"I've been angry at _him_, but not you."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 22:26 Pacific Time on Thu Aug 7 2003.
Currently in Saint Claire, it is clear outside. The temperature is 69 degrees Fahrenheit (20 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northwest at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.99 and rising, and the relative humidity is 62 percent. The dewpoint is 56 degrees Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing Gibbous Moon phase (68% full).

The phone rings early in the evening, not long after the dinner hour.

It takes a few rings before someone picks up--the woman's voice is low and raspy. "..Hello?" She sounds somewhat preoccupied.

"Ms. Miller?" The male voice on the other end of the line is terribly formal. "It's Salem. Jack Salem."

There's a long, drawn-out silence. She swallows audibly and takes a breath. "What do you want?" If ice could travel through wires, the phone in his hand would be freezing right now.

"To see you, if I may." He doesn't sound daunted by her coldness, and his voice is mild. "If you'll allow it."

"What for?" There's a challenge in her tone; it sounds like she's switching the receiver from one hand to the other. The murmur of a television newscast can be heard in the background.

"Just to talk." There's music in the background, faintly. Mozart. "To... catch up." He sighs quietly. "I swear to you, I'm not going to do anything to your children. Not without your permission."

Drew clears her throat; he can almost hear the tension in her jaw. "You've got one hell of a sense of timing, Jack," she mutters bitterly.

There's a pause of a second or two. "How do you mean?" he asks, puzzled.

"F'get it," she says quickly, dismissive. "You want to talk, so we'll talk." She gives him an address in the less-than-savory wharf neighborhood near the bridge, and hangs up sharply.

Salem looks at his cellphone for a moment or two, then shakes his head. "This isn't going to go well," he mutters under his breath, as he heads for the door.

He arrives in short order, after changing into clean black jeans and a dark green t-shirt. After a quick check to confirm the address, he knocks once or twice on her door.

The building is dubious, from the outside--a large brownstone storefront with four stories, which apparently looks abandoned. He has to climb stairs in order to get to the top-level apartment; on his way he can see abandoned hallways littered with broken glass and debris. There's light spilling out from beneath the kinswoman's apartment door, but no immediate answer.

Salem shakes his head at the neighborhood, at the building, his jaw tightening. When she doesn't answer right away, he knocks again and, as he waits, schools himself to patience and calm, inwardly tightening the restraints on the snarling beast within him.

There's a sound of locks and deadbolts heavily disengaging, before she pulls the door open: the apartment behind her is spacious and newly-rennovated, with fresh paint and hardwood floors. The main living space is cluttered with half-unpacked boxes and toys... the kinswoman herself looks quite different than the last time he saw her. Drew's lost a considerable amount of weight, and her porcelain skin has taken on a thin pallor. Most different are her deep-sunken eyes, as she looks at him impassively. "..Come in," she murmurs. There's a half-finished cigarette dangling from one hand.

Salem inclines his head and enters. "Thank you for agreeing to see me," he says; it's a formal sort of courtesy, but he seems to mean it sincerely. The apartment gets a quick glance-over, and then his intent gaze turns to the woman herself.

She locks the door behind him, giving the Walker a wide berth; another thing he might notice about the apartment are the blackout curtains drawn against the night. The tiny kinswoman motions towards a table in the kitchen as she fetches herself an ashtray... one of the many in the apartment. "Kids are in bed," she murmurs, explaining their absence.

Salem nods. "I thought that they might be, this late," he says. His body language is controlled and graceful as he moves toward the table and takes a seat; his eyes rarely leave her, and his expression remains guarded. "I know that some of the family have been to see you... Rina and Mel and Renee. Is there anything that you need? For yourself, or the children?"

Drew seems uncomfortable beneath his gaze, and somewhat jittery; she can't quite meet his eyes. Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, she shakes her head once. "Nothing from any of you," she says pointedly, moving into the kitchen on small bare feet. She takes a moment to dump the brimming ashtray over the garbage can, which sits next to a considerable host of empty liquor bottles.

A flicker of pain passes across the scarred features, pain and regret, both unseen; she isn't looking his way when it happens. Salem drops his eyes and folds his hands on the table, studying them instead. His features composed again, he says quietly, "You understand... we just want to help."

Drew halts her fidgeting motions to pin him directly with those gray-green eyes, squaring her jaw. "I think you've all helped me /quite/ enough." Her voice is low and small, and she drops her gaze with a twist of her mouth. "..Wouldn't you agree?" The Walker's pain might be well-masked, but hers rings plain and hollow in her voice.

Salem looks up, small muscles tightening in his jaw. "What happened to John and Chaser was tragic," he says, not loudly, but firmly. "But it was not something that we _did_ to _you_, Drew. Believe me," and here his voice turns earnest, "if I knew a way to bring them back, I _would_."

A small hand slams down on the kitchen counter; her back is turned to him as she cuts him off: "You and your fucking /challenges/--and--and *ranks*--" Drew chokes back any further words with a tiny gasp, and a hand pressed over her mouth.

Salem twitches. Visibly -- hands tightening on themselves, shoulders stiffening. He's silent for a moment, taking deep, controlled breaths.

And as if on cue, a loud wail filters through the apartment from the direction of the bedrooms. Drew ducks her head, regaining some composure, and turns to look sadly at the Walker for a moment. After a few breaths, she turns and disappears into the back hallway, towards the crying.

Salem inhales another breath and lets it out, slowly. He watches her go, but remains in the kitchen, at the table, while she tends to the wailer.

