Escort Home

[hazlogs]

1/24/2003. Saturday night. After the pool hall.

Rina pages: Jack might have had his doubts about her driving... but then, she /always/ drives like an Italian.

Long distance to Rina: Salem told himself that it was just _one_ highball... and said a prayer to Gaia. :>

Rina pages: You want to give me some idea of after? Salem's mood, or whether he tried to tell her not to drive, or even whether he would escort her home...

You paged Rina with 'He'd eye her dubiously, let her drive unless she was obviously weaving, and probably be very quiet. Raphael made him a little suspicious, mildly paranoid.'.

Rina pages: Nah, she seems all right. Clearly a bit buzzed, which is odd for one drink... but then the way she's been looking, and the lost weight, it makes sense.

Long distance to Rina: Salem nods.

Rina pages: She /does/ make him hang on, though. :>

From afar, Rina always drives like that.

Long distance to Rina: Salem laughs. Yeah. He's learned that.

Studio

The studio is airy, elegantly modern and full of light: a large, high-ceilinged square room with almost an entire wall of windows. It still smells of paint, though there is no evidence of current painting. Rolled canvases lean in one of the corners, and a few finished pieces adorn the walls. A six-foot length of pipe hangs a painting behind the couch, creating a slightly more personal space that evidently serves as a bedroom; the piece is a dark, strange cityscape, an oddly skewed view of the world beyond the glass seen through otherworldly eyes. The edge of a futon can be seen beyond it; the walls around the bed bear swirling patterns of colors, calming shades of undersea blue and green. These patterns gradually soften as they grow out into the rest of the room, where walls are visible; angles replace curves, until the mural becomes a mix of ocean and curcuitry. The sofa is quirky and curving, a work of modern art upholstered in green velvet. A Turkish rug in vibrant tribal colors occupies much of the hardwood floor; the coffee table, a sculpture of recycled blue and green circuit-board and shiny aluminum, rests on it in front of the couch.

Opposite the windows, a compact kitchen is marked off by a crisp stainless steel counter. The west wall nearby has doors to a closet and to a small, sparsely-appointed bathroom. The east wall holds bookshelves of pale wood, supporting a small stereo, collections of pictures and found objects, and a good number of books; the corner between shelving and the wall of windows holds a plain wooden desk with a slim notebook computer and phone atop it, and an elegant mesh rolling chair.

Rina comes in late, though not extremely late... a little before midnight. She is quiet about opening the door, just in case he's fallen asleep waiting up.

Salem accompanies the kinswoman in, likewise keeping quiet; he hasn't bothered to unbutton his coat or remove his gloves.

Cat's sleeping, but lightly, and the sound of the door and feet are beginning to deprive him of even that. He's lying on the couch, curled up with his face half-hidden by the blanket; when the two enter he mumbles something.

Rina doesn't turn on any lights, and she carefully shuts the door behind Salem, leaning back against it. When she looks up at him, er expression betrays much more than it should--luckily the dark is on her side, and they are both a bit night-blind from the lighted stairs and landing. It's there in her voice, though, a softness, maybe a hint of the alcohol in the way emotion bleeds into the words. "Y'not mad at me, Jack, are ya?" she whispers.

Salem glances over toward the bundled figure on the couch, then turns back to Rina, shaking his head. His voice is soft, like hers, but stone-cold sober. "Why would I be mad at you?"

One of the stuffed toys- Santa Octopus -topples out of Cat's weak grasp and lands on the floor softly. Cat curls up a little bit more, but he doesn't make any more sounds.

Rina tenses the slightest bit at the sound. "All I did was look," she whispers, lowering her eyes. "I wouldn't..." Guilt flickers across her face, and she swallows. Glancing past him to the couch, she tries to see if Cat is awake.

Rina pages: How much space is he leaving her? I mean, I don't see him standing too close...

Salem exhales a quiet breath, not quite a sigh. "I'm not your father, you know. _Or_ your husband." This remark is muttered, barely audible to the woman. He squints a bit toward the couch.

Long distance to Rina: Salem dunnos. Within reach of his arm, probably. Not right next to her, though, no.

If he were awake to witness it, the cub would be rather amused by how much attention he brings to himself by simply lying still. Unfortunately, Cat's not quite awake; there's a slight frown on his face as he starts coming out of his dream, and his fingers flex, but nothing more.

"No, but--" She stops, and lets out a breath. "You're my friend. And I don'wanna upset you." A hand takes one of his, and she steps away from the door, tipping her head to look up at him.

Salem's gaze shifts away from the couch when Rina takes his hand. His lips thin, but his expression is twice obfuscated, by shadow and by his own guardedness. "You didn't upset me. And you have every right to... look. Or whatever else."

Rina releases him, ducking her head but still standing close. "I don't," she whispers. "Not when--" Both hands come up to cover her face, and she lets out another frustrated breath; then her hands slide down, framing her throat, and she opens her eyes to look anywhere but at him. "I'm drunk. I'll shut the fuck up now, I think."

"Mm," Salem says, neutrally. Then he smiles, crookedly, in the dark, and his next words are wry. "Fair enough. Go to bed, drink some fluids. Not in that order."

There's another murmur from under the covers, and then Cat sits upright, blinking blearily into the darkness at the two figures standing there. "Dad?" he mumbles, disoriented, one hand already curled around Sunshine and the other groping about for the fallen Cthulhu.

"It's just me, hon," Rina says quietly. She reaches up to touch Salem's face, and gives him a quick hug. "Be safe," she whispers.

Salem returns it, briefly. "I will," he murmurs. "You, too." Then, to the boy on the couch, he says, "Good night, Cat."

Cat seems a bit comforted by their voices, arms enfolding Sunshine as he lies back down, slowly, still not really certain where he is. No matter, in a few minutes he'll probably be asleep again.

Rina steps out of his way, and strips off her jacket--but the dark eyes watch Salem, as he leaves, watch until the door closes.