Visits

[hazlogs]

It is currently 21:18 Pacific Time on Sat Jan 18 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 36 degrees Fahrenheit (2 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 30.19 and steady, and the relative humidity is 96 percent. The dewpoint is 35 degrees Fahrenheit (1 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (94% full).

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.

Rat-a-tat-tat, goes the knock on the door. There might be a touch of hesitation noted in it between the knocks, however.

Quentin

A shock of electric blue hair spills down just over this teenager's brow, whispering at the nape of his neck as well; slightly long both in front and in back, a razor's work having shaved the sides just above and behind his ears into a buzz-cut haze of cerulean. The features of the night-pale face shadowed by that hair are slightly angular in their lines, high cheekbones leading down to a sharp chin matched by the straight line of his nose, the eyes to either side of it a startlingly bright shade of green that gleams almost emerald in the right light. He's a rather slender young man, in height just a few inches shy of a full six feet, although a touch of leanness to his limbs hints at the recent development of muscle to strengthen his frame.

He's dressed in a rather casual fashion, with a few flares of individuality to make him stand out. A hooded jacket of waterproof nylon taffeta falls over his upper body, midnight black in sheen with streaks of deepest blue to add a bit of colour to the garment, its large velcro-closed pockets bulging slightly with a variety of hidden contents. Beneath that can be seen, when the jacket's open or off, of a less glossy black -- a sweatshirt of a warm cotton weave worn slightly loose against his slender frame, but comfortable. His hands are gloved, black leather and polyester mesh offering more of a stylish commentary than actually protecting the fingers within from the elements. A pair of black jeans cover his legs, the tough denim fabric scraped to a paler white at his knees and a few spots near the cuffs where they brush over the edge of hi-top sneakers crusted with mud and dirt from walking outdoors.

Salem answers the door. The living room behind him is dimly lit; he's got a light on in the hallway between the two bedrooms and that's it. Chopin's playing on the stereo, soft and soothing; the TV is off. No signs of the redheaded roommate. The Philodox eyes the cub for a moment, then nods and steps back to let him in. "Evening. What can I do for you?"

Quentin, standing on the other side of the door, takes a half-step back as he hears the lock turning. Just in case. As the door's opened and Salem's revealed, he flashes a quiet, almost rueful smile. "Hey, uh, Mr. Salem." A step past, a glance deeper into the apartment in an undisguised attempt to spot the redhead, "I'm not disturbing or anything, am I?"

Salem's eyes narrow slightly. He shakes his head. "Just taking it easy tonight. Getting some rest. Come on in."

Quentin passes over the threshold to walk along inside, glancing around the main living room and observing casually, "Nice place you moved into.. I like it. More.. homey than the other one."

"Mm. Bigger, too." Salem closes the door behind Quentin and paces back toward the couch, bare feet neatly avoiding a cockroach scurrying over toward the kitchen. "Can I get you anything?" His voice is mild, his manner calm, albeit deliberately so.

"No, uh.. I'm cool." Quentin casts a glance over, one brow raising as he pauses mid-room to look towards his elder for a moment. After that moment, he inquires in softer, slightly wary tones, "Is it safe to, you know, talk?"

Salem considers the young Galliard for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nods and takes a seat at one end of the couch, stretching his legs out, feet under the coffee table. He folds his arms across his chest. "It is, currently, yes. What's on your mind?"

Quentin's lips tug upwards just a bit at one corner, turning to face the couch across the coffee table before offering in explaination, "Well, uh, I came here the other day and there was some chick here.."

Salem lifts an eyebrow. His head cocks slightly, his expression still impassive. "Red hair, eighteen to twenty years old, rather irreverent?"

The faintest of blushes traces across Quentin's cheekbones, as he nods once before adding absently, "Nice ass, too."

"I haven't noticed," the older Walker says, completely deadpan. He shifts his weight, leaning forward to pick up a glass that's sitting, along with a few books and the TV remote, on the coffee table. There's a finger-width of clear liquid inside, along with a couple of half-melted ice cubes. He drains the drink and sits back again, swirling the glass around idly. "That was Mel."

