Currently the moon is in the waxing Half Moon phase (43% full).

A neatly-made double bed is set lengthwise against the longer of the two interior walls, its head near a small nightstand which holds a reading lamp and an alarm clock. The closet door, which is usually closed, is across from the foot of the bed, and a large, solid-looking dresser stands against the middle of the longest wall, on the other side of the bedroom. There's a somewhat venerable armchair in the corner made by the two exterior walls, and a low bookshelf (mostly empty) squats along the shorter of the exterior walls, underneath the windows.

A couple hours after supper, when the early-spring darkness has already fallen, Nat comes a-knocking on Grey's door. When the door opens she steps inside, bringing with her a pair of beers and a half-drunk bottle of Jack Daniel's in her other hand. "Got some time to chat? You disappeared after supper."

Grey is dressed just as he was earlier, in the faded blue chambray shirt, open over a clean white t-shirt, and blue jeans. The only real difference is the fact that his boots are put away by the door, and the only thing on his feet are clean white socks. He looks at her guardedly -- the offering in her hand even moreso -- then nods. "Wanted to go through some things," he says, closing the door behind her.

One of the three boxes that had been stored for him (not much of a packrat, him) is open on the floor near the bed, half-empty. On the bed itself is a small collection of books, CDs (of the home-made burned-on-computer variety, mostly), and a small earthen flower pot, empty, that someone's painted the Gaia symbol on.

"You've been a hermit," Nat accuses mildly, looking around the room but going no further into it. "Thought I'd grab you, squeeze your brain, see what falls out." "--Get a chance to talk to you," she adds, quieter, offering him the hand with the beers. "Want one?"

Grey grimaces at the accusation, mild or no, but doesn't refute it. Glancing at the beer in her hand, he shakes his head. "I'd better not. Have a seat?" He gestures toward the armchair, and though it's across the room from the bed, the hardwood floor'd make it easy to move it, should the Elder desire.

The room's not that big. Nat nods and takes the chair, settling back into it with the relaxed air of a homeowner. "C'mon, Thomas, it's a beer." Ignore, then, the whiskey, which she places at her feet. "It won't bite. Why shouldn't you have it?"

Grey's mouth twists like there's a bad taste in it. "Too easy for one beer to become two. Or four. Or an entire bottle of vodka." Anger twitches in his fingers, glowers from his mismatched eyes. He swallows it with difficulty and takes a seat on the bed, ignoring the detrius of his previous life sharing the blanket with him, and he says again, flatly, "I'd better not."

Natalie points out reasonably, "Well, since there's only the two bottles and the last of the JD, you can hardly go on a bender." A shrug, though - if that's the way he wants it - and she places the second beer near the whiskey before opening one for herself. "So talk to me," she says again as she straightens, studying the familiar-strange man. "I mean, you were a chatterbox last year compared to now. I don't want to have to threaten you with rank every time I want to get more than three words out of you. I'm not that scary, am I?"

Grey sits crosslegged with his back against the wall, arms folded across his chest. He avoids looking directly at her. In answer to her question, he shrugs. "I suppose that I haven't had that much to say. I've answered every question you've asked, though, haven't I?"

Natalie says, "Of course you have. That's not what I asked." She pauses to take a pull of beer, watching him all the while. "Answering questions isn't an conversation. It's interrogation. If it'll make you happier I can go get a work light and shine it into your eyes, but..." A shrug and she settles her shoulders more comfortably against the chair's padded back. "That gets old real fast. I was hoping for just... talking, you know? Hi, how've you been, damn I missed you, I think we've got a good cub. That."

"Hi," says Grey, completely deadpan. "How have you been. Damn, I missed you. I think we've got a good cub." It's hard to tell if he means this humorously or is just being an asshole.

Natalie's chin comes up, her eyes narrowing, but she drawls, "You forgot to say 'that'."

Grey answers with a tilt of his head, baring throat. "Mea culpa."

Natalie sighs, finally looking away from him to the man's scant possessions. "You'd make a crappy Galliard. You know who you remind me of?" She doesn't let him guess. "Anthony. I shudder to think of what would have happened to the tribe if I hadn't stuck around, if I'd kept right on going to Seattle, or up to Vancouver."

Grey's brow furrows. "I remind you of Anthony?" he asks, insulted. The rest of it gets ignored.

"Anthony," she confirms, enunciating each syllable, and washing it down with more beer. Her eyes swing back to him. "Because Tony wouldn't say boo to a goose. Talking to him - trying to talk to him - was almost as fun as removing my own liver. Any time anybody with rank was in the room, he clammed up." A thought strikes her: her eyebrows knit together. "Is that it? You think you have to protect my feelings by groveling and showing throat every time I glance your way? You think I'm that damn insecure - or desperate - that I'll do what you did, and dump all this on you and run?"

Grey does have one thing that Anthony never did -- a temper. It snarls in offended rage, and his jaw clenches as he chokes it back down, throttling it mercilessly. Even so, his good eye's a little too wide, and his nostrils flare. "I'm not grovelling, dammit."

"Yeah?" Nat retorts, her chin lifting challengingly. "I notice you didn't deny the rest of it. Dammit, Thomas, I don't need you to grovel. I'm Elder. I'm a better Elder than the other two options we've had since you left. You aren't taking it away from me, either. I'm Challenging Layne in a week, and this time I'm getting it. So you can quit pulling a Tony on me. I don't need that kind of validation."

Grey's expression is ugly; no matter how much he tightens the leash on his inner Doberman, the rabid animal keeps straining against its choke-collar. "Do you really think I'd be that fucking selfish?" he demands. His arms unfold and he leans forward, palms pressing against the mattress. "That I'd drag down the tribe like that, so that the whole fucking Sept could point and say, 'Look at the urrah. They're led by a charach.'" He spits out the word with the venom of a cobra. "I know you don't need the fucking validation. I'd be fucking shocked if you did."

"I don't know what you think," the Galliard snaps back, her relaxed pose just that: a pose. She's almost as tense as he, Rage eager to spring forth. "You won't talk to me." And thus she brings it back to the beginning, spreading out his fault for their delectation.

Grey closes his eyes, breathing hard for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is a good deal calmer, even if the rest of him remains almost as tight; his fingers have closed on the blanket. "I really don't have anything to say."

"Make. Something. Up." A deep breath, and Natalie soothes her nerves with more fermented grains, drowning the beast in alcohol. "Hell, Thomas... screw it. I don't want to force you to talk to me. I just wish you'd trust me." She bends to recollect the rejected beer and the whiskey, holding the necks between her knuckles, then pushes herself to her feet. "Maybe we can try this again later, after you've had a chance to settle in and you've realized I'm not going to spank you."

Grey's mouth thins at this last, but he doesn't bother to reply with more than a grunt, nor hinder her departure. His brows are lowered, his frown both stubborn and dour.

Natalie sees herself out, managing to get the door open with three fingers, but letting it stand open behind her. She doesn't go far, just into her room - that door she kicks closed with a pointed *snick*.

Grey's own door slams shut a few moments after Nat's.

[End of log]