"How's it feel not to be a cub anymore?"

[hazlogs]

It is currently 19:19 Pacific Time on Wed Jul 16 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 71 degrees Fahrenheit (21 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the east at 10 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.13 and falling, and the relative humidity is 43 percent. The dewpoint is 48 degrees Fahrenheit (8 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Full Moon phase (82% full).

Salem and Mel's Apartment

The small, two-bedroom apartment has a warm, cozy look. The thrift-store furniture's been chosen for its quality and comfort, and the new place actually looks an improvement over the old. There are a few less cockroaches, but still no traps or use of sprays.

Renee knocks on the front door, then waits for a reply.

Salem answers the door in black t-shirt and sweats, his feet bare and his long hair damp and combed straight back. Something classical is playing on the stereo, and the lights in the apartment are dimmed. Mel is not in evidence.

Renee is in far less respectable shape, having spent a fair bit of time walking from here to there and dealing with... certain things. Her hair is a bit of a mess and sleep is probably somewhere near the top of her to-do list. "Yo."

"Evening," the Walker replies mildly. He steps aside to let her in. Full moon or no, his mood seems good; he eyes her bedraggled state with a wry, slanted curve of his lips that's not entirely unsympathetic. "What can I do for you?"

Renee steps inside, rather carefully holding her arms at either side. "Not too much, ta tell ya the truth." The Gnawer extends her right hand, still moving the limb rather carefully. "Came ta offer congradulations. So, you know, congrats."

Salem's eyes glint as he grasps the proffered hand. "Thank you." He closes the door behind her and paces silently over toward the couch, settling onto it with the coiled readiness of a panther.

Renee gets this confused look on her face, as Salem takes a seat. Her expression becomes even more confused, as her eyes go distant.

Salem cocks his head, eyeing the Gnawer quizzically, the half-smile vanishing quickly into a suble frown. "Something wrong, Renee?"

Renee distractedly waves one hand in a sushing movement, as her eyes remain focused on the middle-distance.

Salem's mouth thins, but he remains silent, arms folded across his chest, watching her carefully.

Worry flicks across the Gnawers face, as she continues to focus on something else. "Shit," Renee hisses and begins to stalk towards the door, snapping back into the here and now.

"Renee?" Salem's voice tugs at her attention, attempting to draw her back; he sounds at once annoyed and concerned.

Renee doesn't stop, determined and focused on her goal. "Family buisness," she rumbles, while opening the door.

"Ah." He shrugs, getting up so he can lock the door behind her. "My regards to Rat, then."

----------------------------------

Later that night...

Quentin pages to the room: Probably not too late; early-eveningish.

Thump-thump-thump. Let's hope it's not Mel that answers the door.

As luck would have it, Mel's still at work. Salem answers in black sweats and t-shirt, his hair loose and unbound, his feet bare, and the apartment mostly dim, with something soothingly classical playing on the stereo. A valid full-moon strategy -- stay inside and think calm thoughts.

Alas, the world has other plans for Jack Salem tonight. Quentin's on the other side of that door, his hair scattered not-so-neatly and a smoldering light in his eyes just-held back as he waits for it to open; the shoulder of his jacket and shirt have been torn open, blood staining down both darkly, though he's not moving like he's in pain at all. "Hi," he offers tersely, "Got a shirt I can borrow, boss?"

Salem's eyebrows rise, though his surprise is brief. It is, after all, the full moon. "Of course." He gestures the new cliath in and closes the door behind him before heading into the back to fetch a clean shirt. "What happened?"

Quentin pushes inside, shrugging off his jacket and dropping it to the arm of the couch before reaching down to peel the shirt over his head; his shoulder, arm, and side are stained in sticky red, but there's no visible wound anymore. "I ran into Tatt," he replies, voice quiet, tense, "She wasn't in a very good mood." Ah, yes, the galliard talent for understatement.

Salem returns from his room with a plain black t-shirt and tosses it over. "She wasn't, hm?" He frowns at the blood-stained jacket lying on the couch and picks it up. "Do tell." He holds out a hand for the shirt as well.

Quentin reaches out to offer the bloodied shirt over, grimacing, "Yeah. 'pparently all depressed from the other night still, drunk off her ass, maybe some other stuff.. I tried to talk her down, she came at me with a broken bottle."

Salem shakes his head, looking not at all surprised. "Shit." He waves the younger Walker toward the bathroom, so he can wash off any remaining blood before putting on the clean shirt. "She's handled John's death poorly. As bad as Rina, I dare say."

"Yeah," Quentin says tiredly, moving over to head bathroom-wards, "..Rina came by, talked her down, I think took her back to her place." The sound of water rushing in the sink.

Salem gets out a fresh plastic garbage bag for Quentin's bloodied things; he'll dispose of them later. "Really? Hmm." Hands empty, he prowls over to lean in the bathroom doorway, arms folded across his chest. "How'd Rina seem?"

Quentin grunts slightly, stealing one of the hand-towels in the bathroom to scrub clean with it. "Fine. Controlled. Calm. Used to dealing with it."

"That's good, at least." Salem rubs a hand over his face and changes the subject to something a little less dour and dire. "How's it feel not to be a cub anymore?"