A rather dubious glance is cast towards the Philodox, along with a hint of 'oh' in his gaze that means perhaps he's come to some conclusion. Probably deeply incorrect. "Yeah, well.. I figured that much out," Quentin observes, stepping over before easing down in a jumble of limbs to sit on the floor across the coffee table, legs crossing, "She family?"

Salem hesitates for the barest fraction of a second, regarding the cub with flat eyes. The ice clinks softly in his glass as he toys with it. "Not that I'm aware of. She was an associate of Smith's."

Quentin's brows draw together slightly. Another pause, as he tries to figure out how to phrase this question in a way that won't get him hit. "So.. ah.. why's she living here? I mean, if she's not family.. isn't that, you know, pretty fucking dangerous?"

That flat, steady gaze remains on the Galliard. "As I said, she was an associate of Smith's." His voice drops a few degrees in temperature. "I have, too, my suspicions about her. I'm merely keeping her close, where I can keep an eye on her."

"...alright." Quentin's head tips slightly, accepting that spurious logic with a simple nod before allowing, "I'll, ah, keep clear then. I don't want her to get suspicious or anything."

"Excellent idea," says the Elder. "Needless to say, the girl is under my protection. I'd be extremely irritated if any harm were to come to her." He smiles then, tight and humorlessly, and gets to his feet. "Not that I expect you'd do anything like that. So." He starts for the kitchen with his glass, stalking predatorially past the cub. "How goes your task?"

"I talked to Rina.." Quentin's fingers splay over the floor before he uses the leverage to push himself up to his feet slowly, head tossed back to scatter blue strands of hair from his face as he says that, sounding a touch.. sad about it, actually, "She's going to be in touch. Apparently they were working on his memoirs."

Salem pauses, glancing back. "His memoirs. Interesting." The halfmoon's tone is bland. "Does she plan to share them, or didn't she tell you?" He dumps the ice cubes out into the sink and rinces the glass out, running a bit of soap through it.

Quentin's head tips just a little to that, fingers brushing upwards in a nervous habit to groom that dyed hair as he talks. "Yeah. She's going to.. well.. summarize, basically, with the important parts and all," he says quietly, "I'll still need to talk to everyone else, of course."

Salem sets the glass, upside-down, in the drainer and pads back out of the kitchen, his arms folded as he leans against the wall. "Mm. Yes, of course."

There is a slight knocking on the door from outside.

"I was going to ask you for your take on things, but.." Quentin trails off, continuing only after that knock jars him to glance over and finish dryly, "..all things considered, might not be the best place. Especially since she knew him."

Salem blinks a bit at the knock, then shakes his head slightly and goes to answer it. "Perhaps when the moon's a little smaller, too." He squints through the peephole, then opens the door.

Alicia strides inside, grinning wryly. "Hey boss, sup' Squirt?" She says to the pair, rolling her shoulders back a bit.

Quentin's lips purse slightly, as though he hadn't thought of that, before bobbing his head in agreement. A glance over then, and a smirk, "Hey 'leesh. N'much, you?"

Salem drags a hand back through his hair and smiles thinly at the Gaian. "Evening." He steps aside, waves Alicia in. "Come on in. No trouble finding the place, I see." The halfmoon's tone is desert-dry, completely deadpan.

Alicia shakes her head. "Not at all. So why the change?" She asks, wiggling her fingers to Quentin. "Not much here, just checking out the new place while on patrol."

Alicia

Here we have Alicia Jackson, a young woman who looks around the age of 20 or so. When in truth, she just turned 17, but that hard look in her eyes could easily be mistaken for older. Slender in form, her body is composed of lean, compacted muscle. She looks quick, but not very strong. Her eyes are a dark brown, curious and wandering, lit up playfully most of the time. She stands of average height, perhaps about 5'6 or so, carrying herself well when she moves. Her flesh is lightly tanned, kissed by the sun from the many years of running with the gangs on the street. Four ear rings adorn her left ear, two more upon the right, composed of small, goldeny hoops. The Galliard's hair falls down just past her shoulders. Once brown and red streaked to those who's seen her before. Now, pale blonde with slightly darkened roots.

Her clothing consists of a pair of baggy, over sized camouflage pants. Black, green, and brown patterns splashed along the fabric. A tight fitting sports bra hug her upper frame, revealing the curves of her upper body, flat stomach and lean arms. She wears a golden hoop in her navel. Knee high boots travel up her legs, firmly laced in each hole. Finishing off, she has a worn, dusty old black trench coat which hangs just below her knees. Her tongue ring is almost always seen, clicking in thought, or when she speaks with that ghetto accent of hers.

