance closes between them. The way
her shoulders hunch, the way her attention remains averted, makes her look
small.

Salem reaches her and puts his arm around her shoulders, gently escorting
her to the front door. "I found some tea. Chamomile, even. Teapot's on the
stove as we speak."

Rina nods mutely, only managing to breathe as he shepherds her inside.

She is cold. Very cold, from the open air and the riding. In the light,
inside, her cheeks are red, her skin splotched from wind and tears. Rina
doesn't look at him; she seems ashamed, maybe, something in the way she
hangs her head and keeps her eyes on the floor. Both arms are wrapped
around her body, protecting the vulnerable places.

Salem pauses at the hall closet. "Let me get your coat, and you can go sit
down. The water should be boiling any moment now." He still has circles
under his eyes, but apart from a certain subdued quality to his body
language, he doesn't seem weary. Much.

Rina sniffles, dashing tears from her eyes with the back of one hand.
"'Kay," she says quietly, stopping to shrug out of the leather. The long
fighting knife is sheathed at the back of her waist, the only weapon she
carries.

Salem eyes the knife for a moment, then hangs up her leather jacket in the
closet, next to his long black coat. "Make yourself comfortable," he
urges; his manner toward her remains gentle, like she's this terribly
fragile glass creature he's afraid of breaking.

She looks already broken--her posture an attempt to make herself small,
her head bowed. "I'm just-- gonna go wash up," she says unsteadily. "These
gloves make my hands black." She turns to head for the stairs.

Salem nods slightly. "All right. Are you, ah, hungry at all?"

Rina shakes her head quickly. "No." She walks like a listless automaton;
he hears her trudge up the stairs, to the bathroom.

Salem looks after her, then indulges himself in a quiet sigh and goes into
the kitchen to see about the tea.

It's a little while before she comes back down; the ends of her sleeves
are wet, and she has washed her face. She wanders through the living room,
and eventually appears at the kitchen doorway. Her eyes are still glued to
the floor.

Salem glances up from where he's standing near the stove. Two mugs are set
out on the counter nearby, waiting. He regards her for a moment, then
says, quietly, "Rina. Look up. Please?"

Rina lifts her head, her expression uncertain, touched with shame. The
dark eyes are hollow, the anguish in them terrible, a shadow that comes
through the crumbling facade. She takes shallow breaths, as she meets his
gaze.

"You have nothing to be ashamed about," he tells her, his gaze steady on
her face. On her eyes, even, if she'll dare to meet his.

Rina nods minutely, tears welling in her eyes. "I do," she whispers. "I
do. I w-- I was so close--" She looks away, then, uncomfortably.

The teapot whistles. Salem grimaces faintly and turns toward it, busying
himself with tea-making. "It won't always be like this, you know.
Eventually, the wounds will heal. I swear to you. It won't always hurt
like this."

"That's why," she whispers. "Why I want to hurt. 'Cause if-- if my body
hurts, if I push it to the edge, I can-- I can leave the other f'r'a
while..." She wraps both arms around herself tightly, and ducks her head
again.

Salem goes still for a moment, then turns away briefly to take up the
mugs. When he turns back to carry them back toward the living room, his
face is composed. "Is that why, ah..." He trails off and offers her one of
the mugs of chamomile tea.

Rina takes it carefully, and follows him into the living room. She makes
her way to the couch, hesitantly. "Yeah. I guess. That and-- and control."
A swallow tightens her throat; she sits down, and stares at the floor.

Salem takes a spot on the couch next to her. Pensive, he looks at her.
"Control?" He takes a small sip.

The tears slide down her cheeks, slowly. One falls from her jawline, into
the cup of steaming water. "When--maybe y'won't understand but--" Her
voice is hushed, close to a whisper. "When things happen t'you, that--
that you don't have any choice in, where you have no control over w-what
they do to you..."

Salem balances the cup on his knee, a hand holding it steady. His other
hand comes up to brush lightly at her bangs. He's listening.

Rina blinks several times, fast, tears slipping down her cheeks. "It's how
I took it back," she whispers. "Like-- like puttin' a flag on a map.
Claiming territory." She swallows, and taskes a labored breath. "One place
at a time. Everything-- everything they touched. everywhere he-- hurt
me--"

The muscles tighten in his jaw, but his eyes remain calm over the dark
circles of sleep-deprivation. His fingers continues to stroke through her
hair, lightly. "Ah," he says. A light dawning.

