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. A small stereo sits on top of it. 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.

Just before three in the afternoon there comes a sharp rat-a-tat-tat on the Philodox's door.

Amazing how she knew just where to find him. Maybe because this is pretty much where he's been all day? He answers the door dressed in dark grey sweats and white t-shirt, his stubbled face already set into a guarded expression.

Natalie's psychic like that sometimes. "Afternoon," she says pleasantly enough as she brushes a bit of hair behind one ear. "Got a few to talk?"

Grey brushes overlong black hair away from his forehead and nods. The hair drops right back into place as he steps aside to let her in and hangs around his ears messily.

Nat steps inside, then pauses to frown up at him, consideringly. "You look like you need a trim."

Grey gives her a sidelong look, good side turned toward her, then snorts and turns back to shut the door. "Be fine once it gets long enough to tie back."

"Yeah and how long's that going to take?" A shrug, though, as she turns away, letting him be as shaggy as he likes. "What's up with Rina?"

Grey grimaces, his expression a tangled mix of frustration and weariness and dull anger. Leaning against the wall, he folds his arms across his chest and looks over at the rain tattering against the window. "Currently, or in general?"

Natalie says, "Both," as she prowls around his room, studying things with her hands behind her back. "She doesn't talk to me. I don't know if that's 'can't' or 'won't', but either way it's the same."

The room is, as always, tidy. Maybe the bed's a little haphazardly made today, and _Ender's Game_ sits on top of the comforter with a leather bookmark in its middle, but otherwise, everything's neat and put away. There are a few more books on the shelf, but no decorations, no photographs. And Thomas watches her prowl with a slight frown. "She picks who she talks to. Usually it's me, when I'm available." There's an emotional undertone of 'burden' in that second sentence. He exhales sharply. "Rina's broken. She's always been a little broken, and ever since John died... she's been a lot more broken."

Natalie cocks her head to study the spines of his books. "--Broken. As in... she needs more help than we can give her broken?" Turning her head, she straightens, eyebrows drawn down in concern. "I'll be the first to admit I don't deal well with Kin. Does she need to be... sent off somewhere? Or something? What does broken mean?"

Grey's bookshelf shows a preference for military history (20th century, though there's one bright green copy of _Confederates in the Attic_); there's more nonfiction than fiction, though the latter novels look well-read. The halfmoon himself shifts his weight slightly as Natalie studies the small collection and absently scratches at the Dishonor scar on his left forearm. "I don't think anyone professional can help her unless they're actually in the know." He pauses a beat as if considering whether to go on, then adds, rather bluntly, "She thinks she's being haunted by her dead husband."

That sends both of Nat's eyebrows skyward. "--Uh-huh. 'Thinks'? Is she really? This is... Walks-Thin-Ice, right? The one who died on his Fostern Challenge? That doesn't seem real..." A grimace and she comes out with a vaguely tactful, "likely."

Grey scowls, dark eyebrows drawing downwards and together like stormclouds. "Of course it's not fucking likely. His death might have been stupid, but it was no fucking different than any other stupid Garou death. He had a Gathering. Hell, Chaser-Never-Rests had a Gathering, too, and I haven't heard her poking around." He cuts off the rant there, frustration still simmering, and rubs a hand across his face. "Nevertheless, that's what she thinks. This last incident was apparently caused because she thinks she hurt him. How, I don't know. I didn't ask."

Natalie grunts, almost a growl, and turns back to scowl at his books. "She's broken, yeah. She... damn, I wish there were someone in town to talk to her. Professionally, I mean. You don't have the training to help her, not the way she needs help. And I don't have the skills to help her either, but I'll be damned if I let one of my kin suffer." A lip curls at _Confederates in the Attic_. "--Any ideas?"

Grey's face settles slowly back into grim weariness, with a flicker of guilt around the edges when Natalie points out how he can't help the Italian widow. He rubs his face again, massaging the area around his dead eye. "Apart from a kinfolk trained in psychiatry? A Galliard who knows how to dream-walk." He stares gloomily at the window. "It wouldn't even matter, this delusion, if it actually made her happy. If it helped, somehow, to think he was still with her. For a while, she had the idea of getting him back somehow. Now... it just drains her." And him, too, would be a fair guess; he sounds tired just talking about it.

"That's a... fostern level gift, isn't it?" She turns again, still scowling, though it's more self-directed than aimed at him. "Damn. I don't... I don't know what to do. I don't want to see her suffer, but I can't help her. Not right now. You know her better than I do, Thomas. Do you think..." She glances away again, toward the rain-sheeted windows. "--Do you think she can be... fixed? Made happy and healthy? Or should I look into getting her as safe and cared for as I can?"

Grey stares broodingly at the floor. "I don't know if she can ever be completely happy," he says after a moment, speaking slowly. "Not without no longer being... herself. She's as much defined by her scars, by her pain, as anything else. Even when John was alive, she had, mm, dark moments. They were just spaced out between better days. Better times."

Natalie sighs, rakes her hands back through her hair. "We all have crappy days. Most of us don't have hallucinations of dead people though. I need your help here, Thomas. Forget happy for now, if that doesn't fit. Can she be made useful? Stable? Or is she just..." She scowls again but presses on. "Is she just going to be a drain on the family here?"

