"Youth thinks it's immortal and invincible. Garou youth... even moreso."

[hazlogs]

Monday, 28 April 2003

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.

Monday night after Vampire Weekend -- Renee wasn't there when morning came, leaving just her blood drying on Mel's sheets -- Salem comes home later than usual, close to seven o'clock. The Walker hasn't been sleeping well, if at all, the past few days, and there are dark circles under his eyes when he removes the nigh-everpresent sunglasses.

He's not the only one. She's not home, when he comes home. Dinner hasn't come on. The apartment is empty, if clean.

Salem frowns at the silence, worried. Shrugging out of his coat, he paces over toward the counter, checking for notes, and for messages on the answering machine.

...And still nothing. In fact, there's nothing for several minutes. Though she obviously hasn't packed up any of her possessions, and there's no sign of a struggle.

Salem drums his fingers on the counter for a few minutes, then grunts and heads into the back of the apartment, making a side-trip toward the stereo on his way there. Mozart replaces the silence as the Walker hangs up his coat and takes a shower. Maybe she just stepped out for a few.

Keys jingle at the door, and Mel lets herself in soon after he's started showering. Dark, gothy, save the lengthening red hair in its pony-tail. Her grey, somewhat weathered tank is too tight and exposes her midriff. The PVC is on show, clinging to thin legs, with a heavy belt draping J-lo-style just under the waistband. Her red coat's ditched, also revealing a dull, dirty-blood-red skirt, wrapped tightly around her waist. Mel rubs her bared arms a little, and looks over to the stereo. Then the bathroom. Then the kitchen. No dinner on. She sits at the counter, just staring at the cooker as if it'll start working by itself.

Eventually, the showers turns off and Salem emerges in a clean gray t-shirt and black sweatpants, his long hair loose, wet, and still uncombed. He glances into the front and, spotting Mel, exhales a breath that's mostly relief. "Wondered where you were," he says mildly.

Mel looks over to him sideways and nods a few times minutely, before letting her gaze slide back to the cooker. Distracted. "Yeah. Went out."

Salem glances at the clock, then back to the girl. "Ah." He studies her for a moment, lips pursed, then goes into his room to retrieve his hairbrush. "You're back early, then," he calls out. Stating the obvious.

Mel smiles weakly then shrugs. "I might go out again later, when things pick up." Her pants make faint creaking noises as she rises, and - thumbs hitched in her waistband - moves towards her room.

"Hmm." Salem pauses to watch her, brush in hand. "You hungry?"

She smiles darkly and replies wryly, "Insatiable," before slipping into the room and closing the door with a foot. There's barely-heard rustling, and a few moments later, she re-emerges, sans PVC, and re-zipping calf-length boots.

Salem resumes dragging the brush through his hair, grimacing slightly as he works out the day's tangles. He watches her with half an eye once she's back out of her bedroom. "You want to order something?"

Mel's lips twist into a drily amused expression. "Yeah, I don't feel like cooking either. Whad'd you have in mind?" She wanders casually towards him, and the kitchen.

Salem grunts. "I don't know about you, but I'm a little bored with Chinese. Pizza?"

"S'what I would've suggested. Easier to eat. You can order. You know I like meat." Watching him with inscrutable green eyes for a while, the kinswoman eventually turns and stalks towards the couch. She lowers herself into the middle of it, stretching back lazily.

"A woman after my own heart," Salem replies, though the dry humor has a tired, strained quality. He pads barefoot toward the phone and puts the brush down in order to flip through the list of numbers. "Meat it is." He finds what he's looking for and dials up to order a large with enough animal-flesh toppings to make a vegan collapse. But no anchovies.

"We could probably arrange this apartment a little better," she murmurs thoughtfully. Absently. "So's to be able to see every part of it, from every good seating location."

Salem hangs up the phone and turns back to her, his expression quizzical as he returns to brushing out his wet hair. "Oh?" He glances around, then back at her. "How so?"

"Enh. Don't ask. I haven't figured it out yet." Green eyes consider him as she looks over to him. Regarding him quietly.

Mismatched eyes, one blind, meet the redhead's twin emeralds. "Shouldn't be too difficult," he says after a moment. Then, dryly, "It's not like there's a _lot_ of furniture to move."

Mel nods a few times, lifting the heel of her hand to rub one eye tiredly. "How'ws your day? Y'only just get back" She looks a little weary. Not quite well, but also not acknowleding it.

Salem grunts and puts the hairbrush down. "I've had worse days," he says, moving over toward the couch. "I've had several better ones, too."

Mel doesn't shift to either side to make room. Instead, one arm's folded across her chest, the other resting over her lap. "So, what...? Boring? Long? Asshole people?"

Salem takes a perch on an arm of the couch instead, arms folded, tired eyes resting on her. "I suppose... I just wasn't in the mood to deal with it today."

She doesn't break the gaze, looking back at him just as wearily. After a while, her chest rises and falls with a breath, and she looks to the table dully, shaking her head. "Y'can take your work home with y' if you want."

Salem sighs, then says -- rather dourly -- "I already have." He gets up, stalks back toward the kitchen.