Salem closes the door behind Alicia and leans against the wall next to it, hands slipping into the pockets of his sweatpants. "Needed something bigger," he answers her, his gaze cutting briefly over to Quentin before moving back to the Gaian.

At the glance, Quentin just quirks both eyebrows upwards in an innocent gesture. Hey, he didn't say anything. "That's cool.. I'm going to need to borrow a few hours from you sometime," he offers over, edging the subject in a different direction, "When you've got a chance."

"From me?" Alicia asks, blinking faintly at Quentin.

"About John," Salem says, evenly. "For his final exam."

"Yeah," Quentin affirms, nodding back towards Salem.

Alicia rubs the back of her neck. "Alright. Whatcha need from me?"

The phone rings, abrupt in the quiet apartment.

Salem glances over at the clock, grunts, and pushes off from the wall, crossing over to the counter that separates the kitchen from the rest of the living room, where the phone sits. He picks it up just as it's starting to ring a second time. "Jack here."

Quentin steps along over towards Alicia as Salem moves to answer the phone, replying quietly, "Well.. basically, I need to know everything John's done. Figured since you were the galliard in his pack, I should ask you for what you know."

Alicia nods her head to him. "Alright." She says softly. "You ok in waiting till' after the Moot?"

Rina's voice is hoarse, unsteady. "Hey," she says quietly. "What's up?"

Salem glances over toward the two Galliards as he answers. "Very little. Quentin and Alicia are over." He paces a few steps away, closer toward the bedrooms. "You all right?"

"Yeah, that'd be fine," Quentin allows, offering a faint smile over and a raise of one shoulder, "No hurry, or anythin'."

Alicia lightly pokes Q in the stomach. "I just wanna get that outta the way. I'm calling the litany with Susan, and I just need to focus my mind on that, and do some thinking about John's accomplishments."

Swallowing, Rina speaks a little more softly. The sounds of the city surround her--a distant siren, a passing truck. "I guess. I-- just. Um." A quiet, barely audible sniffle, and she murmurs, "I was gonna drop by, but if you got company it's no big."

Quentin's lips tug a bit at one corner at the poke, and he shakes his head, "Nah, I mean it-- no hurry. Fuck knows I've got enough other people I need to talk to, just wanted to let you know to reserve some time, sometime in the future."

Alicia smiles and nods her head. "You'll get my time, scouts promise."

Salem gives Alicia and Quentin another glance, brief, as he speaks into the phone. "I have company, but you can still drop by. Just family, after all." He rubs at the side of his neck with his free hand. His voice lowers slightly. "I received the coat, by the way. I... thanks."

There's a small silence--perhaps she is smiling a little. "Y'like? The cut's not the same, but I tried t'find somethin' I thought would look good on ya. Sorry it's-- kinda late." She even sounds less depressed than a moment ago.

One corner of Salem's mouth quirks upward. "It's perfect. And you make me feel like an utter cad. I didn't get you anything."

Rina's voice softens. "You already gave me plenty," she says. "Everything y'done, since-- since he died, I--" The catch is still in her voice. "I owe you."

"We'll call it even." Salem drags his fingers back through his hair. "Cat okay?"

"Yeah," she says quietly. There's another quiet sniffle. "He's aready sleepin'."

"You're welcome to come over, ah, if you want to." Salem studies the ceiling. "Same building, number six-oh-three."

Rina swallows. "I'd rather not, if--" She chews on her lower lip. "If she's home."

Salem's tone sobers. "She's not. She's out, in fact, and I don't expect her back until late." He leans back against the wall, shifting the phone to his other ear. "But if you prefer, I can meet you somewhere."

Quentin, after bidding farewell to Alicia, glances over to raise a brow slightly over to Salem. A questioning look, his thumb jerking towards the door in mute offering.

Salem glances over and gives the cub a nod.

Rina swallows. "If-- if it's aright, I guess. I'm ...down south anyway."

"I'll see you 'round, then.." A faint smile, and Quentin turns on his heel to head towards the door to slip out without another word.