She closes her eyes tightly, and her shoulders shake once; hot tea sloshes
over the rim of the mug onto her hand. "Like-- like erasing everything
they did," she whispers. "If I-- if I decide, *I* decide what happens, who
hurts me and how. If I do the hurting. Then, then I'm the one who's in
control."

His hand goes still, then reaches down to steady her mug. "Ah," Salem says
again. "And... the club, that night. With that woman. That was..."

Those dark eyes flicker open again; the sidelong light of the living room
lamp catches the amber in them, giving them depth for once. Feeling, where
there has only been bleak emptiness for a long time. A few more tears
break free, as she looks down into the steaming cup. She nods minutely.
"It's... it doesn't always help much," she says hoarsely. "Especially
since I-- I know he wouldn't understand. But sometimes, just sometimes I
gotta get away from everything, for a while... make it go away." She
swallows, and her eyes shimmer as they fill again. "He always could--"

Salem squeezes her wrist lightly, then sits back, looking at his
barely-touched mug with a faint, thoughtful little frown. "I... think I
see." He glances sidelong at her. "I think I understand. A little."

Rina closes her eyes, the lashes darkening with unshed tears. She takes
several deep breaths, and the shaking eases; when the girl opens her eyes
again, her gaze seems clearer, not quite so far away as before. "It's
like--if you were gonna paint over the mark they put on you. Or cut it
outta your skin." She lifts the mug to her lips, to drink down a few
swallows.

Salem nods slowly and takes a sip of his tea. "Makes... sense, when you
put it like that." He glances at her again, one corner of his mouth
quirking upwards in a wry sort of way; his eyes remain somber. "I came
down rather hard on you that night. I'm sorry."

She gives a quick little shake of her head in answer. Her hair is damp,
from time spent out in the cold rain. "I deserved it," she whispers. "He
wouldn't like it, that I-- that I went to them. He hated them, hated all
of it..." She swallows hard, and ducks her head, hiding behind the spiky,
uncut fall of her hair. It is getting long enough, now, to swing forward
along her cheek and jaw, long enough to conceal her eyes when she does
that.

"It's a difficult thing, to watch someone you love bleed," Salem remarks,
after taking another swallow of tea. He stares out toward the dark window.
He hesitates, then clears his throat slightly. "Did he, then... when you
asked him to...?"

A jerky nod answers the question, and a moment later she manages to
speak--though her voice is choked, tearful. "Can we not...? I-- if I start
thinkin' about him I'll lose it, I'll go right back to--"

Salem grimaces apologetically. "Ah, right. Sorry."

Rina closes her eyes tightly. A shiver courses through her, and she drinks
quickly, as if to stave off cold or fear or both. She swallows, and the
dark eyes flicker open again, unseeing. Frightened. For a long time she
says nothing.

He's looking at her again, with those terribly serious, terribly somber,
terribly tired eyes. "What's the matter?" he asks, quietly.

Rina stares down into her tea with haunted, guilt-stricken eyes. She gives
a tiny shake of her head. "I'm scared." A silence, and she turns her face
away slightly, to hide the tormented expression from him. "I was-- close,
tonight," she whispers hoarsely.

Salem takes in a deep breath and then lets it out, slowly. "Ah." His left
hand comes up and rubs absently at the scar tissue around his blind eye.
Then he points out the obvious. "You didn't, though."

Shaking her head quickly, she whispers, "No." A steadying breath, and then
both hands lift the cup again. This time she drains it, eyes closed until
the last swallow. The empty mug remains cradled between her hands, and for
long moments she stares down into it, lost. "No."

"Good," he murmurs. "I'm glad." He tilts his head at her, mouth curving
into a slanted half-smile; he inserts a light, dry touch of
mock-self-deprecation into his voice. "Who else would come all the way out
to nowhere to visit me? I told you. I'm selfish."

"I thought you'd be mad at me," she whispers, staring into the empty cup.
"But I-- I shouldn't be alone." A swallow tightens the line of her throat.
"Not tonight."

