"Have you, ah, talked to anyone? Professional?"

[hazlogs]

It is currently 21:00 Pacific Time on Sun Jun 29 2003.

Currently the moon is in the waxing No Moon phase (3% full).

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 68 degrees Fahrenheit (20 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 18 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.77 and rising, and the relative humidity is 63 percent. The dewpoint is 55 degrees Fahrenheit (12 degrees Celsius.)

You paged Cari with 'Nobody's said anything to him about her. So, yeah, a checkup on her wouldn't be out of place. Studio, then? He'd be lurking outside her door/in her neighborhood for a bit before walking up.'.
Cari pages: Oooo. How long of a lurk?
Long distance to Cari: Salem thinks. Couple of hours, maybe. He'll make it part of his evening patrol.
Cari pages: Screaming.
Rina pages: It's nowish. He's been out there for a while. And he hears screaming. Brief spate of absolute terror.

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 circuitry. 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 pages: It's been kicked in recently, btw, and it isn't deadbolted--Cat's due home sometime, so. He can just come in.

Salem bursts into the studio only moments after her scream reached him from the street; he must have been right outside, and he must have charged up the stairs like Noyes' highwayman (minus the rapier and the redcoats, of course). He pulls up short, gaze sweeping the darkened apartment quickly, not seeing her. "Rina?" There's a frantic note in his voice.

As he reaches the landing, the screams trail into breathless, terrible cries of anguish--keening sounds that come from the corner of the room, by the windows, behind the big canvas that divides the apartment. She is huddled there, between the nightstand and the wall, occupying a space just large enough for her body, sitting with her knees drawn up and her head down, moaning softly.

Salem makes his way over there, slipping around the canvas wall, a tall figure in black jeans and dark green shirt, black trenchcoat hanging open on his athletic frame. "Rina?" When he spots her, he goes to her, down on one knee and a hand on her shoulder. "Rina, it's Jack."

She is keening softly, a pitched wail and then a gasp of breath. Her shoulders jerk with each sobbing sound, shivering in between.

Wincing slightly, his jaw tightening, Salem pulls her close, stroking her hair and murmuring words of comfort. He hasn't had to do this in some time, but it comes back to him quickly, those terrible months after He died.

Rina's skin is clammy, the windows open to admit cool night air and a distant sound of sirens. It is hard to gather her up, reaching into that tight space to pull at the trembling shoulders--she is shivering violently when he touches her. Somehow she manages to breathe, to get in a few gasping sobs.

It takes some effort, true, but somehow the halfmoon manages to ease her out... then he slips his other arm under her legs and lifts her bodily from the floor, cradling her in his arms as he carries her back toward the bed, speaking quietly all the while. "Shh, it's all right, I'm here, you're safe..." Meaningless, perhaps, but his voice is familiar and gentle.

Rina curls into herself violently, shivering, soft whimpers coming from her throat. "C-cold," she whispers.

Salem's brows draw together. He sets her down on the bed -- gently, as if she were glass and the bed were stone -- and then goes to close the windows. This takes only a few short moments; he returns to her side quickly, reaching for the blankets to cover her with.

Long distance to Rina: Salem pauses. What _is_ she wearing?
From afar, Rina hms. Wifebeater and sweats.

Rina curls up by the wall, tugging the fleece blanket around herself. Her eyes are dark, shadowy through the stray locks of her dark hair, barely peering over her knees. Hollow eyes, like a child of bombed Beirut, a blank-faced right-year-old in Kosovo.

Salem sits down on the bed close to her, looking into those blank eyes with a worried expression. He reaches out to brush aside those loose, dark strands, his fingers lightly touching her forehead.

"He's so cold," she whispers. "So cold." She is the one who is freezing, though; her forehead is cool to the touch, damp with sweat.

Salem mutters something under his breath in Serbian ("Damn you, Ice-Walker...") and shapeshifts, passing as quickly as he can through glabro, crinos, hispo... A large black wolf climbs onto the bed close to her, warm and alive. A long muzzle, tipped with a wet nose, pushes into the tight space under her chin and behind her ears, like a dog insistant on attention.

She lets him in absently, almost--distracted, staring into the middle distance. "I want to go," she whispers. "I want to stay. I wasnt him to leave, just leave me alone, and then I hate myself for even thinkin' it, I fuckin' hate myself for wakin' up--"

Salem makes a low 'rrr-rr' type of noise; it comes from deep within his chest and isn't really a growl. He sits and leans against her, pressing close, the unscarred half of his muzzle resting against her cheek.

Rina sniffles quietly, and wraps both arms around his shoulders, hugging the wolf the way a child might hug a large dog.

And like a large dog -- Luna, keep hiding Your eyes; Gaia, please don't tell anyone -- he licks her cheek, a warm wet canine tongue washing away salty tears.

