Stress

[hazlogs]

Date: 12 Jan 2003, Sunday. Late, past midnight.

Red Mill Apartments #603

This smallish, two-bedroom apartment is somewhat sparcely furnished, but
has a comfortable, homey look to it. A greenish-gray couch holds court in
the main room, accompanied by a low, sturdy-looking coffee table. A squat
black entertainment center is set up on the other side of the room, in
perfect view of the couch; on it sits a rather large television and within
the small cabinet area underneath is a VCR. There's bookcase set up along
one wall, its shelves holding a stereo, a clock, various CDs and video
tapes, but very few actual books -- most are nonfiction paperbacks,
history books. The carpet's a neutral shade of tan and covers whatever
floor doesn't belong to the kitchen or the bathroom; the walls and ceiling
are a shade lighter and on them are a few Van Gogh prints; _Starry Night_
hangs over the couch in a position of prominence.

The kitchen's small and narrow, but it's clean and holds the basic
conveniences of modern life, including (but not limited to) a microwave, a
toaster oven, and little blue and white dish towels. A short length of
hallway past the kitchen entrance leads to the bathroom and a pair of
bedrooms.

Though the apartment is kept fairly clean, cockroaches are a constant
presence and go about unmolested by traps, sprays, or other poisons. In
fact, a small plate of fresh canned cat food sits in a corner at the far
end of the kitchen, apparantly just for the benefit of these insects.

When Salem approaches the door, the now-familiar buzz of the TV can be
heard through it, and the lights are obviously on. Mel's stretched out
over the couch, arms above her head and brow furrowed faintly as she
stares dully at the screen. Buffalo mating habits on Discovery channel.
Riveting.

Keys rattle in the locks, announcing his return. Salem's a little
dull-eyed himself, though he makes an effort to mask his tiredness as he
enters and sees her still awake. "You know," he says mildly, pocketing his
keys and tugging off his gloves. "You don't _have_ to wait up for me." His
tone of voice is even and unreadable; his expression holds a touch of
bemusement.

"Pfft. Who's waiting up?" the girl asks, arching an eyebrow without
looking at him. ...Much. Just a quick glance, to see what sort of
condition he's in. Safe, and thus able to take care of himself. "You
wouldn't /believe/ the stuff I know, after watching all this edutainment.
Totally going to gross out the little kids at the shelter."

Salem glances at the TV screen just in time to see the big male mount up.
He wrinkles his nose slightly, then shakes his head and heads for his
bedroom to hang up his coat. "Lovely. How was work?" It's not the best
attempt at sociable small talk, but he's trying, at least.

"Dull," the girl replies flatly, watching him over her shoulder as he
disappears into the bedroom. She thins her lips then looks back to the TV.
"Dinner's in the fridge. Meat'n'veg. Wasn't feeling too inspired tonight."

"Thanks." Salem emerges from the bedroom after a moment or two, tugging
the elastic out of his hair and dragging his fingers through it, roughly
combing out the tangles. He stalks toward the fridge and opens it, taking
out the plate along with the carton of orange juice.

Mel stays reclined on the couch for a while before pulling herself upright
and pulling a knee up to her chest, to wrap herself around it as she
watches the television. "There's a reason they call this the idiot-box,"
she murmurs faintly, and reaches for the remote. *click* It's off. She
lets out a breath in a slow puff, staring at the blank screen. "How was
work?" she murmurs vaguely.

"Two cars and a home theatre system," Salem answers, his voice drifting
out from the tiny kitchen. The microwave makes a low hum, and while the
food heats, he comes out to lean in the doorway with his glass of ice and
juice. "Fairly light, but I'm still catching up on paperwork backed up
from last month."

"How 'bout your club?" she asks mildly. The tone suggests she doesn't
expect anything more than a creative avoidance. If that.

The girl isn't disappointed, or at least not surprised. "Dull," Salem
answers, taking a sip of juice. He meets her eyes directly.

Locking eyes for a while with a surprisingly knowing gaze, Mel nods a few
times, and looks away. "Well. Everyone needs a hobby." The words are
empty. Her mind working - visible in her eyes.

"True enough," Salem answers. He studies her for a moment more. Then the
microwave beeps and he turns away to fetch his irradiated dinner.

Mel rises from the couch, and stretches up high, reaching for the ceiling
(and falling utterly short of the mark). She rubs at her face a little and
pads over to lean over the kitchen counter, resting on one arm and holding
up her chin with the other. "What's the time?"

Salem eats standing up, leaning against the kitchen counter with his glass
of juice nearby. He glances sidelong at her, fork halfway to his mouth,
and chews and swallows before answering; his eyes shift toward the clock
over the garbage can. "Twelve forty."