Salem's wry expression fades back into solemnity. "You won't be. Least of
all here." He finishes off his tea and stretches slightly, leaning back.
"I'm glad you came."

Rina sets the cup on the coffee table with an excess of care, and draws
the back of a hand across her face, her eyes. She doesn't look at him; her
gaze remains fixed, ahead and down. "I'm sorry I-- I can't keep it
together, right now," she says quietly. The guilt is clear, in the way she
hangs her head, the slump of her shoulders. "I'm sorry I'm so--" An angry
shake of her head replaces the needed adjective.

He touches the back of her neck, lightly, his fingertips warm from their
contact with the mug of hot tea. "Don't worry about it," Salem says. "It's
been... a bad time, ever since... mm." His hand leaves her; he leans
forward to set his mug on the table next to hers. "You don't need to
apologize."

She lifts her head, just enough to look across the room, into emptiness.
Her pale face looks as bleak as the winter woods; tears have marked her
cheeks, the wetness only smeared by her hand to leave a dull shine. "You
and-- and Cat--" she says hoarsely, "--and Angela, you're the only--"

Salem half-turns toward her as he sits back, his arm resting along the
back of the couch. He's silent in order to let her finish.

Rina's posture is as withdrawn as his is open: a huddle of pain, both arms
crossed, elbows on her knees. She sniffles once, and swallows. "The only
reasons I got. And Dad, I guess..." Her brow furrows, anguish twisting
briefly across her face before that numb equilibrium returns.

"Your father's an... interesting man," Salem remarks. His arm shifts from
the back of the couch, hand settling on her shoulder.

Rina ducks her head, her brow furrowing. "He's ... a lot to live up to,"
she says quietly. "Never wanted me to be... part of it." Another swallow.
"I guess I had other ideas."

Salem cocks his head slightly, considering her. "Do you regret it?"

For a few seconds she is still, her gaze distant; then she glances down,
gives a small shake of her head. "I regret a lotta things," she whispers.
"But refusin' to stick my head in the sand, and grow up an' be someone's
trophy Mafia bride like the girls I saw... no. That's not one of 'em."

Salem nods slightly and is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "I find it
very difficult to imagine you as a trophy wife."

Rina hitches a shoulder, awkwardly. "So did I," she mutters.

Silence falls again for a time. He seems easy with it, almost calm.
Eventually, his hand leaves her shoulder and he sits forward again to pick
up the two mugs. "Like a refill? Or something to eat?"

Rina shakes her head minutely. "I'm aright," she answers, looking over to
him. The dark eyes meet his, but they do not stay for long; she is quick
to look away, ducking her head again.

Salem nods and gets up, taking the mugs off into the kitchen. He sets them
in the sink and comes right back, settling onto the couch with a grunt.
"Well, if you do... the place is nothing if not well-stocked."

Rina takes a careful breath, and lets it out. "I'm aright," she says again
quietly. She glances over her shoulder, and studies his face for a moment;
then, carefully, she leans back and curls up against him, resting her head
against the hollow of his shoulder. Her hands are kept to herself, almost
as if she fears to touch him.

Salem, too; one hand rests on her arm, but that's it. He leans his head
back against the couch, his eyes on the window. Quiet. It becomes clear
after a few moment's that he's starting to drift; he blinks a bit and
shakes his head.

Rina scratches at one forearm; perhaps that's what recalls him to the
present. After that, though, she is quiet. By the time she falls asleep,
there is a damp spot where her cheek rests on his shoulder.

Salem manages to stir himself before he dozes off -- sleeplessness finally
catching up with him -- and picks the sleeping kinswoman up off the couch,
muttering something about upstairs, a bed, and making her more
comfortable.

With a contented little murmur, she curls up and lets her head rest on his
shoulder. She is still cold.

He finds an empty bed, eases off her boots, and tucks her in. For a long
time, he stands there watching her, and then stretches out on a bed
nearby. He spends the night in fitful dozing, waking often.

As always, she wakes him with her nightmares--but it only happens twice,
and for the most part she seems to sleep more soundly than usual.

He just has a vague memory... not sure if it's a dream or not... of her
sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning over him and stroking his hair.
She kisses his forehead. He doesn't think he was dreaming... because her
wrists are cut, lines of scabs on them where her sleeves have been pushed
up.