Rina lets out a breath, the tears streaming down unchecked. "I'm sorry," she chokes out. "I'm sorry."

The wolf licks them away, wet tongue swiping over her cheeks, her chin. He waits for the storm to pass.

It does, the tears fading into numb quiet. She pets him absently, then, fingers rubbing at the back of his neck, running through the fur of strong shoulders.

The dark pelt is sleek with summer, not as soft as it looks but clean. The wolf-Salem leans against her, his head close against hers. Odd, how he doesn't smell quite like an animal; there's a hint of cigarette smoke and aftershave -- human smells, civilized smells.

He knows she's back, when she murmurs something he must have heard a thousand times. Her voice is hoarse, barely there. "Y' shouldn't smoke, yanno. It'll kill ya."

Salem snorts and pulls back slightly; when he reverts to human form, he's still near, but not quite so intimately close. His expression is wry. "Only if I stop shifting."

Rina lets out a breath, slowly. "Yeah, well," she mutters. "Maybe some of us don't like the smell, either." It's a quiet, not ill-natured complaint, as she tips her head to lean it on her knee.

"Ah, well... there is that." Salem shrugs out of the trenchcoat and lets it drop to the fall. His hand rests on her back, rubbing it like one would a child. "Bad habits are hard to break."

"Yeah," she says, a dry and humorless laugh shaking her shoulders. "Yeah. I know. I've had a few."

Salem's mouth curves into a rueful smile. "We both have." He tilts his head, studying her face.

Her eyes still have that hollow, exhausted look--as if she hasn't slept decently in weeks. "I don't know anymore," she says quietly. "I don't know whether to live or die."

His smile fades slightly at that, though the rueful look lingers around his eyes. His brows lift. "Live?" he suggests -- though of course he wouldn't say anything other. "I'm sorry that I haven't been around much, lately."

"Not like you missed much," she says quietly. "Other than this." She lifts her head, but doesn't look at him--shamed, in that tough-girl way of hers. Even after all the times she's done this, after all the times he's seen her broken and wounded. "I've... been talkin' with Cat. I think I can bring him around. But he needs teaching, in... the important stuff."

Salem's hand withdraws from her back to rub at his jaw, fingers tracing the neatly-groomed line of beard. "Fighting." He looks at her quizzically. "You think he'll actually accept that, now?"

Rina takes a breath, and lets it out. "I hope, yeah."

Salem runs his hand along the side of his neck, then drops it to the bed and leans. His eyes are thoughtful. "That would be good." He glances at her, sidelong. "Have you, ah, talked to anyone? Professional?"

Long distance to Rina: Salem . o O ( Seen that shrink yet, Rina? )

Rina nods minutely, lowering her eyes. "Yeah. And Cat, too. He went with me to see her."

Salem's brows lift. "He did?" A smile tugs at his lips, not quite showing itself. "Good. Good."

"Took some arm-twisting," Rina says quietly. "And you know how he is about women. But maybe it'll help a little, or maybe she can give me some advice about how to help him. Instead of manipulatin' the kid, like I have been." She wrinkles her nose slightly.

Salem grunts. "Better than bullying, which is all I can think to do, in the end." His tone is self-deprecating. It softens. "Anything I can do? About..."

Rina swallows. "Tell me they're just dreams," she says quietly. Her profile is bleak, her eyes still shimmering although the tears no longer fall.

"They're just dreams." The Garou's voice is gentle, like he's trying to soften a hard truth. "You were there at the Gathering. His spirit's in the Homeland somewhere." He exhales softly. "If I could bring you into the Umbra, I'd take you there."

Rina swallows, and nods quickly. She is silent for a moment, blinking back new tears, awkward with the burden of that old grief. "You want anything? I mean a glass of water, or coffee or whatever..."

Salem shakes his head. "I just wanted to see you." Touch of wryness. "I was in the area, actually, keeping an eye on things when I, ah, heard you." He touches her hair, brushing it away from her forehead. "You should go back to sleep. I can stay, if you wish."

Rina swallows, and nods, lowering her eyes. "Cat's... comin' back at ten or so, there's a thing at the library he went to... I'm sure he wouldn't mind seein' you again. He really liked stayin' with you guys last week."

"We enjoyed it, too." Salem looks wry. "Well, I did. I don't think Cat thinks very highly of Mel." He shrugs, then shifts back to wolf form and, in a very rare flash of playfulness, licks her nose.

It startles a smile from her, awkward and strained, but still a smile. She hugs him with both arms and buries her nose in his shoulder, smoky or not. "Dunno what I'd do without you, amico," she murmurs.

Not long after, she is safe under the fleece blankets, the wolf curled at her knees. This time, there are no dreams; she doesn't wake, not even when Cat comes home.