"His death was not your fault."

[hazlogs]

Monday night, the 12th of May.

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.

It takes time, but Rina actually manages to answer the door--steadying herself on the wall, reharding him with hazy eyes. "Don't know when to give up, do you," she says hoarsely.

Salem still looks tired around the eyes, though not as exhausted as he appeared this morning. "I'm a stubborn son of a bitch, yes," he says dryly.

Rina still looks pale, herself, and less than steady on her feet. Her eyes have that huge, dark look they get sometimes, when she's exhausted. "Y'oughta work on that," she mumbles, turning away and weaving back into the studio.

"On being less stubborn?" Salem snorts, following her inside; he closes the door behind him and turns the latch. "Why?"

Rina leans on the kitchen counter heavily, putting her head down. "Kid's down f'the count," she says, her voice soft and unsteady.

Salem grunts. "Not surprised." The tall Walker crosses over toward her, joining her at the counter, not quite touching. He studies her with no little concern, eyes narrowed. "So... I have to ask..."

Rina swallows. "You want some coffee?" she murmurs tiredly.

Salem ignores the offer. "Was it... accidental, or not?" He looks directly at her.

Rina straightens, enough to lean both hands on the edge of the counter. She doesn't turn to face him. "Christ, Jack," she whispers. "You gotta /ask/? Don't you fuckin' /know/ me?"

Salem exhales his breath in a quiet sigh. "A man can hope," he murmurs, and then falls silent, looking elsewhere. At anything. At nothing.

She cants forward a little, over the counter. There's a silence, long and painful. "Angelo got himself killed, tryin' to save me," she says softly. "John--" She swallows. "John-- that was my fault too-- I pushed him, he wanted t'be--"

"_No._" Salem cuts her off quite abruptly. He rests his forearms on the counter and leans, shoulders hunching like those of a crouching cat. He frowns at her. "John made his own choices. Including the choice to follow the Get down into ambush. You didn't force him down there. He chose to go. He _chose_ it."

"I pushed him to challenge," she says softly. "He didn't think he was ready, and I told him to do it." She swallows, and a quiet, choked sound comes from her throat.

Salem's head drops a bit; he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Rina," he says wearily, "we _all_ pushed him to challenge. He _was_ ready. It was past _time_ for him to be Fostern. His death was not your fault."

Rina shakes her head minutely. "You won't convince me," she whispers. "It's everything I touch, Jack. Everyone in my life. I can't anymore."

Salem rubs his eyes briefly, then folds his hands together on the counter, fingers laced. He's silent for a moment, staring at them with a pensive, brooding expression.

Rina turns to look up at him; her eyes have the faint shimmer of unshed tears. "I don't want to watch you die," she whispers. "I can't. I don't want you t'get hurt, or-- or Cat--" Losing words, she struggles for a moment, and then turns, maybe to flee into the kitchen.

Salem straightens up and reaches out to touch her shoulder, to stay her retreat. "Rina, look at me?"

The tears are starting to fall, a few breaking to free to slip down her cheeks when she looks up.

Salem looks at her, his expression grave. "I don't want to watch you die, either."

Her expression twists, fierceness and pain wrenching at the worn remnants of beauty. She turns away, roughly. "It can't be worse than this," she snarls.

Salem's mouth tightens, his jaw clenching. Then he grimaces, the flash of anger turning into an expression of defeat. "Fine," he says, flatly. One hand dips into his coat pocket and removes a business card with a doctor's name and a (non-local) phone number on it. A psychiatrist. Salem's thin, tight handwriting spells out the word "family" on a bit of empty space. He flicks the card onto the counter and starts moving toward the door.

Rina looks over her shoulder, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Jack," she says, hoarse and pleading. "There's somethin' I have to tell you--"

Salem pauses, glancing back at her, his expression guarded.

She is barely breathing, her expression strange, almost desperate. She takes a couple of steps, coming past the edge of the kitchen unsteadily. "Cat-- Cat's a Fury," she says.

Salem blinks. His brow furrows a moment, and then he shakes his head. "He can't be. He's male. Whatever his ancestry is, his future is with _us_." He sounds quite firm on that, even possessive.

Rina nods minutely; one corner of her mouth tugs upward, that crooked smile attempting to surface despite her tears. "Yeah," she whispers. "I just--thought you might want to know. About his blood, I mean." When it's said, she has nothing more, and seems to realize it; apprehension crosses her face, and she presses her lips together in an attempt to stop crying. It only means the drops slide down her cheeks in silence.

Salem purses his lips, watching her. "...How did you find out?"

Rina glances toward the canvas that screens off the bedroom. "Ancestor spirit," she says quietly. "He did that thing like Tobin. All of a sudden it wasn't--him, anymore."

The werewolf's brow furrows again. He, too, flicks a look toward the screen, curious and narrow-eyed. "Hm." Then he looks thoughtfully back at the kinswoman.

She ducks her head, then, her brow furrowing slightly. "Jack," she whispers. Blinking back tears she looks across to him, anguish in her eyes, tears still streaking her cheeks. "I'm sorry."

Salem dips his head slightly. "You're forgiven." He pauses for a heartbeat or two. "But... do me a favor. Call that number." He nods toward the counter and, presumably, the business card. "Or someone similar." Another pause. "Please."

Rina nods. A swallow, and she tries to speak; this time her voice is uneven, somewhat choked by the tears. "You didn't let them take me. Thank you." Licking her lips, she glances away for a moment, and then the dark, shining eyes return to him. "There's things worse than bein' dead."

"I know," he says, with feeling. "Believe me, I know." He grimaces. "I didn't even want to bring you to that place, but..." Broad shoulders move in a helpless shrug.

"I shouldn't've gone to you," she whispers, lowering her eyes. Her hands wring together, and pain tugs at her expression again. "I'm sorry you had to--"

Salem interrupts her with a low, curt growl. "Would have been worse if you hadn't."

"Maybe," she whispers hoarsely. "Maybe... I don't know." Defeated, she leans against the counter for a moment and then paces along its edge. "You're tired," she says softly. "You can sleep on the couch, if-- if you want."

Her eyes remain lowered, until she runs out of counter and has to look past that. There is a bleakness about her; she has stopped crying, but the brief spate of tears has left her wrung out.

Salem considers this idea -- considers _her_ -- for a moment before nodding. "You're tired, too," he notes quietly. "Come here."

It confuses her for a moment--but then she paces across the distance between them. She doesn't look up until she reaches him, and even then there is an apprehension about her, a guarded look in her eyes.

He called to her from near the couch, and by the time she reaches him and looks up, he's taken wolf form and reclines, sphinxlike, on the cushions, watching her with mismatched eyes and perked ears.

With a wistful smile, she reaches out to touch him. Then she sits down, to hug and caress the unlikely pet, murmuring apologies to him and crying quietly.

Less than an hour later, though, she is sound asleep, curled up on the couch with her head near his. Too tired to fuss with the blanket, she managed to half-cover herself with it; the nights aren't so cold, now, anyway. There are restless dreams that wake the two wolves, but ironically not the dreamer--she sleeps through the night without ever fully waking.