Salem makes a waving type of gesture at the departing cub, then focusses on the kinswoman on the other end of the phone again. "Near the wharf?"

Rina sniffles again quietly. A siren passes and fades into the distance. "Yeah, kinda."

"All right," Salem says, evenly. "Need to get some exercise, anyway. I'll be there shortly."

"Where-- where should I meet you?"

"Hm." There's a pause while he considers it. "You remember that warehouse by pier two, where I ran into you that night we bumped into Owen?"

A breath, and she answers. "Yeah, sure. I'll meetcha there."

"Excellent. See you soon." He clicks off.


A huddle of black sits at the end of the wharf. By the time he passes the pool of the streetlight, he can see the tremor in her shoulders.

He almost misses her, almost walks right by. Salem pauses, frowning, and turns back, approaching the huddled figure slowly. "...Rina?" He's dressed in the new leather coat; the garment's buttoned and belted closed, the collar turned up. His hands are gloved.

A muffled sob, bitten back hard, is the only answer. She huddles over the gun in her lap, rocking slightly, shivering.

Salem goes down on one knee next to her, leather-clad fingers touching the back of her neck. "Shh. Come on, get up," he says quietly. "This isn't the place."

Rina

Dark-brown eyes, touched with amber, look out from a pixie-sharp face. Rina's skin is fair, but not quite pale--a light Mediterranean olive from generations of pure Italian ancestry. Her black-brown hair is left just long enough in the front to fall almost into her eyes; the butch cut tapers to an army-short buzz at the sides and back, hardly more than a velvet fuzz covering the nape of her neck. Her chin is delicately-boned, her mouth small, the line of her jaw well-defined. Her eyes have a shadowy, bruised look, either from fatigue or the artful use of makeup; save for that Gothic touch, she might have stepped from a pre-Raphaelite painting. She can't be more than twenty-five or so, but in that youthful face the eyes are cynical, brooding, world-weary. Athletic grace and a certain streetwise confidence show in her movements, but there is often an element of tension as well.

Utilitarian black cloaks the girl's body: loose black fatigues, lightweight army boots, and a long-sleeved knit shirt that hugs the muscles of her upper body.

She wears two rings, both a silvery white gold. Her right hand bears a single diamond framed by two smaller ones, the decorative work on the ring elegant and subtle, perhaps Art Deco. On the left she wears a simpler band decorated with letters and scrollwork.

A shaking hand takes up the Glock--loaded, the slide back. She holds it out to him, her hand loose beneath the heavy metal. Her eyes are dead, looking out at the water, shadowy with too much crying and too little sleep. The streaks on her face have long since dried away, leaving only a dull shine.

Salem, frowning, takes the weapon from her and unloads it, ejecting the clip and slipping it into the side pocket of his coat. The Glock goes in the other pocket. He does this without any expression other than that faint, quiet frown, and afterward puts a hand under her arm to help her up. "Come on. Let's walk. You'll catch your death out here."

Rina folds her legs up and then stands, wrapping both arms around herself and shivering. "I couldn't stay there," she says quietly. "With Cat. Couldn't hurt Cat."

Salem puts an arm around her, walking her toward the street, if she'll come. "We don't have to go back right away, if you don't want to. Andy's should still be open. Coffee, that sort of thing." She can feel the tension in him, the rage tightly leashed, but his voice remains calm.

Rina swallows. "It's so dark, sometimes." Her voice is unsteady, hoarse from crying, and she feels fragile in the curve of his arm. Her shoulders are taut, and still shiver occasionally. "It gets dark and I can't-- I know I'm s'posed to keep going, but--"

"I know... I know." He keeps a slow pace. "I'm glad you called me. Better that than the, mm, alternative."

"I'm sorry," she whispers. She stops suddenly in the moonlit dark; Luna is high tonight, high enough to touch them despite the surrounding warehouses. Turning to stand in front of him, she looks up--grief-stricken face, hopeless eyes. The wildness is awake there, as she searches his features, meets the gaze of his one good eye. Seeking something... absolution? "I'm sorry I-- even thought I could--"

The frown tugs at Salem's mouth, the worry in it echoed in the furrow of his brow. He stops when she does, turning to face her. "You don't have to apologize." His face smooths out, and he musters up a thin smile for her. "Some days are more difficult than others."