The wailing quiets some after a few minutes, but it takes the kinswoman a while to re-emerge... and when she does, she's got a blanket-wrapped infant in tow. Black hair, bright blue eyes; uncannily familiar. Drew stubs out her cigarette as she comes back into the kitchen, balancing the murmuring infant on one hip. Ignoring the Walker for now, as she prepares a bottle with one hand. Since her back is turned, the tiny child is left to stare directly and unblinking at Salem.

Salem sits... very still, like a man walking in the forest who suddenly comes upon a doe and its fawn. Mismatched eyes with too many years on them meet those of the fresh, innocent blues of the baby boy, the child who, just as Rina said, looks so very much like the dead Ahroun. He swallows; his face goes bland.

Those small, bright eyes blink once at him: I See You. The kinswoman finishes heating a bottle of formula in the microwave, and sets it on the table; her gaze is carefully averted from the Walker and Sept Alpha. She turns once more, and takes up a folded dishtowel--also setting that on the kitchen table. One might note that it clunks a little heavily for a mere dishtowel, as Drew slides into her seat and puts the bottle to her son's mouth. The petite kinswoman presses her lips against the child's hair as he nurses, and gives the Walker a very deliberate look. A mother wolf standing over her pups.

Drew pages: The dishtowel is folded around a pistol. Muzzle peeking out, pointed directly across the table at him.

Small muscles work in Salem's jaw. He nods once and -- carefully, keeping his hands visible on top of the table -- pushes his chair back. "I apologize for disturbing you," he says, his voice just as carefully bland as his face. Rina might be able to spot the subtle tell-tales of hurt around his eyes... but she's been around him more hours than he can count.

"Did he ever talk about me, Jack?" The question is quiet and abrupt; her shadowed eyes roam the scarred features, searchingly.

Salem, standing and preparing to turn and go, hesitates. "...In his letter," he says. "He was... concerned, about what would happen to you and the children. Especially... his." He looks down at her gravely.

Two pairs of eyes are looking at him now: her sad gray ones, and a pair of ice-blue, over the top of the infant's bottle. Drew nods once, dropping her gaze and swallowing. "You must hate me," she murmurs.

Salem shakes his head. "I've been angry at _him_, but not you." He exhales softly. "I wish he had told her. I assume that he meant to. But it never occurred to me to be angry at you." Broad shoulders move in a vague shrug.

Drew purses her lips, frowning at a space between her feet on the linoleum as she rocks her son. "It... started with her, first," the kinswoman murmurs. A hint of color rises along her neck, and she shakes her head. "I was drinking, and--it just--" She wipes at one eye with the heel of her hand, sniffing quietly. "I ruined everything, Jack."

Salem shifts his weight subtly, looking vaguely awkward. He shakes his head. "You didn't. And even if you did..." He looks at her with a rueful touch in the twist of his mouth. "...you've spent enough time in purgatory, I think."

"It'll never be enough," she murmurs, her own smile thin and sad, regretful. Pressing her lips against her son's small head, inhaling deeply. "Not enough to bring them back... for any of us." Russell gurgles quietly around the bottle, and goes back to sucking noisily.

"He wouldn't want you to suffer like this," Salem points out. "Neither would she."

Drew nods wordlessly, but doesn't look much convinced. Lifting her head, she looks gently at the large Walker. A little hesitant. "Want to say goodbye to Russ, before you go?" There's a quiet invitation in her voice, behind the carefully-bottled tears.

Salem's gaze shifts from mother to child and back again. "I'd, ah, like that," he says.

Still seated, the kinswoman waves him closer. "I won't bite," she says dryly.

He almost smiles at that, a bit of a twitch at one side of his mouth. Wordlessly, he approaches, graceful and careful. Doe and fawn. Or, rather, lioness and cub. He leans down to touch the baby's cheek delicately, as if afraid he might break the boy -- or, as is his usual experience, make him burst into tears. "Be good to your mother, Russell," he murmurs.

Russ breaks away from his bottle, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed up at the big person. His toothless gums show, and his neck is still slightly wobbly in that infant way. Gurgling once, he decisively reaches up and takes hold of the outstretched finger--an impressive grip, for an infant. Drew shivers once, but smiles at the contact; a wistful expression triggered by the meeting of a big, scarred Walker and the son of a big, scarred Walker.

He actually smiles a little, this big, scarred Walker, a rare and strange expression on that ruined devil's face. And after a moment or two, he extracts his finger from the baby's grasp -- again, with a delicacy that's almost humorous -- and straightens up to look at Drew. "Thank you."

Drew tilts her head back to squint up at him. "..You're welcome, Jack." She sounds sincere. Clearing her throat, the kinswoman murmurs, "It's--hard. To see you. /Any/ of you. I don't want to lose... anyone else." She swallows, a visible twist of her fragile throat. "But I'm trying."

Salem nods, his gaze drawn back to little Russell. "I appreciate that, Drew." He looks back at her. "I'll leave you in peace now. May I, ah, come over again sometime?"

Russell's still staring at Salem--slightly crosseyed--as his mother nods. "Make sure you call first," she murmurs, after a moment's thought. There's a slight smile on her lips, tinted though it is by long-held grief.

"I will," the Walker promises. He inclines his head to her, almost a bow, so terribly polite, and then gives the baby another faint smile. "Good night," he says, to both of them, and then lets himself out.

Drew watches him go, lifting one of Russell's tiny hands in a waving motion. "..Bye Jack," she whispers.