[ Whenever he has the chance, then, she'll be here to remind him that life goes on and it could be pleasant. Relaxing. He can find a place in both worlds, and one didn't necessarily have to shut out the other.
It may be unimportant to him what name he went by, but what about when all was said and done? What if he fell one day to enemy fire and never made it back to his friends? What would she remember him by, if not the name on his gravestone? It's only that much more important to those left behind to have every scrap they could get to walk forward with, clutched in their hands line so many threads until it's enough to make something out of; a blanket to pull tight about your shoulders when you miss their embrace, a sweater to wear out on the town and know they used to fill the seat beside you at your favorite bar, socks to accompany long walks in the middle of the night that used to echo with the steps of another. This isn't the battlefield, and he does have a name.
That he's softening further to steady hands leaves her smiling to herself, propping him up no matter how much weight he decided to lean back into her hands— it would work the heels of her hands deeper into the muscle, leave her fingertips pressing too hard until she adjusts how she supports him, but he's welcome to, and she can take it even incrementally. With his relaxation also comes his exhaustion, as palpable as moisture in a fog bank shrouding them, the low rumble of his breath the only thing indicating he even remains awake as his lashes flutter at his cheeks. It's endlessly rewarding to have a man like Snake's trust in her hands, feeling him melt into an attentive touch as he tries to fight the weight settling back against her. (Which is to say it's decided, then, that she'll be pestering him in a few days to follow up on his 'wound care' and trick him into another, then another beyond that. The human body is much like clay and shouldn't be allowed to harden or dry out, lest it become unusable. She can already feel those fine cracks in the surface and she seeks to see him malleable once more; Angie can't imagine he'll say no the moment she lays her hands on him again and begins to knead, but stranger things have happened.)
He's drifting, but her touch stills and strokes back up to tap her fingertip about the edges of the wound gently, ensuring the glue's set up and dried. When she's satisfied she'll add that final layer, nails catching a few stray strands of his hair to comb back out of the way before she's capping the glue and pocketing it for good. It's a quick enough process, really, if not for the dry time. She'll just be slipping right back down to continue her massage when she draws that choked little groan out of him, murmuring a soft apology before gentling her approach. She'll see that particular knot soothed before moving down, and hums thoughtfully when he... almost offers. ]
Hmmm, let's see then. I already know your favorite color, and that you lived in New York, and then Alaska where you mushed huskies; about your friend Otacon, with a bit more about where you came from. That you've been here for a year— [ Her listing is an idle thing, checking off the larger aspects of what they've discussed as if vetting possibilities. ] —I don't think I've heard much about the Moira's travels before I arrived, or the sort of food you like.
[ Angela works at that particular spot beside one of his shoulderblades where she'd drawn that sound from him until satisfied, moving her touch down to knead out from his spine, following the grain of muscle beneath. She can't bend too far with his head resting back on her shoulder, but she can still reach a little further down. He'll have to make the choice here in a handful of minutes whether he wants to go to sleep or lean forward to let her finish first, elbows at his knees. ]
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It may be unimportant to him what name he went by, but what about when all was said and done? What if he fell one day to enemy fire and never made it back to his friends? What would she remember him by, if not the name on his gravestone? It's only that much more important to those left behind to have every scrap they could get to walk forward with, clutched in their hands line so many threads until it's enough to make something out of; a blanket to pull tight about your shoulders when you miss their embrace, a sweater to wear out on the town and know they used to fill the seat beside you at your favorite bar, socks to accompany long walks in the middle of the night that used to echo with the steps of another. This isn't the battlefield, and he does have a name.
That he's softening further to steady hands leaves her smiling to herself, propping him up no matter how much weight he decided to lean back into her hands— it would work the heels of her hands deeper into the muscle, leave her fingertips pressing too hard until she adjusts how she supports him, but he's welcome to, and she can take it even incrementally. With his relaxation also comes his exhaustion, as palpable as moisture in a fog bank shrouding them, the low rumble of his breath the only thing indicating he even remains awake as his lashes flutter at his cheeks. It's endlessly rewarding to have a man like Snake's trust in her hands, feeling him melt into an attentive touch as he tries to fight the weight settling back against her. (Which is to say it's decided, then, that she'll be pestering him in a few days to follow up on his 'wound care' and trick him into another, then another beyond that. The human body is much like clay and shouldn't be allowed to harden or dry out, lest it become unusable. She can already feel those fine cracks in the surface and she seeks to see him malleable once more; Angie can't imagine he'll say no the moment she lays her hands on him again and begins to knead, but stranger things have happened.)
He's drifting, but her touch stills and strokes back up to tap her fingertip about the edges of the wound gently, ensuring the glue's set up and dried. When she's satisfied she'll add that final layer, nails catching a few stray strands of his hair to comb back out of the way before she's capping the glue and pocketing it for good. It's a quick enough process, really, if not for the dry time. She'll just be slipping right back down to continue her massage when she draws that choked little groan out of him, murmuring a soft apology before gentling her approach. She'll see that particular knot soothed before moving down, and hums thoughtfully when he... almost offers. ]
Hmmm, let's see then. I already know your favorite color, and that you lived in New York, and then Alaska where you mushed huskies; about your friend Otacon, with a bit more about where you came from. That you've been here for a year— [ Her listing is an idle thing, checking off the larger aspects of what they've discussed as if vetting possibilities. ] —I don't think I've heard much about the Moira's travels before I arrived, or the sort of food you like.
[ Angela works at that particular spot beside one of his shoulderblades where she'd drawn that sound from him until satisfied, moving her touch down to knead out from his spine, following the grain of muscle beneath. She can't bend too far with his head resting back on her shoulder, but she can still reach a little further down. He'll have to make the choice here in a handful of minutes whether he wants to go to sleep or lean forward to let her finish first, elbows at his knees. ]
And maybe one day I'll get your name out of you.