Rina shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. "I do. I do. I promised," she says hoarsely. "I won't leave you. You and Jenny and Cat and Angelina. I can't go. I have to be okay."

"You will be," Salem replies, firmly. "Give it time. It... hasn't been that long, since he was, ah, taken." There's a peculiar delicacy in how he phrases that, strange when compared to the growling bluntness of the animal inside of him.

"I want to make things right," she whispers fiercely. Ducking her head, she turns away. "It's hard, knowin' what he --wants me to do. Some of it. I'm scared to fail him." She sniffles, dashing the back of a hand across her face again. "'Cause he'll know."

Salem doesn't let her go far; he steps closer, puts his arm around her again. "If you live, you haven't failed him." He tilts his head, studying her face; he's got her on his good side.

Rina presses her lips together a moment, the pain washing over her in a dark wave; she only looks after it's gone, those black, wet eyes slanting over to him with a trace of fear. "More than that. So much more." Her voice is soft, unsteady; she ducks her head again, hides her face. "But I don't know if I can do it without him."

His brow furrows, the frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You're not alone, you know," he says solemnly, after a moment. "Whatever he needed from you... if it's possible for me to help you with it, I will."

Rina sniffles quietly. "The tribe," she says hoarsely. "It's-- we gotta mob up, get organized. Get workin' on some things."

Salem grunts. "That we do. I imagine he had some ideas about that, too."

"Yeah." Almost a whisper, with the reminder of him. She is silent for a little while, until they reach the lights of the south side.

"We'll talk about it," Salem says, squeezing her shoulder. "Not tonight, if you don't want to... but soon."

She nods quietly. "You and me, before the tribe moot," she says quietly. "I got some ideas. Things to bring in the resources, so we can deal with the goddamn Russians. Make us a presence again. Get some rackets goin'." Her voice is low, still edged with hoarseness.

Salem nods slowly. "Not something I could do without you, you know," he remarks, glancing sidelong down at her. No false modesty there; he speaks it as simple fact.

Rina lets out a brief, sharp sound, too cynical to be called a laugh. "Yeah." She gives a rueful shake of her head, then. "If there's one thing I know, it's how t'be a criminal."

Salem snorts. "That, too. But not _just_ that. You're... better with people, than I am." He shrugs his shoulders, his manner rueful. "Too much of the Ahroun in me." He pauses a beat. "Not that that's any excuse..."

Rina glances to him sidelong. "That's what Kin are for," she says quietly. "It's what we're born to do."

Salem makes an 'mm' noise of agreement, his gaze going upwards, toward Luna. "I'm curious, Rina," the Garou says, after a moment. "Have you ever... ah, wished that you'd been born the other way?" He glances down at her again.

Rina's expression tightens, not really a smile. "You don't know /half/ the times somebody's laid a hand on me," she says softly. "And every fuckin' time I got into the shit, /every/ time, I cursed the day I was born Kin." Her expression is bleak as the streets, her gaze focused dead ahead--and the fury, the cold hate in her eyes, could not possibly be mistaken.

Salem is silent for maybe half a moment. Then he says, admiringly, "You would have made a marvelous Ahroun. Or Galliard."

"Thanks," she says quietly. There's a brief silence, before she speaks again. "But I wouldn't trade knowin' him... knowin' Angelo..." Pain twists her expression, just slightly. "Not even to take away all the rest."

Salem nods slightly, his hands slipping into his coat pockets, shoulders tensing. He's silent for a while, after that, withdrawn and thoughtful, a crease in his brow.

Rina wears almost the same expression, without the scars that tug his features into such unattractive, baleful lines. "You don't know me, Jack," she says quietly. "Maybe y'wouldn't --" She can't come right out and say it, not just like that. "--care so much, if you did."

Salem's mouth thins as he cuts a glance her way. "I could say the same. I'm far from an angel."

Rina swallows, and ducks her head. "I never said I was in /love/ with you," she says roughly.

Rina shrugs a little, edging out of his embrace as she speaks. She doesn't leave his side, however.

Salem's step falters for a beat. His expression becomes guarded, his manner tense; his hands are buried deep in the pockets of the long leather coat. "I never said I was, either."

