Tough Love

[hazlogs]

Scene: Salem's apartment. Second day after the battle to reclaim the caern.

John averts his eyes for a while, staring grimly into a space just above the floor. Blue eyes clouded slightly with reminiscence. He closes them a moment, then turns back to look at her again, more critically. "It's John," he says lowly, coming to a halt only a few feet away.

Tatt twitches again, hissing in a breath. "Icewalker," she grunts, voice slurred by sleeping pills. "..Fuckin' /itch/." Again, the Strider scratches at her mutilated arm.

John nods slowly and solemnly a few times, taking a half-step closer. Investigating the arm more closely. "I know," is all he says, for the time being. He searches about for a damp towel, or something to wipe her brow with. "Take some of the water," he adds, gruffly yet not unkindly.

Salem emerges from the kitchen area with a glass of ice water and joins the pair, right on cue. He continues to limp, moving gingerly. His eye regards Tatt critically for a moment or two.

She moves as though she'd forgotten about the water bottle--reaching hungrily, blindly, gulping it down and spilling a lot. She coughs a few times, sitting up with her back braced against the headboard, and manages to focus on John. "Y-you gotta help me score," she says hoarsely, almost desperate. "Pills ain't gonna keep me down much longer."

John looks impassively at the woman. There's almost sadness visible in his eyes, but he turns quickly to Salem, guarding his expression again, and instead framing an unspoken question. Has this been happening often?

Since Tatt's remembered the gallon-sized bottle, Salem offers the iced glass to John instead. He answers with two grim words. "Getting worse."

Tatt glares sullenly at Salem from across the room, then twitches violently. "F-fuckin' punk," she mutters, eyes glazing over again.

John's eyes return to Tatt again, grim and carefully free of emotion, as he sips at the water. "Don't know how to handle this one," he admits softly, after a moment. "Cold turkey is hell on earth."

Salem is unruffled by the Strider's insult; he glances her way, then turns back to John. "Of course it is," he says blandly. "But it's the best way."

The Strider shakes her head to herself, shoulders slumping. "I promised Hope I wouldn't--" She shudders, both fists clenching.

It looks, briefly, as if the Walker Elder is reaching out to touch the woman's forehead. But his hand stops on the way, and then returns to his side. "Gonna take you someplace a little safer, Tatt. You can go nuts there. Do what you like without worrying about the veil. You'll be looked after. I'll teach you some things that'll help."

Tatt looks up, teeth gritted. Something shadowy flickers behind her gaze. "Do it fast," she hisses hoarsely.

Salem glances sidelong at John, one eyebrow rising questioningly.

John's eyes narrow, as he leans forward. His tone is hard, though still - not aggressive or unkind. "Meditative exercises. It calls for internal discipline. Finding /calm/. You strong enough to do that, hm? It's not the easy way. There /is no easy way/."

Tatt twitches again but holds the Walker's gaze, amber countering blue. "Just--" Her lips curl back, shifting from a grimace to a snarl. "Take. Me. There."

Salem leans against the wall near the bedroom door, watching silently; his eyes are dark-shadowed and guarded.

John holds her gaze for seconds... then turns abruptly. "Fine." To Salem, he grunts mildy, "Sedatives, I think." The slightly uncomfortable look he adds, suggests he might want a hand with getting the Strider down the stairs.

Salem nods curtly, then turns and limps into the bathroom to fetch the bottle of sleeping pills.

The Strider moves to slouch at the edge of the bed, her frame almost lost in the bathrobe. She shivers, gaze turning inwards.

When Salem leaves the room, John returns his eyes to Tatt. "Hey," he grunts, to get her attention. Then his voice lowers - so as not t be heard by his Tribesmate. His eyebrows lift slightly, as he poses a weary question to the Strider. Frank, and honest. "You gonna be cooperative? I'm tired. I'm bleeding internally. That little stunt of yours yesterday hurt me more than it hurt you. You gonna give me any more problems, or should I finally stop makin' it my responsibility to save your stupid ass from yourself?" It's in his eyes. So tired...

Another spasmodictwitch. "I c-can't do this without your help," she says lowly, unable to meet his eyes.

The Walker Elder's eyes remain fixed on hers, regardless. Hardening. "Then don't frenzy in my fucking car," he mumbles, and turns to see where Salem's gotten to.

It's a sixth sense, maybe, but the Philodox doesn't return with the pills until after John's laid down this ultimatum. He tosses the little rattly bottle over toward Tatt.

While waiting for Tatt to do what she needs to, with the pills, John narrows his eyes and lays a hand on Salem's shoulder. "How long, maximum, before you're 100%? Or is there somethin' I'm gonna' need to know about?"

Salem rubs at his beard. "Nnh. Four, five days," he says, "unless Alicia has enough spirit energy for another application of the Touch."

Tatt tosses back a fair number of the pills and swallows down some water dazedly.

