Stairs in the foyer lead up to the second floor, while a doorway tucked under the curve of the stairs heads down to the basement. A heavy door in the foyer with a monitor and intercom beside it goes back to the area set up for communal use by the Sept's Garou.

Kevin is eating, and apparently enjoying the hell out of, that old staple, a peanut butter sandwich. There's still something a little tense about the cub -- maybe it's just the fast-swelling moon, though. His fingers drum on the table by his plate now and again.

The main door closes firmly, and a few seconds later a disgruntled-looking Natalie stalks down the hall toward the kitchen, swearing under her breath. There's a pale blue card envelope in one hand, though she acts as though she's forgotten it's there.

Kevin greets his elder with a half-eaten sandwich raised in the air. "I've learnt stuff," he says proudly. "Can't say it properly without shifting, but I can introduce myself in the tongue now. And I learnt some other words too."

Natalie doesn't - quite - snarl at him, but it's a near thing. A flash of teeth and she yanks her eyes away, free hand coming up to scrub at her face. "Good. That's good," she says dully.

Kevin belatedly senses that Natalie's mood is not conducive to exuberant cubs waving food at her, and drops the half-eaten sandwich back onto his plate. "Shall I clear out and let you be?" he says, finding a reserve of tact from somewhere even at this moon. "Or... is there something you'd like to talk about?"

Natalie gestures vaguely with the envelope, her other hand raking back through her hair. She doesn't turn to face him, though the single eye he can see is closed. "Got a birthday card from my Pop. I..." Under her control, despite it, the Rage surges; she sets her jaw and stubbornly wrestles it down again. "No. It's fine."

Kevin takes that to mean both that he needn't make himself scarce, and that Nat doesn't wish to talk. He looks a little thoughtful at the comment that evokes memories of families and fathers. "Gaia send you many more birthdays," he says softly and a little unexpectedly, with a small but distinct smile.

"--Dammit," Nat grates out, then turns and takes two steps to the counter where she slams her fist into the laminate. "Dammit, dammit, dammit." Each expletive is accompanied by a blow, each one more forceful than the last - at the end her elbows land on the counter, her face dropping into her hands and that much-abused envelope ground between them.

Kevin sits, sandwich forgotten, tautly, unmoving but ready to spring into action if called for. He says no more, and does nothing to remind the elder of his presence.

"Dammit," the Galliard says again - almost at a whisper this time, her voice thin and thready. For just a few seconds it's easy to remember that despite it all, she's only in her early twenties.

Grey's boots make the stairs creak as he descends, his destination the kitchen. Upon reaching this part of the house, though, he pauses, eyebrows raising at the sight of Natalie and the cub, the corners of his mouth tugging downward.

Kevin remains in imitation-statue mode, but his eyes are fixed on Nat to the extent that he doesn't stir or show any other sign of noticing Grey's return.

"I wish it was..." Nat begins, utterly unaware of the arrival. "--Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit." This time she beats her head into her hands on each ejaculation, instead of hands onto counter - after all, she can take a lot more abuse that it can.

Kevin grits his teeth damn near audibly. "Punchbag's up in my room," he reminds Nat, quietly, voice tense.

Grey clears his throat noisily, letting people know that there's a third set of ears. He eyes Natalie almost warily. "What happened?"

Natalie's shoulders go as tense as the cub's voice at Grey's question, but she doesn't remove her head from her hands. "--Nothing. Nothing happened."

Grey grimaces. "Hypocrite," he accuses, and starts stalking past her to the fridge.

Kevin finally looks at Grey and gives him a haunted look which he evidently hopes will convey to the philodox that it's all got nothing to do with him.

That got a rise out of her. Nat stands as if goosed, head snapping back, then hurls the bit of paper at Grey's back. It's a pale blue card envelope, much mangled and abused, and not nearly as aerodynamic as a stick, or a rock. It smacks gently into his back and drops to the floor. "That. That's what's wrong." She points accusingly at the envelope, then turns her glare on Kevin as if daring him to call her on it.

Grey turns sharply back toward her, scarred face splitting into a fearsome snarl. It settles into a mere scowl after a moment, though, and he bends down swiftly to retrieve the blue envelope. He studies it, frowning.

Kevin picks up his sandwich and looks at it as though it's a rare work of art, or the secret code to the Illuminati's swiss bank account. Or as if he wishes it were a large metal sheet to take cover behind. But it's not. It's just a sandwich.

Natalie doesn't say a word, doesn't even look over: her eyes are fixed on, boring into Grey's head, her fists clenched at her sides.

Grey studies the address, then -- since the envelope's not sealed -- glances at the very nice-looking birthday card inside. His eyes narrow as he looks back at the Galliard. "You're upset about... this?"

What a perfect specimen of the genus sandwich this is. So peanut buttery. So white-bready. So bite-marked. So fascinating to Kevin.

"It's from my Pop," Nat spits out before leveling a shaking finger at the man - or perhaps the card. "Why the hell'd he send me money? He can't afford to send me anything, much less a fifty!"