"No," she says tiredly. "No, you didn't. Din't mean to /insult/ you, or anything." A hand comes up to her face, to dash away tears and to hide them. "Let's get some fuckin' coffee."

Salem's face twists -- confusion, consternation, more than a trace of frustration. He huffs like an irritated wolf and picks up his pace. "Fine... anything to get out of the cold."

"Yeah," she says quietly, shivering. She pauses to wait for him, glancing over her shoulder. Her eyes are haunted, not angry; she looks as if she might cry again, but there is nothing left in her.

Salem doesn't quite meet her eyes; with a gruff noise of agreement, he falls back into step with her.

"Msorry," she murmurs, with a frustrated gesture of one hand. "That was fuckin' low of me. I get stupid." One hand rubs at the back of her head, rumpling the fuzz there.

Salem shakes his head. "It's nothing," he says curtly. "And you didn't insult me."

Rina looks over to him, and up, her eyes cautious. "Friends?" she asks softly. The lights of Andy's are not far away.

Salem cocks his head, eyeing her, then nods. "Of course. I'm harder to get rid of than that." A wry touch has crept into his voice.

Rina ducks her head, lowered her eyes. "I noticed." Then she is heading up the steps and into the coffee shop. She finds a table where they can both see the door, and waves down one of the waitresses.

Salem eases back in the chair, making a pretense at being casual as he tugs off his gloves and unbuttons his coat. His presence gives the waitress brief pause, and there's a twitching nervousness in her body language as she approaches the pair.

"Hey, gorgeous." Rina gives her a disarming smile. "Just coffee, for both of us... right?" She gives Salem a questioning look, and a quiet, tentative smile.

"Black," Salem adds, busying himself with pretending to study the little cardboard ad-triptych that's set in the middle of the table.

The waitress nods, stepping back, and gives Rina a wan smile. "Y'want anythin' in, uh, yours, ma'am?"

Rina shakes her head minutely, and answers with a broader smile. "Nah. But warm me up a glazed, aright?" Her attention returns quickly to Salem; she puts an elbow on the table and tips her head to face him.

The waitress jots a note down and glances at Salem, who just shakes his head slightly. The girl retreats, moving far more briskly than is normal for this time of night, and the Garou's eyes follow her for a moment, flat and cold. He shakes it off after a couple of seconds and brushes back a few loose strands of hair, tucking them behind his ear.

With a soft almost-laugh, Rina shakes her head and reaches out to touch him--tucking a stray strand of hair back from his face. "Down, boy," she murmurs, with a tiny, teasing smile.

Salem shifts his weight, something humorlessly feral flashing out of his good eye, something that shows teeth. Then his face smooths out; he takes a breath and manages something vaguely like a smile. "Grr," he says, utterly deadpan.

Rina strokes his cheek, caught for a moment by temptation. Her thumb starts to trace his lower lip, and then she pulls her hand away. "Shhh." She taps a finger to his mouth, then, her smile wavering just a touch.

Salem holds himself quite still for that, then shifts himself in the chair again, leaning back and studying the cardboard triptych again. According to it, selling donuts is a great way to raise funds for charity or school groups. He seems quite interested in it, saying nothing.

The arrival of the waitress breaks up the awkward silence before it can really begin; her eyes flick from Rina to Salem and back again as she sets down two coffees and, for the kinswoman, a hot glazed donut. "Lemme know if y'need anythin' else," she says.

Rina nods, and glances to the woman briefly. "Just drop the check whenever," she murmurs. "We're good." Her eyes return to Salem, and she murmurs, "You aright?"

"Fine," Salem answers gruffly, as the waitress heads back to continue chatting with the older woman working the register. He sets the triptych aside and looks up, meeting her eyes with a faint, guarded smile. "Fine."

The small expression is the rough equivalent of a grin, and it brings a wide answering smile from her--genuine, despite the dark circles under her eyes and the last remaining traces of tears. "Least somethin' is, around here," she says lightly.

"You sell yourself too short," Salem replies. His voice is just as light as hers, though his eyes are not. He pulls back the little tab on the cover of his coffee and raises the styrofoam cup slightly, offering a toast. "To the future?" He raises his eyebrows.

Rina toasts him, swirling her own cup a little to cool it. "Il futuro," she echoes softly, smiling as she drinks.