"A little weird.." Quentin's silent a moment, before turning to offer the bloodied towel over for the plastic bag, "..broke up with Lyra earlier." No eye contact there, tone a bit flat.

Salem takes it with a slight shake of his head, then gives Quentin a somewhat surprised look, one eyebrow rising. "You did?" He pauses. "Well." Another pause and then, rather delicately, "...Probably for the best."

Quentin grimaces slightly, turning back to look at the mirror for a moment.. hands resting on the edges of the sink, as he says quietly, "Yeah, probably. We didn't.. don't.. trust each other enough to make it work. Not given.. everything."

Salem nods slowly, his expression thoughtful, lips pursed and eyes half-lidded. "Mm. How did Lyra take it?"

Quentin's eyes slip closed. "..badly."

Salem exhales a soft breath and says, ruefully, "Well... I suppose I'm not surprised at that."

"She started accusing me of planning this all along 'soon as I got rited, and saying I didn't love her enough.." Quentin's fingers tense against the porcelain of the skin, jaw tensing as he says tightly, "..I could hear her screaming from down the street."

"Jesus Christ." Salem's voice is full of ruefulness and disgust. Shaking his head, he straightens up and pads off to put the dead towel with the dead jacket and the dead shirt. "Gaia save us from hysterical teenage girls."

Quentin gathers some water between both hands to wash his face briefly, letting out a long, slow breath.. and then turns off the water, turning back to head into the living room for the clean shirt. "Yeah, well," he says quietly, "I guess she was justified."

Salem, retying the plastic bag closed, looks up with a raised eyebrow. "Justified?"

"I did break up with her," Quentin replies with a shrug, sliding the shirt down over his head, "And.. it's not like.. I ever turned her down."

Salem frowns, his brow wrinkling. He shakes his head. "Were you using her, though? Was what you felt for her not real? I don't think so." Tying off the bag, he straightens up, stretching as he does so. "You cared for her. I'm guessing that you still do. And, yes, it _is_ better for you _both_ this way."

Quentin's lips pull into a tight line at the questions, casting a narrow look over even as he adjusts his shirt. "No. I still love her," he admits, glancing down, "Too much to want to fuck her over forever like I would've."

Salem nods once. "She'll get over it, I suspect," he says, crossing back over toward the couch and sinking down on it with a passibly credible imitation of a man relaxing. "How's Sarah?"

"I told her 'bout the judgement," Quentin says quietly, pacing across the room anxiously, "She seemed worried 'bout Leo snapping and coming after her anyway, though. I was s'pose to.." He trails off, coming to a halt, "..fuck."

Salem lifts an eyebrow quizzically. "Hm?"

Quentin's jaw tenses, "I was supposed to go over and get dinner with her." Presumably, right now.

Salem's mouth twitches, his expression faintly wry, though otherwise difficult to read. He waves toward the phone. "Call her."

"..fuck, my phone's in the jacket." Quentin grimaces, heading over to dig back into the bloodied plastic bag to dig out the cell - fortunately not covered in blood - and flip it open, starting to pace again as he hits the speed-dial for Sarah's number.

"Make sure you haven't left anything else in there," Salem says dryly, settling back against the couch cushions and stretching legs out under the coffee table. There's a glass with some mostly-melted ice sitting there, next to the TV remote and a book.

She answers on the first ring. "Quentin? Are you okay?" Her voice, for once, is far from calm.

"..yeah, I'm okay." The tone of voice it's spoken in is far from reassuring, however, a bit tense and tight, "I'm, uh, not gonna be able to stop by tonight, though, 'kay?"

Salem leans over, picking up the glass and looking into it. With a quiet 'hmph' he tips the melted cubes into his mouth and sits back again, letting them dissolve as he listens.

Sarah swallows. "Where are you?"

Quentin lets a breath spill over the phone, moving with a twist to pace the other way across the apartment floor. "I'm at Salem's place, I'm fine, just.. tonight's a bad night."

Sarah lets out an audible breath."What happened?" she asks, softer. "Or is it... just the moon?" She clearly doubts that it's the latter.

"It's.. the moon, and other stuff," Quentin replies quietly but tersely, "I don't want to get into it just now. There's nothing.. nothing to really worry about, though."

"You sure? If, -- if you need anything--"

"No -- no, I'm fine, really, it's just.. I don't think I'd be very good company right now." Tense, upset, galliard, full moon.. yeah, there's an understatement.

"I don't care, you know," Sarah says quietly. "If you're good company or not. If you need anything, I'll come."

Quentin is silent for a moment, head falling forward as he murmurs, "I know. Just.. a few days, okay? At least 'till half-moon."

Salem toys with the empty glass, gazing into it thoughtfully.

"Sure," she answers, worried. "Just... just call me, when-- you want to."

"Yeah, I will," Quentin says quietly, swallowing once, "Take care, alright?"

"You, too," she murmurs, voice soft and still a touch anxious.

A brief ghost of a smile flickers momentarily across the Sept Alpha's face as he listens to Quentin's side of the call.