Grey is very quiet for a long moment. Very quiet and very still. Then he says, flatly, not meeting her eyes, "I don't know."

She looks over at him quickly, lips pressing together. "Damn. Damn. Well... she's safe for now, right? Away from that hell-hole?"

Grey gives a small, curt nod. "Merritt Psychiatric. Private hospital. Her father let her be committed there a couple of years ago." There's still little inflection in his voice.

Natalie can stay still no longer; with a little shiver she paces over to stare out the window. "Her father. So she does have family. Blood family." Another look over at the brooding man. "--Garou?"

"Kin," the halfmoon answers, "but important kin, in Chicago." He glances briefly at her. "A kin with clout."

"Kin," the woman echoes. "--And blood family. I think we ought to put this to him, don't you? She's his daughter, after all. Maybe... maybe being away from here would help. Her. Hell, I don't know." She turns back to the window, hands braced on either side of the frame, and lets her head rest on the glass. "I'm just making this up as I go along. I have no idea what the hell I'm doing."

"I've thought of that." Grey's voice is reluctant. "Her being sent home. Mr. Vencenzo may be thinking it too, I don't know." There's more there that he isn't saying; his reply trails off after the last word.

Natalie inhales, lets all the air out of her lungs in a long single exhalation that fogs the glass. "Right. Do you want to talk to him, or should I? You know the man; I'm Elder. I'll likely have to talk to him eventually, but he might take it better coming from you."

Grey's lips thin. Again, he takes a few seconds before answering. "You're the Elder. The Don, as they say. I'm..." He shrugs, arms still crossed over his chest. "Very little, these days."

"You're her friend," Nat retorts, rolling her head on the glass to send an irritated look his way. "I'm just some uppity schmuck from Minnesota. I want you to set it up. It won't look like I'm trying to get rid of her if you're the one who approaches him."

Grey tips his head to the side in that minor little throat-baring gesture familiar to all Garou. It's as automatic as a bow to the Japanese. "All right. I'll set it up."

Natalie bares her teeth at that but turns her attention back to the window. "If Scratch was here I'd have him do it. He used to be at their Sept. But no." There's undoubtedly an unspoken 'bastard' somewhere in there, but she doesn't vocalize it. "And I still have to find Layne in the next few days or else my Challenge is automatically failed."

Grey's brow furrows. "Just like that?"

Natalie doesn't look over. "You heard what she said. Be prepared to receive my terms before the moon is again half-full. I don't get my terms by then, I don't see how I can't do but fail."

Grey grimaces faintly, brushing hair away from his brow. It flops right back over, of course. "Could be part of the challenge," he grunts.

Natalie thumps her head lightly into the window once, twice. "Hell, I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. All I know is that it means I have to spend at least a couple of hours a day out in the forest looking for her, instead of doing my job here. I let it slip over the weekend and yesterday, but time's getting tight now. And I tried Questing Stone on her earlier, but nada."

Grey shakes his head. "Fucking Fianna," he mutters, then eyes her again, head slightly cocked. "That night after I came back from Signe's..."

Natalie hesitates, then turns to face him square on. "--Yeah?"

She finds him staring right back at her, intently, his face hard to read. "Would you really have gone to Megan if I'd walked out?"

Natalie exhales again and sags against the frame, her eyes flicking off his face and onto the much safer wall. "--Hell. I don't know. Right then, yeah, I wanted to. I was furious. I... I'm your tribe. Your family. And it felt like you were kicking me when I was down. Wrong analogy maybe, but... Anyway." She folds her arms over her chest, scowls at nothing in particular. "I'm one damn possessive bitch, but I'll kill myself for my family. And to just be... ignored like that. Rejected. It hurt. Hurt a lot." Finally she looks back at him, greenish eyes an uneven mixture of vulnerability and guardedness. "I don't know. And that's really the best answer I can give you."

Grey nods faintly, glancing away. Her look may be mixed, but his is still quite guarded. He admits, though reluctantly, "I don't like to talk about... certain things." He meets her eyes briefly. "I'm not comfortable with it."

"I realize," she says after a few seconds, "That not everyone's a Galliard. Hell, sometimes I even remember that everyone else has an automatic cut off switch for their tongue. Just... I'll try not to pry, but you need to tell me when I'm stomping around where I shouldn't. Not just... not just clam up, all right?"

Grey nods again, somberly. "I'll try to remember that."

Natalie rakes her hand through her hair again, pushes off the windowframe. "Good. It's all I can ask. I think I'm going to run out to the bawn before supper, see if I can find Layne. You want to come with?"

Grey shakes his head. "Not really in the mood to lope about in the rain." Or on the Bawn where there are, you know, other Garou.

Wet dog smell, yum. "Up to you," Nat says lightly, heads for the door. "Don't hold supper for me. Either I'll be back in time or I won't, and I know how to use the microwave. Let me know how the thing with Rina's father goes."

Grey straightens up from his lean, arms unfolding and hands going into his pockets. "Will do."

Natalie doesn't pause at the door, but instead closes it softly behind her. A few seconds later feet head down the stairs.

[End of log]