Breakup

[hazlogs]

[3/23/98]
[Charlie's Tavern]

Salem sits by himself at a table near the back corner, nursing a cigarette and 
  a beer and generally looking sour. The tables near his are noticeably empty.

[Paddy]
A good-looking man in his early twenties, Paddy McGuigan stands just a hair 
  over six feet tall, and weighs in at perhaps 220 pounds. His hair is black, 
  which sets off his brilliant green eyes, and is gathered into a rough and 
  short ponytail at the nape of his neck. Paddy is a burly man, thick and 
  heavy with muscle, not the sort of cut muscle one sees on bodybuilders, but 
  rather the thick slabs of strength that come from using one's physical 
  strength every day. He also has a quick manner about him, and a ready grin 
  takes some of the sting out of his occasionally sarcastic comments. Paddy 
  has just a touch of an accent, but it's a strange one, sounding part Irish 
  brogue and part Chicago's streets.
Paddy is currently clad in a pair of black Levi's 501s, worn and scuffed 
  combat boots, a white T-shirt with "Remember Bobby Sands!" on the front, and 
  a battered fatigue jacket with the name "McGuigan" written over the breast. 
  The jacket has sergeant's stripes on the sleeve, along with hash marks 
  indicating 6 years of service, and there is a patch on the right shoulder 
  which depicts a white eagle's head on black background, surmounted by a 
  small ribbon reading, "Airborne".

Paddy walks over to the bar, his booted feet making relatively little noise to 
  disturb the few patrons scattered around the bar in the middle of the 
  afternoon.

Salem glances over at the new arrival and gives him a cold, unsmiling 
  look-over. The study is brief, however, and soon he dismisses Paddy from his 
  attention, finding the trailing line of smoke from his cigarette to be more 
  interesting.

Paddy returns the scrutiny, but with at least the hint of a smile, given his 
  generally pleasant enough nature. As the other turns away, Paddy gives a 
  slight shrug, but steps up to the bar and places his order for a draft beer.

Salem leans back in his chair and tips his head back to regard the ceiling.

Paddy picks up his beer mug and wanders over to an unoccupied table. He hooks 
  the chair with his foot and pulls it out, dropping easily into it and taking 
  a long pull from his beer.

Salem leans forward again, chair scraping against the floor and causing Slab 
  to eye the dark man sidelong for a moment.

Paddy takes another drink of beer, bright eyes looking curiously around the 
  room, but not lingering on any one person or place for long.

Salem finishes off his beer and rises. Again, the scrape of chair against 
  floor causes not a few eyes to go toward him, and the eyes remain as he 
  heads for the bar, cigarette dangling from his lips.

Paddy watches the dark one pass, from over the rim of his beer mug.

Gwyneth comes in from the street outside.
Gwyneth has arrived.

Salem sets his empty class down with a thump and leans an elbow against the 
  bar, his eyes settling wordlessly on Slab. He takes the cigarette from his 
  lips and taps ash into a convenient ashtray as he waits, with dour patience, 
  for the bartender to come over.

Paddy raises his mug for another pull of the beer, his green eyes moving over 
  the newcomer for a moment, then returning to his visual survey of the room. 
  He idly pushes one large hand through his hair, trying to make sure that 
  most of it stays in the ponytail.

Gwyneth steps inside, just enough that the door closes behind her, and is then 
  nudged further inside, by the closing of that selfsame door, which earns a 
  quick glare over her shoulder. She then turns to surveying the bar's 
  patrons, almost warily.

Salem glances up as the door opens, and the cigarette stops halfway to his 
  mouth as his eyes fall on Gwyneth and stay there.

Gwyneth pages: You can bet she's clamping down that rage there, right off the 
  bat, bucko.
You paged Gwyneth with 'Gotcha.'.

Paddy looks over towards Salem, and a half-smile quirks his mouth as he 
  notices that the woman has apparently pulled the man out of his dark mood. 
  Amazing, that.

For an instant, Gwyneth does a good impression of deer-in-the-headlights, 
  unblinking, unmoving. She then inhales enough to lift her shoulders, and 
  sighs again, the exhalation allowing her to move forward, toward the bar. 
  Her arms cross her chest.

Salem slowly brings the cigarette to his lips, inhales deeply, and then lets 
  it out. Though he still seems far from cheerful, something has changed, 
  subtly. The undercurrent of controlled homicidal violence that's been 
  rumbling tensely under his skin is, simply speaking, _gone_. He watches 
  Gwyneth approach without a word, though his dark eyes study her carefully.

Paddy feels that something a bit odd is going on, and keeps his attention on 
  the pair, trying to do so subtly.

Gwyneth stops, a good arm-and-a-half away from Salem, arms still tightly 
  tucked over her chest. Her chin lifts a little, and she moistens her lips, 
  before daring to speak. "Jack," she says, quietly. "When might I come and 
  pick up my backpack?"

Paddy takes another drink of beer, green eyes narrowing a little as he tries 
  to figure out what is transpiring. Again, one hand raises to run through his 
  black hair, an obviously unconscious gesture.

Salem's eyes move away as he takes another drag on his cigarette and then 
  stubs it out in the ashtray. "We can go fetch it right now, if you wish," he 
  replies, mildly.

Paddy chokes quietly on his beer.

Gwyneth glances over her shoulder, toward Paddy. She summons up a smile, for 
  his sake, then turns her attention back to Salem. The smile fades away. "I 
  think that might be for the best. At the very least, this needn't be a 
  public affair." She takes a step back.

Salem mutters something under his breath in Serbian, his tone more resigned 
  than angry. Leaving his beer glass on the bar, he strides for the door, 
  forcing himself not to look back to see if she's following.