Mel gives a little faintly amused noise, head tilting up for it as she regards the table quietly. Not dark as much as... subdued. "What'd you expect, Jack?" she murmurs, after a while.

"I don't know." Salem opens the fridge, his back to her and his voice flat as he roots around for the orange juice. "I've seen dozens of different reactions to discovering... this thing. I've seen disbelief and rejection. I've seen the opposite, too... eagerness and wonder." The fridge door closes with a >clunk<; he gets down a glass and pours. "And various shades in between those two extremes."

"I lost my hero." Mel just stares dully his way. It's not an accusation, or even a complaint. "The world turned upside-down. My family lied to me all my life. The /world/ is a lie. Suddenly I have to defend myself against a whole new breed of people who think they have something to do with me. And the other day... a little girl ate a man's face, and he still tried to kill me." Bright green eyes watch Salem with a sadness in them. "I watched her cough up his ear."

Salem doesn't answer right away; he's silent as he puts the carton of orange juice back in the fridge next to the milk, and his back's still to her. "Ah. Yes." For a moment, it seems that's all he has to say, but before Mel can speak again, he adds, flatly, "I've been at this half my life. I suppose I've lost perspective."

Mel's response is a soft, "Yeah," and minute nod of agreement. Just watching him, arms folded either way across her body.

Salem turns around again, glass in hand, and meets her eyes again, his face blank. Controlled. "I apologize."

Quiet, she only looks at him a little longer before lowering her eyes in... shame? "S'just a little to take in, s'all."

"True." He leans against the counter and takes a sip of juice, still watching her. "And the leech didn't help." He shakes his head. "Haven't had a vampire in town in years, and now..." He grimaces briefly, shakes his head again. "Bad timing."

Mel shakes her head slightly to herself for a while, before taking a deep breath in and letting it out again. She looks up, to him. "It's mostly the vampire, yeah. I mean... I'm gonna be having nightmares about that. Not even the shit my dad used t-- it's just... gonna stick with me f'awhile, I think."

"Things like that always do," Salem replies, with some feeling.

She's quiet after that. Looking to the coffee table in self-absorbed thought.

"I think it's easier for the cubs," Salem says thoughtfully, after the silence has stretched out for a bit. "And harder, as well. They're mostly young. Twelve, thirteen, fifteen... sometimes as old as seventeen or eighteen, but that's rare." He's rambling a little, perhaps, filling in the quiet with something other than Mozart. "Sometimes they have some inkling that there's something going on in the world, but mostly they haven't had clue one."

"And it explains what's happening to their bodies..." Mel murmurs darkly, eyeing the man thoughtful. With a faint concern.

Salem nods, toying with the glass. His own eyes half-close, remembering. "Once you get past the shock... and if you think _seeing_ it for the first time is a shock, actually having it _happen_ to you is... morso. After that, though, it's a little... exhilerating. There don't seem to be any limits. Oh, there are rules, of course, elders to obey, learning your place and such, but there don't seem to be any obstacles that can't be conquered in one way or another." He shrugs slightly. "Youth thinks it's immortal and invincible. Garou youth... even moreso. For a while, anyway."

Mel's eyes drop away. "What about you?"

Salem shrugs again, takes a sip of juice. "I discovered my limits." Reticent; he seems unwilling to expound further on that.

There's a knock on the door, anyway. Must be the pizza guy.

Mel hops up to get it, uncrossing carefully-folded legs (the skirt is quite short), and reaches about herself, blinking then looking to Salem. Her expression is a little lost, and frustrated. "Money. M'damn pockets... don't have any."

Salem's mouth quirks into a wry sort of half-smile. He sets down his glass and waves her toward the door. "Go ahead and answer. I'll go get my wallet." Dinner's on him tonight, looks like.

Silently cursing the lack of pockets in skirts and tank-tops, Mel answers the door and leans against it - only part-way opened. One hip's tilted subconsciously, as she regards the pizza boy openly. "Hey. Money's comin'."

The delivery guy is college-aged and more or less good-looking in a bland kind of way. He smiles at the pretty redhead. "Oh, sure thing. Hey, haven't I seen you around somewhere?" He pulls the pizza box out of the insulating container and hands it over.

Mel takes the boxes, smiling wryly. "Not the best pickup line. But if we do happen to hang out at the same places, you can try again later." The girl looks over her shoulder towards salem, tapping a foot and waiting for the money.

She doesn't have to wait long, and the Walker's return squelches the delivery guy's enthusiasm visibly. "Uh... yeah, okay," he says, eyes shifting from Mel to the scarred devil coming up behind her. He takes the cash -- cost plus a fairly generous tip -- with a quick, "Thanks," and -- after giving Mel another smile, this one smaller, wistful, and a touch bitter -- retreats.

Mel treats him to a wink on his way out, then turns about to lay the pizza out on the coffee table. "We should order two, next time," she murmurs vaguely.

Salem stuffs his wallet into a pocket of his sweatpants. "Mm. You're right. Next time." He pads into the kitchen. "What do you want to drink?"

"Something hard," Mel grunts, opening the box and taking a quick sniff. There's a faint expression of approval on her face, at the scent of the fast food. "Tip him much? That was friggin' fast."