[ She knows he's shaky, imbalanced and fighting to keep his pieces pulled together, hearing the occasional moments where he strays and starting up some new little thing connected to previous bits, bite-sized. A narrative he can swallow without choking, self-contained yet familiar little stories to get him through without jarring him too badly by changing subjects, knowing she has his full attention.
His replies come short as ever, but she knows he's immersed in them all the same. Angela's parked herself up on fountain ledge near enough to the stop to see, just far enough to separate her from the crowd and make her easy to spot— a quick trot away. Her knees are drawn up in front of her and the totes rest against her side, one strap slipping off her shoulder and smiling as she continues to chat with him, eyes almost closed where she watches the drum of her fingers before her.
The trolley stop bell sounds on her TAB but not beyond, yet the sound of the trolley is unmistakable. When he notes her 4 o'clock, she perks right up and unfurls from her seat, bags left alone just long enough for her eyes to scan and find him.
He stands a head and shoulders above most in the crowd, that jut of shrapnel catching the sun, hearing the latter half as an echo— his voice here, for real, and a touch tinny in one ear. Her thumb swipes the device and it's also tucked away to free up her hands, smile widening as she turns toward him and takes a couple quick steps toward him.
And those very same hands are held out for his, shoulders drawing up in that cozy little show of elation, contrasting the crease of worry furrowing between her brows. The concern is there, immediate, but quiet. She takes him in with the subtle periphery of a medic, not obviously staring through him head to toe even as she feels about him, extending those feelers and minding him. Exhausted and sleepless, harried, unkempt more than usual. He at least rakes his fingers through his hair to tie it back each day and scuffs his palms over his jaw enough that his whiskers lay flat, tidier than they certainly could be on any other day but today. It's not good, is what she sees. Whatever was plaguing him.
Angela wants nothing more than to reach up and cover his cheeks, smooth down his scruff and right his hair a little better, help him hide that weariness from the world. But she can fuss in a bit— she never approaches him so outright, least of all when something's gnawing at him. She's glad to see him, though, above all else. If he'll give her his hands, they're going to be drawn right up between them near enough to her face that he'll know exactly what comes next. ]
Ahab— that was quick. Come sit down for a moment...? The opposite trolley will be a few minutes yet.
[ She has water, once he's thrown the rope to dock and she can wrap it about herself to anchor him close. And the fountain's nice. Just enough of a mist to be pleasant. ]
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His replies come short as ever, but she knows he's immersed in them all the same. Angela's parked herself up on fountain ledge near enough to the stop to see, just far enough to separate her from the crowd and make her easy to spot— a quick trot away. Her knees are drawn up in front of her and the totes rest against her side, one strap slipping off her shoulder and smiling as she continues to chat with him, eyes almost closed where she watches the drum of her fingers before her.
The trolley stop bell sounds on her TAB but not beyond, yet the sound of the trolley is unmistakable. When he notes her 4 o'clock, she perks right up and unfurls from her seat, bags left alone just long enough for her eyes to scan and find him.
He stands a head and shoulders above most in the crowd, that jut of shrapnel catching the sun, hearing the latter half as an echo— his voice here, for real, and a touch tinny in one ear. Her thumb swipes the device and it's also tucked away to free up her hands, smile widening as she turns toward him and takes a couple quick steps toward him.
And those very same hands are held out for his, shoulders drawing up in that cozy little show of elation, contrasting the crease of worry furrowing between her brows. The concern is there, immediate, but quiet. She takes him in with the subtle periphery of a medic, not obviously staring through him head to toe even as she feels about him, extending those feelers and minding him. Exhausted and sleepless, harried, unkempt more than usual. He at least rakes his fingers through his hair to tie it back each day and scuffs his palms over his jaw enough that his whiskers lay flat, tidier than they certainly could be on any other day but today. It's not good, is what she sees. Whatever was plaguing him.
Angela wants nothing more than to reach up and cover his cheeks, smooth down his scruff and right his hair a little better, help him hide that weariness from the world. But she can fuss in a bit— she never approaches him so outright, least of all when something's gnawing at him. She's glad to see him, though, above all else. If he'll give her his hands, they're going to be drawn right up between them near enough to her face that he'll know exactly what comes next. ]
Ahab— that was quick. Come sit down for a moment...? The opposite trolley will be a few minutes yet.
[ She has water, once he's thrown the rope to dock and she can wrap it about herself to anchor him close. And the fountain's nice. Just enough of a mist to be pleasant. ]