Salem heads for Holland place, hands folded into the pockets of his coat. He 
  offers no word.

[Scene shift to Salem's apartment]

Salem lets Gwyneth take care of closing the door and heads into the bedroom, 
  shrugging out of his coat as he does so.

Gwyneth doesn't, actually, close the door, and if her body language is any 
  indication, she doesn't plan on staying, or making herself comfortable. She 
  calls after him, "If you'd just bring it out, I'll be on my way."

Salem makes no reply, and after a few moments he emerges from the darkened 
  bedroom, her backpack hanging by one loop from his right hand. Rather than 
  give it back, though, he stands near the doorway between the bedroom and the 
  gapingly empty front room. Despite the lack of rage, the Ronin's face and 
  body language is brimming over with tight control and the tension born of 
  such control. "What happened?"

"Happened," the mage asks, not moving to take the backpack just yet. "I came 
  to get my things, that's all. That's what's happened." She extends a hand. 
  "May I have it, please?" In other words, she's not moving.

Salem's jaw clenches -- not with rage, no, not with anger, but with a sudden 
  tightening of control. He inhales a breath deeply through his nose and 
  manages to retain the thin facade of composure. "You know what I mean," he 
  replies, tones clipped. "But then, it's a stupid question, isn't it? Of 
  course it is. We both know it is." He leans forward slightly, eyes intense. 
  "But I _don't_ _remember_ it, Gwyneth. I _never_ remember it."

Gwyneth's eyebrows quirk upward, and she returns his gaze, for a long moment, 
  before she breaks it off, uncomfortable. "If that's meant to comfort me, or 
  to somehow make it all right ... it didn't work." Her smile is, perhaps, 
  pained.

Salem regards her for a moment, his eyes full of the abyss. "Fine, then." The 
  words are clipped; his tone has become dead. A slight swinging motion of his 
  right arm sends the backpack lofting most of the way across the room like a 
  drunken dodo bird. It hits the floor with a dull thud. "My own fault for 
  letting you in, perhaps." He turns his back then, folding his arms across 
  his chest as he stares into the darkened bedroom.

Gwyneth watches the backpack through it's ill-fated flight. When it skids to a 
  stop, she steps forward and lifts it, slinging it familiarly over her 
  shoulder. She starts to speak, twice, closes her mouth, and turns for the 
  door.

Salem keeps his back turned toward her, muscles tight under the long-sleeved 
  t-shirt. He is breathing steadily, or forcing himself to.

It is only when she's nearly through, that she stops, takes another breath, 
  and turns back. "I'm ... sorry, Jack. Though," she says in the next breath, 
  amusement wry, "I'm not entirely certain why *I'm* apologizing. *You* tried 
  to kill *me* after all."

Salem answers without turning around. "No," he says. "The rage tried to kill 
  you."

"The rage," she echoes. "Yes, I suppose. The rage." She's silent another 
  moment, then she adds, "I wonder if you could exist, without your rage, 
  Jack. Can you separate yourself from it? Distance yourself?"

Salem lifts his chin slightly and then turns around halfway. "I conquered it 
  before," he says flatly. "In time, I will conquer it again."

Gwyneth quotes, "They say fire is the time in which we burn." Again, her 
  amusement is less than sincere. "I heard that, in a movie, I think. Or read 
  it. Something." Breath. "I hope that you do. Learn to live apart from it, 
  Jack Salem. Your rage."

Gwyneth adds, more quietly, "Beneath that nasty bit, you're a decent sort."

Salem snorts once and turns his back again. "Are you staying, Gwyneth, or 
  leaving?" A slight altering of his tone gives greater import to the question 
  than is on its surface, as though it were also doing duty for the one thing 
  he _won't_ ask.

What is it he won't ask? To be released? Gwyneth doesn't answer right away. 
  She does, however, release her grip on whatever it is that controls that 
  rage. Removes the block, restarts the flow. Whichever.

Salem takes a deep breath, head lowering slightly. The wiry, ropy muscles 
  tighten and then relax most of the way. After a moment, he turns around 
  again.

Gwyneth stands still, half in and half out of the doorway. She watches him, 
  curious, though there is still a hint of wariness in her expression.

"I /will/ bring it back under control," Salem says, after a moment, chin 
  slightly lifted. "Until then..." He moves one shoulder in a shrug. "Now you 
  know why I have certain... habits."

"Filthy habits," Gwyneth suggests, then holds up a stalling hand. "I'm neither 
  mother nor guardian. I'll keep my opinions to myself. You've taught me a ... 
  valuable lesson, I think, Mr. Salem. Should I choose to stay in St. Claire."

Salem's lips twitch slightly into an embryonic, briefly-lived smile. "Glad to 
  be of service, Ms. Hovick." His tone is heavily sardonic.

Gwyneth's lips purse, and she allows a little stiffness to slip away from her 
  shoulders. "Aren't you going to apologize, at all?"

"For losing control?" Salem's lips purse slightly. "Mm. Perhaps." He pauses a 
  beat, and then adds, "I _do_ apologize for letting you in that night and 
  letting you stay. That... was a mistake."

Gwyneth mms, and straightens up again. "I suppose that that will have to do."

Salem's lips twitch into a very minor, tense smile.

"Thank you," Gwyneth says, then. "For .. an experience."

Salem replies, evenly, "My pleasure."

Gwyneth hesitates another moment, nods once, and slips out the door.

Salem remains framed in the doorway as she leaves.

Gwyneth heads outside for the hallway, the door creaking as she opens it.
Gwyneth has left.