The sharp-eyed redhead is likely to notice the chain from the pocketwatch
she gave him clipped to a belt-loop and trailing off into a front pocket.
Yes, he _has_ been using the gift.

Keen, green eyes watch him quietly, unwavering. "Hm," she acknowledges.
And stretches, shifting her shoulders a little. "When's the last time
y'went to a party?"

Salem frowns slightly, his mismatched eyes narrowed. "I went to a rave a
few months ago," he informs her. His brows lift, as though expecting her
to challenge the veracity of this statement.

There's a hint of surprise in her eyes, but it doesn't last long. If
anything, her expression seems to turn almost bitter. Something hidden.
"Bet y' had fun, too. Your idea?" She shakes her head, as if the last was
a rhetorical question. "Either way, a few months is way too long." She
pulls herself up off the bench, and shakes her head a little, letting the
ponytail down and shaking the flame-red hair out. Moving lithely towards
her bedroom, she notes, "You should take me out to a proper party
sometime. Let your hair down. Something you'll /enjoy/, not a rave..."

He follows her part of the way, as far as the short hallway at least. "If
you remember, the very first time we met, I told you that I was a boring
person. I'm not _into_ parties." He takes his plate and fork, then, to the
couch, setting both on the coffee table.

"Freeze." The order is authoritive, before he can take a place at the
table. "Pick up the plate and fork and keep eating." She's disappeared
into her room.

Salem's eyes narrow dangerously, his face tightening as he shoots a sharp,
angry look toward her door. A moment later, he squelches the snap of
temper ruthlessly and does as directed, though his mood remains...
thunderous.

Mel pops her head out of her bedroom doorway, though her face is
unfortunately obscured by a camera, held sideways. He barely has time to
register its presence before the flash goes, and she slips back into her
room. "Ta."

"The hell?" Again, there's that flash of temper, like a beast snarling
under his skin. Then he shakes his head sharply and, grumbling in Serbian,
sets the plate and fork back down and stalks into the kitchen to retrieve
his drink.

The girl re-emerges again, and leans against the doorframe, combing her
hair out. "Why're you so mad?" she asks curiously. There's no accusation
in the tone, or offense. Just a mild curiosity.

"You startled me, that's all," Salem says curtly. Thunder still threatens
in his stiff, tense body language. He sits down again and stabs at his
food as though it were a dire enemy and his fork a weapon.

Arching an eyebrow, the young woman murmurs, "Keep that up, and you'll win
an award." She saunters over lazily towards the kitchen, pulling the comb
through her hair. "Crankiest bastard I know. How old're you, Jack?" The
comb's put down. She pours herself a glass of water.

Salem grunts. "Twenty-nine." His voice is sour. "Why?"

Mel smiles faintly, as she leans back over the bench and sips at the
water. "You're younger than you look," she replies thoughtfully. Amused
for some reason.

Salem arches an eyebrow, looking at her almost suspiciously. "Really.
Hmf." He rubs absently at the scarred left half of his face, then shakes
his head and returns to the task -- and now it does seem quite tasklike,
tasklike and _grim_ -- of eating his late-night dinner.

The girl actually laughs and pulls herself away from the counter, setting
the comb and water down, moving over to rest hands on his chair-back.
"Jesus Christ, will you look at you?" she murmurs with amusement.

His jaw tightens at the laugh, but Salem retains that thin veneer of calm.
He continues to eat, refusing to answer.

There's a moment where her hands rest on his shoulders, and she murmurs,
"Hey. Jack. I know the world's pretty grim at the moment, what with
terrorism and oil shortages and taxes and an idiot president, but... If
you keep this up, you're gonna die from an ulcer at 40." She leans forward
and murmurs in his ear, "And you won't have had any fun." Then Mel pulls
away, and fetches her water.

He's tense, rigidly tense; she can feel it when she lays hands on him.
That, and the way he goes completely, dangerously still, his expression
flat and blank. He doesn't move -- he hardly seems to breathe -- until the
girl pulls away, and then he just shakes his head sharply and finishes the
last of his meal... despite the fact that he doesn't have much appetite
for it anymore.

She wanders past again, shaking her head. "Sleep on it. Think of something
to /really/ de-stress, Jack." There's a sudden turn on one heel and she
adds perkily, "Going to bed, now. See you in the morning," before spinning
back again and wandering back into her room. The door seems to slam.

Salem swears under his breath in Serbian as he gets up to put his dinner
things away. "De-stress," he adds, in that same language. "Hell. Idiot."
Whether that last is directed at the redhead or himself is up for grabs.
After washing up, he heads into the bathroom for a quick shower, then
disappears into his own bedroom. The door closes. And locks.