"Yeah. Give a call if /you/ need anything.. 'night." Click, as Quentin's finger-tips close the phone, letting it fall loose in his hand to his side.

"Need a drink?" Salem asks, looking up from the glass as Quentin finishes his call.

"Yeah," Quentin replies, eyes still closed, "Could help."

Salem nods and pushes to his feet. He fetches glass, some more ice, and pours a couple of fingers of vodka, both for himself and for the younger Garou. "Go sit down. Think calm thoughts." He hands one of the glasses to Quentin as he says this.

Quentin reaches over to accept the glass, stepping over to ease down and sit on the couch.. eyes closing as he murmurs, "S'a good thing Tatt backed off when she did.."

Salem grunts. "Yes... The last thing we need is another frenzy in the park. Renee would have had both your heads." He smiles thinly, leaning against the wall nearby.

"Yeah," Quentin snorts, "She's already pissed at me 'cause she thinks I'm acting like you." The glass is brought up to his lips, tipped back as he takes a long swallow.. and then doubles forwards, coughing. He manages not to spew it everywhere, though.

Salem sips his, looking amused. He's used to it, the old Slavic-descended bastard. "Like _me_?"

Quentin coughs again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and casting over a thin, feral smile. "Yeah. 'Dismissing her because I don't like what she's saying' she said."

Salem cocks his head, fixing his good eye on the young Galliard, curious. "Oh, really. What was she saying?"

Quentin's nose wrinkles up slightly, as he leans back, "She decided to tell me to stay away from Sarah."

Salem loses his smile. "_Tell_ you?"

"Well.. advise." Quentin grimaces, "Going on 'bout how the Wendigo are possessive of their kinfolk. As though it wasn't fuckin' obvious."

Salem grunts. "Yes, that. She ranted to me about that, too." He shakes his head. "Some of her views are very strangely un-Gnawerlike." He shrugs. "Sarah's made her choice and Leonard's in no position to deter her." He takes another swallow of vodka, looking unconcerned.

Quentin snorts, taking a sip of the vodka - more careful - before lowering it. "Yeah, well, she was going on 'bout how they'll send a big war pack down from some mythical other caern or something."

Salem arches an eyebrow. "Fear-mongering, or did she say she has some actual information?"

"Just fear-mongering," Quentin says scornfully, "And demanding to be taken seriously about it, talking about a Wendigo-Glass Walker war.."

Salem wrinkles his nose. "Please. The Wendigo are, Leonard aside, an _honorable_ tribe. The matter was brought before a neutral Philodox, one who had no connection to _either_ tribe. It's settled." He shakes his head, sipping, then adds, "I'll speak to her about it. I think we have a few things to hash out between us anyway."

Quentin's lips curl up slightly in dry amusement, "Oh, you'll like this one.. Catherine, you know, that Gaian cub that Cat's so attached to? I was talking with her, and she mentioned that Luke asked her to join his pack when she was Rited.. and she invited me to join too."

Both the Alpha's eyebrows rise at that. "She did, hm? What does Luke think of this?"

"He wasn't there," Quentin replies with a chuckle, "Of course, this is the same pack /Leo/ is going to be in. I'd rather shoot myself in the face."

"If," Salem says dryly, "Leonard doesn't decide to stomp off in a huff and never return." He shrugs. "No need to rush into joining a pack. It is, after all, a long-term commitment."

"I know," Quentin admits, shaking his head, "The thought of being in Leo's pack, though.." A faint chuckle, "..that was rich."

"I've heard of stranger," Salem replies dryly. "Though perhaps not as unpleasant." Taking another sip, he asks, "Do you need a place to sleep tonight?"

"Yeah," Quentin agrees, grimacing, "I think Cath took my room at 'licia's while I was gone, need to catch up with her and check on that.."

Salem straightens up and drains his glass. "You can take the couch here, then, if you like... or I can drive you out to the farmhouse."

"Nah, no reason to drive 'round tonight.. full moon, all the crazies are out." There's an ironic statement. "I'll just take the couch tonight, if it's okay.." Quentin offers over a wry smile, "Thanks."

"Not a problem," Salem says easily, padding into the kitchen to drop his glass off in the sink. "Make yourself comfortable. Think calm thoughts. I'm going to go out and check on things..." He ties his hair back, then vanishes into the bedroom for footware.

"Calm thoughts. Right. Cool blue sky. Gentle breeze. Leonard's skull crushed like a grapefruit.." Quentin rolls back to sprawl on the couch, one hand splaying over his face.

"Precisely," Salem says, sounding amused. He returns, shrugging on a light flannel shirt of black and gray, wearing it like a jacket over his t-shirt. He gathers up the plastic bag of bloody clothes on his way to the door. "Mel will probably be home in an hour or so... If you're up to it, see if she would like to hear that tale you told of John. She, mm, rather worshipped the man."

"If she starts up with her usual bullshit, I claim no responsibility for my actions." It's dry humor, but it's humor at least. Q's probably not serious.

Salem smiles thinly. "Noted. I'll be back late. Don't wait on dinner. And lock the door behind me." That said, he heads out the door.

Quentin rolls himself up to his feet, moving to head door-wards to lock it. "See you then, boss."