John does the equivalent of a facial shrug with his eyebrows, and with his shoulders, before reaching up stiffly to rub at his temples. "I see," he says, flatly. Taking a deep breath, he turns, and looks to Tatt. "You need help, down? I'll take you now. Bring the bucket."

Salem pushes a lock of hair out of his face and tucks it behind an ear, his eye moving back toward the Strider.

Tatt takes a deep breath and pushes up off the bed, swaying for a moment as the headrush hits. "_Mierda_," she mutters, one hand to her head. Ignoring the incongruence of the bathrobe, the Strider grabs the puke bowl and pads barefoot out of the bedroom. She looks like nothing more than a staggering, sleep-addled child... with tattooes, scars, and a thing for heroin, of course.

John shakes his head slowly, murmuring to Salem, "Coming or you wanna clean up here?" and follows soon after the woman without really waiting for the response. With a hand for her elbow. Just in case.

"Coming," states the Philodox in flat, stoic tones. "The apartment will keep."

She twitches at the physical contact, but ends up leaning her weight against the Walker with a grimace. Cursing under her breath. She stays on her feet, though.

"Good," John says, and continues to help Tatt down the stairs. Whether she wants it or not, his hand stays at her elbow. "Got keys to a fallout shelter Ri and I sometimes use for layin' low, or keeping people who need healin'. From the old days, in fact. S'got ammo and meds and shit lying around. Cots, blankets, food, and water. It won't need much restocking." He leads the two other Garou to the waiting van, and opens the back door for Tatt.

Salem pauses only to fetch his coat. The halfmoon keeps close to Tatt, flanking her, and grits his teeth as he limps down to the van.

"Hope y'don't mind if I fuck it up by accident," the Strider rasps, the shaking so bad that it's almost difficult to keep a hold on her elbow.

Helping Tatt in, and then stalking around to the driver's side, it's only when the Ahroun hops in that he fastens his seat-belt and grunts, "You wouldn't be the first. S'what it's good for, why I'm takin' y' there. Concrete."

Tatt lays back against the seat, breathing shallowly as the pills kick in. "Sounds good," she mutters. Eyes closing, almost rolling back.

Salem takes shotgun, buckling himself in. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, and if homid ears were a little sharper, the sound of grinding teeth would be definitely audible.

Injuries, jitters, and teeth-grinding aside, John simply steps on the gas. Not much anyone can do about their situations at the moment, and happily, no-one seems to be complaining.

It's quite a drive, though... The shelter he's chosen is near Kent's Crossing, and very out of the way. Noise probably won't be much of a problem. Stepping down into the thing, it seems to be a single, large, rectangular room of concrete. Metal shelves line the walls, filled with various crates; in the centre of the room, there's space with scattered cots nearby, and signs of entertainment devices. A mat. A radio. There's a few small rooms - probably amenities - cut into the shape, with doors, and an open kitchen area, near the back. Unshielded light bulbs with economic wattage cast the only light in the place. "Welcome home," John says wryly, as he opens the door for the others.

Salem gives the interior of the shelter a curt, approving nod. "How did you find it?" he asks John.

Squinting in the harsh light, the Strider squints and swallows, taking in the surroundings. "I'll try not to trash th' place," she half-whispers. Her frame tenses a little with claustrophobia--animal instincts beginning to take over, urging her to bolt. She shivers.

"Rina knew it," John murmurs, still stnading by the doorway, giving it a look-over, himself. "There's ammo, food, medical supplies, and things... maybe an old boyfriend had it, or something. I dunno. She kept me here for a while, a few times." He shakes his head slightly, just regarding the place in distracted thought.

Salem, at that last remark, gives the other Walker a look, eyes narrowing slightly.

The Strider is staring balefully at the place that will serve as her 'home' for the next who-knows-how-many days.There is only one way to describe the expression on her face: pure, unadulterated fear. Tatt swallows audibly, and falters back a single step.

Seeming to notice the look from his Tribesmate, John - faintly - murmurs, "I used to get injured or... a little crazy, a lot." His tone reflective, and still-distracted. His eyes are on Tatt, now. "She's been... very good to me." Louder, to Tatt, John rumbles, "I'll be here, too. Or someone else if you like. This isn't solitary confinement."

Salem mutters something under his breath about tough love and then notes, dryly, "It's better than a warehouse."

Tatt takes in a thin breath, shaking her head at John's comment. Her gaze is still fixed on the bunker, as though preparing to face down a bull. "Gotta run this leg of the race solo, hombre," she mutters.

John folds his arms, leaning against the wall near the door. His head tilts, and the grim mask hardens and studies the Strider. "And why's that?"

Tatt curls her lip in an involuntary snarl, eyes ablaze. She clenches both fists in a vain attempt to still the shaking. "Gonna leave me one shred'a dignity, Johnny?"

Salem studies Tatt for a moment, then turns to John. "I'll be outside," he says stiffly, and then limps out into the summer air.