Grey's voice turns desert-dry and isn't, it must be said, very sympathetic. "How dare he love you enough not to give a shit whether he can afford it or not." He holds the money-laden card out to her. "When's the last time you called him?"

Kevin takes a small bite of sandwich and chews slowly.

"Two damn weeks ago!" she shrills at him, refusing to take the card. "Not that it's any of your damn business!" Now her hands are back at her sides in fists; she's up on her toes, head dropped between her shoulders.

You paged Grey with 'What was that we were saying about dynamics? 8p'.

Grey snarls again. Taking a swift step toward her, he closes the distance between them and all but shoves the card and envelope into her chest. "Will you fucking listen to yourself?"

Kevin's mouth twitches as he notes that nobody in the room, and probably the house, has much option but to listen.

Natalie's teeth grind together as - somehow - she manages to keep hold of her snapping, snarling, frothing temper. "I am listening." And snatching at the card, mangling the poor thing further.

Grey looms over the Galliard. "Good. Your father's more than old enough to decide for himself what he can and cannot afford. So call him up, thank him for the gift, and do not breathe a word of how he shouldn't have given it to you. And stop being so goddamn pissy about it."

Kevin is so, so keeping out of this one, him and his sandwich both.

"He's not..." manages to squeeze out - somehow - from between her teeth before she clamps her jaw shut again. She stares poison up at the taller man for a long, long moment, then yanks her eyes away from him, ghosting sightlessly over the cub. Her lips twitch as though more words are trying to elbow their way free, but all she does is turn on her heel and stomp down the hall. A second later and the computer room door slams behind her.

Grey watches her go with a hard expression and no sympathy whatsoever. He growls a word in Serbian, then stalks over to the fridge, opening it with a yank.

Kevin relaxes to an extent, but remains alert as his eyes track Grey's progress to the fridge. He takes another bite ungratefully out of his faithful sandwich-friend.

Grey stares daggers into the chilly confines of the coldbox for a moment, then closes it with another Slavic curseword. Empty-handed, he drums his fingers on the counter for a few seconds, then stalks purposefully out to the computer room and raps on the door.

Kevin looks at Thomas as though the philodox has lost his marbles, but still says nothing.

"I'm sending him a damn email," comes Nat's voice, nice and loud and clear. "Shove off!"

Grey lets out another of those hair-trigger, more-lupine-than-human snarls and slams his open palm against the doorframe. Seething, he turns away, pauses -- facing in the direction of the dining room and the hapless Ragabash cub -- and looks cruelly thoughtful for several long, long seconds. Then he shakes his head sharply and takes his angry self into the living room.

Kevin seems to have had enough. Now that no other garou is within attacking distance of him, he crams the rest of his sandwich unceremoniously into his mouth and makes a beeline for the stairs up to the bunkroom, and -- presumably -- safety.

Grey grabs up the remote, drops himself into what's rapidly becoming 'his' armchair and flicks the television on. Nothing like the drone of media to soothe the savage beast, right? Especially when it's the History Channel. Oh, look. They're talking about Nazis!

Nat doesn't emerge from the computer room for several minutes. When she does, she's got a better handle on her temper - at least, it's less immediate. A look to the kitchen finds it abandoned; she heads the other way to stop in the doorway, a hand on the frame, and watch Grey.

Grey doesn't notice the Galliard right away, and when he does, it's to give her a quick, frowning glance, eyes narrowed.

"I emailed him," she says again, voice carefully neutral. She shoots him a scowl of her own, but just as quickly looks at the television instead. "I can't... I'll call him... not today. Not now."

Grey grunts and turns away. On the screen, Hitler screams silently at a rabid mob while a droning Scotsman goes on about the events leading up to the invasion of Poland. "...Happy birthday, by the way." Terribly uncheery, that.

"It's tomorrow," she answers neutrally, watching the little gesticulating Nazi as though it's the most fascinating thing ever. A quick clearing of her throat and she adds, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," the Philodox says curtly. He cocks his head, eyeing her again, lips thinned, expression guarded. "Share a drink after the Moot, to celebrate?"

Natalie swallows, nods, watches Hitler. "Assuming I'm still alive." A couple of beats pass and she turns to him, eyebrows knitting. "--A drink? I thought you didn't?"

Grey's mouth, thinned, humorless, vaguely resembles something somewhat approximating a smile, albeit a very faint one that doesn't come anywhere near his eyes. "Usually, no. But. Special occasion." The smile-not-smile vanishes like a drop of water on a hot lamp. "Besides, I have a feeling I'll probably want one."

"You and me both," she says tightly. Another two seconds of watching the television - now it's a pharmaceutical commercial - and she pushes off the wall. "I'm going to... go out for a bit. See if Signe's in." A hand scrubs over her mouth as she heads for the door, bypassing the rows of coats.

Grey's expression darkens at mention of Signe. He nods, offering up a curt, "Be seeing you," before turning back to the media morphine that is modern television.

Natalie pushes open the door, stops. Offers a quiet, "Thank you," and then slips out before he can reply.

[End of log]