Late Night Quiche

[hazlogs]

Date: 14 Jan 2003... near 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.

The lights are out except for the kitchen where Mel sits at the kitchen counter, pushing idly at a piece of quiche with a fork in one hand; the other hand taps a pencil against a plain sketchpad in mild annoyance.

Salem's return is announced by the familiar rattle of keys in the apartment's locks. It's around midnight, and the man looks a bit like death warmed over, coupled with a grim expression that suggests that, as usual, all is Not Well with the world.

The redhead looks up at the stormy room-mate's arrival, and then dips her head again to keep staring at her obstinate page. "Quiche in the fridge. Some meat-filled pastries." Her tone is the same dull, neutral one she's been using the last couple days on the rare occasions they've spoken. ...Though she =is= waiting up again.

Salem fixes her with one dark, shadowed eye, then grunts. "Thanks." He disappears into his bedroom for a moment and returns sans coat and gloves, one hand rubbing tiredly at his forehead. He goes to the fridge without further word, hardly looking her way.

She just sits there in silence for a while. The only sound is her occasional clinking of fork against plate, and the pencil scritching over thick cartridge paper.

Salem puts a portion of the quiche on a plate and starts it heating in the microwave, then pours himself a glass of orange juice, the whole process dull and mechanical. "Have a good day?" he asks her eventually, almost as an afterthought.

Mel looks up and blinks, watching Salem blankly for a while. Her eyes fall away, and she looks back to her quiche, prodding it dourly. "Enh," she replies absently. "Coulda' been better. You?"

"Likewise." He leans against the counter near the microwave, watching the numbers count down, glowering sullenly at the green digitals.

The redheaded woman just sits there a while longer, pulling at a jacket-sleeve, tugging it closer to her wrist. Fidgeting. Then staring at the mostly-blank page again. There's only squiggles, there, albeit in rather artistic curves that form something resembling claws. The pencil greys shade them in different ways. Rough, smooth, outwards curving, inverse... Just playing with the tones, apparently.

The microwave beeps cheerily, breaking into the thick silence between them. Salem retrieves his plate from it and joins Mel at the eating counter. He glances at her sketchbook in passing, his gaze lingering for a moment, and then tucks into his food with an air of grim determination, like Sisyphus pushing the boulder yet _again_.

She waits until he's well into the meal, before murmuring casually, "How'd y'get the eye?"

She asks the question right after he's stuck a forkful into his mouth. "Mm?" Salem chews, swallows, and wipes his mouth before answering. "Dog attack. Few years ago."

Taking it slow, making it careful, the young woman murmurs - eyes downcast - "Seems a lotta people he knew had some nasty run-ins." She takes a mouthful of her own cooled food, and chews on it without any real enthusiasm. Adding softly, "Saw him without a shirt on, a few times. Thought he was invincible."

Salem grunts, toying with the mixture of meat and cheese and pastry with his fork, moving it around on his plate. "No one's invincible. No matter how good you are, there's someone better." Grimacing, he stabs a portion with his fork and shoves it into his mouth.

And she just stares emptily at her page. Tears well, but don't run the risk of falling - there's been lots of practice at beating them back without needing to blink. "There are no heroes anymore," she murmurs faintly. "Are there."

Salem looks at her then, really _looks_ at her, that dark eye intent on her young, unravaged face. He finishes chewing, slowly, and swallows. "There are. Just harder to see them. They don't advertise. They can't afford to. Too many waiting to gun them down."

"He wore gloves to hide his hands, y'know. Saw 'em once," she murmurs faintly, staring vacantly out into space, now. The pencil's put down carefully and she rests her head on the heel of her hand. There's weariness in her voice. "It's weird, y'know. You can just wander through life, thinking that you know what good and evil are, then... and then there's... Good people doing bad things, and you have to start wondering whether they're really so bad. And bad people doing good things, too... but.." Her brow furrows. "It's hard to know, now, who to judge as what."

Salem makes a low 'mnf' noise, considering this as he pushes the food around a little more. "Difficult, unless you know the motivations, and even then... if something evil is done for the sake of good, is it still evil? Or is good done for an evil or indifferent reason still good?" He shakes his head slightly, putting his fork down. "People have been debating this for centuries without coming to a decent conclusion. Some even decide that there _is_ no such thing as good and evil, only shades of gray. Bullshit, in my opinion." He's looking at her again, somberly. "Good exists. Evil exists. It's just that _people_ are never completely one or the other."

Mel's expression doesn't change any. Nothing registers in the eyes. "Said the burn on his hand was from when he had to trap people in an incinerator." Her face turns grey, even as she says it. "Said they were friends, but they were trying to kill him. I didn't believe him for the longest time. And he just looked at me a while and shrugged." She shakes her head slightly, and looks over to one-eyed Garou. "Were you two friends? Or did you work together?" There's a confusion in her eyes.

Salem rubs at the side of his neck, his mouth twisted into a rueful grimace. "A little of both, but more of the latter." He shrugs, his gaze dropping back to his plate as he picks up his fork again. "Didn't get to know him long enough, really."

She swallows and nods, then looks away. Dull-eyed. "I know he was a good man. The best I ever met..." She eyes Salem sideways. "But I don't know if he was one of the good guys. ...Are you?" There's a flicker of uncertainty, and she looks away again. "I don't care, or anything. The world's going to shit, anyway..."

Salem looks at her again, lips thinned as he studies her face. "He was. He wasn't without faults, but he was one of the 'good guys', as you say. I wouldn't have associated with him otherwise."

There's a long consideration from the young woman, again, as she studies Salem's features. The weakness in her eyes disappears, at that reassurance, and Jack suddenly finds himself under some kind of thoughtful - if determined - consideration. She sucks on a tooth for a moment and nods a few times, looking back to her plate and renewing her efforts to finish off her dinner. The redhead murmurs accusingly, "Y'know I worked pretty hard on this. Y'could at least /pretend/ to enjoy it..."

Salem stares unwaveringly back at the redhead as she studies him, his chin tipping upward slightly. There's a ravaged nobility there in that hawkish face; the good eye is stubborn and, when she meets it, challenging.

He looks away after she does, focussing back on his plate. "Sorry. Long day. It _is_ good, though."

"You need to get more sleep," Mel mutters darkly, scraping unenthusiastically at the last few scraps of her dinner. "Watch movies or something until you fall into a coma."

Salem answers with a low 'mmnh', as he's currently focussed on the remains of his quiche. Intently focussed.

Straightening with indignance, the girl frowns at Salem and levels a fork at him. "Don't you 'mmnh' and ignore me, bitch," she mutters, though the 'bitch' tag seems to be an affectionate one. "You've been getting less'n four hours sleep every night this week, I can tell. You look like =shit=, and I doubt you feel any better'n that, either."

Salem's mouth twists into a small, sour grimace as he tilts his head to eyeball the girl, thunder rumbling somewhere behind his eyes. "That," he says firmly, "is none of your business." He spears the last bite of quiche, pushes it into his mouth, and chews.

"Pfft. Like I care what people think my business is..." Mel mutters under her breath, looking away again. "S'just gettin' creepy living with a walking corpse."

The last time Mel made some complaint to him, Salem retorted with the fact that he didn't _ask_ her to live with him and that she could move out whenever she wished. He doesn't make such a statement now, however. "Yes, well. Tomorrow's my day off. I suppose that I can afford to sleep in a bit." His tone is grudging.

Mel's grin is instantaneous and dazzling, a frightening mood swing. "Great! I'll make a totally fatty breakfast in bed, and you'll read a book or some shit like that." She yawns and stretches, arching her back like a cat, as her hands extend in fists in front of her.