"No, real men don't _eat_ quiche."

[hazlogs]

Date: 7 April 2003, later Monday night.

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 knock comes not long after he might be getting home from work.

And not long after Quentin left, either. Salem is, in fact, just finishing a quick dinner of leftovers. Frowning, he gets up from the couch and stalks over toward the door. A glance through the peephole brings something of a shock; he undoes the chain and opens the door a moment later. "Rina?"

The apartment behind him is quiet, no sign of Mel.

Rina offers that quick, slightly self-conscious half-grin of hers. "C'n I come in?"

Salem blinks, then shakes off the bemusement. "Hell. Yes, of course." He steps aside, ushering her in. "I see that you're, er, better."

Rina nods quickly. "Kinda sore, still, but it's just bruises. Cam went and found Aubrey to do it... she came by this morning, I guess after y'left." She seems... a good deal more cheerful, without the haze of the morphine. Glancing around, she asks, "Your chica's not home?"

Salem closes the door behind her and sets the chain. "Mmf. She's not 'my chica'. But no, she's not. She's out. It's quite safe."

Rina laughs a little, and there is only the slightest tightness around her eyes. Not even much soreness remains, though she may be less graceful for a while. She paces a few steps, and turns to look at him. "/You're/ here," she says lightly. "So I wouldn't say safe."

Salem tilts his head slightly, studying her; the kinswoman's lightened mood relaxes him, and he gives her a faint smile. "Safe as houses. Whatever that means." He glances at the almost-empty plate on the coffee table, then back at her. "Have you eaten?"

Rina scrubs a hand into her hair. She is blessedly clean, too, the spiky hair still the slightest bit damp--never seems to dry in the rainy, snowy winter--and smelling of an incense-y shampoo. "Not since lunch..." A wry half-smile, and she glances to him. "I was gonna take you out, but."

Salem lofts an eyebrow. "Out? Well..." He brushes a stray lock of hair that's escaped the ponytail. "Hell."

Rina grins. It's one of the first real smiles he's seen, perhaps, since John's passing--and it's beautiful despite the unhealthy thinness. "No big. I can raid your fridge, or order somethin', and maybe we can get ice cream or coffee or whatever." She takes a deep breath, relishing it. "I just... wanted to /do/ something."

"My home is yours, of course," he replies, his gaze intent on her. The grin is answered with a crooked smile. He gestures. "There's a Chinese place down the street that delivers. Menu's by the phone. There's quiche in the fridge, among other things."

Rina tips her head slightly. "Quiche?" She raises both eyebrows. "You made quiche? I thought real men didn't /do/ that kinda thing."

"No, real men don't _eat_ quiche," he retorts. "But slavering monsters do." He resumes his seat on the couch. "Anyway, Mel made it."

Rina arches an eyebrow, Spocklike. "She cooks for you?" Wandering toward the kitchen, she opens the fridge and looks for the pie plate. "And she won't pitch a fit if I have some?"

Salem forks up another portion of his dinner. "I don't see why she should. And yes, she cooks. Most of the time, at least." He looks up at her. "The soup was mine, though."

Rina glances over her shoulder, an affectionate smile softening her face. "Yeah, that's what I had for lunch. It was awesome." Wry humor returns again. "Coulda been that I was fucking starved, but hey." She turns away to get the quiche out of the fridge and cut a piece; she has to hunt a bit for the silverware drawer, and a plate.

Salem flashes a brief but pleased grin. "Forgive me if I sound like a grandmother, but you _do_ need to eat more." A cockroach scuttles out from underneath the microwave, waves its antennae at Rina, then continues onward, heading for the catfood on the floor.

Rina rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well, morphine isn't real conducive to that." She sticks her plate in the microwave and sets it going with a whirr of white noise. "Among other things."

"Well, no." Salem chews, swallows. "Spoke to Quentin today, just before you got here," he says, using his fork to toy with the bite or two that's left. "Nick Dalton was at the park, looking for bear tracks."

Rina looks over her shoulder. "Really."

"Really." Salem wrinkles his nose slightly. "Jamethon's fiance saw him, and talked to him a little, though not too much. Hopefully, he didn't find any." He grimaces. "I tried to destroy them all after I'd dropped the Strider whelp off, but I might have missed one."

Rina purses her lips. "Shit," she mutters, turning back to watch the slice turn and turn inside the microwave. "He's a friend, y'know?"

Salem shrugs, still toying with his food. "I know that he's not an enemy, or at least hasn't proven to be. That doesn't mean I want him having a plaster cast of a werewolf footprint. Or that I want him nosing too close to our business."

Rina's brow furrows slightly. The microwave dings, and she opens it to take out the steaming quiche; she takes up the fork and makes her way to the couch. She sits down next to him with barely a wince. "Well. Maybe you oughta talk to him."

Salem makes a little 'mm' noise. "I was thinking of that, but I'm not sure how much he _does_ know." He glances at her. "Get you something to drink?"

Rina lifts a shoulder. "Water? Sure..."

Salem lays down his fork and rises, heading for the kitchen. "The usual business. Balance everything, hope nothing falls down and shatters." His tone is dry, with a touch of the disgruntled.

Rina divides her attention between him and the food, watching him fill the glass. "Yeah, well... I'll try not to shatter, aright?"

Salem drops a couple of ice cubes in the glass and pours the water from a pitcher in the fridge. He glances back at her, smiles crookedly, then crosses the apartment again to offer her the glass. "All right."

Rina laughs quietly, with only the faintest sign of pain. "Yeah? That'd be okay with you?"

"You not shattering? Well, yes." He resumes his seat on the couch. Deadpan, he adds, "Nine out of ten Salems prefer their Rinas in one piece."

Rina flashes a grin, and turns her attention to the demolishing of quiche. She is quick--hungry, after that malnourished weekend.

Salem smirks a bit and finishes off the last of his own dinner, washing it down with water. Sitting back with his legs stretched out before him, he watches her eat with quiet satisfaction.

When the last bite is cleared away, she glances over to him, watching him over the rim of her glass as she drinks. After a swallow, she murmurs, "Thanks." She manages a wry half-smile, again. "Been a while since I was actually hungry."

Salem nods, his expression faintly wry. "I know how that is." He drains his glass and rises, gathering up the plates and things.

Rina finishes off the water, watching him. "You want some help washing up?"