[ Good— that's good. It's winding back down to something acceptable, something not on the verge of panic fluttering dangerously in his chest, something closer to her own calm pace as the slick of sweat finally has the chance to dry with the faint breeze, the mist off the fountain refreshing. When he moves one step further to tilt his face into her hand, she cups his cheek readily and smooths her thumb along one scar, nails curling gently through his beard and righting him a little further before her other hand mirrors the motion, thumbs fitting up along his nose. The next stroke clears perspiration from beneath his eyes, nudging his eyepatch just enough to free his skin, putting cool hands to good use as she cradles his face.

Which means he's prime for another brief press of her lips, against his temple this time. Closer to his ear so she can whisper one final "you're all right" to him, as his feet settle back on stone. Steady and flat, stabilizing. The world wasn't spinning without him anymore. They've been such fixtures in one another's lives in this last near-year here that she's only glad her presence does the trick. That she can help him just by being here and offering what she's always offered, that his hands on her found a surface steady enough to tell his brain to stop spinning. That he was stable. Her hands continue a steady one-two of stroking over his cheeks and his whiskers, once, twice, then over his hair, nails along his scalp. To the same beat of her— their— inhales and exhales.

And slowly that grimace smooths out with it, even if he's still worn out and exhausted. That wasn't so easily fixed with kind words, a kiss, and some water. He's relaxed at least enough to know he's safe, even if he's still strung tight. With a familiar touch of consideration and a gentle brush of sun-worn skin, he's wiping away some drop of water or something from her lips, thrown back to the rasp of his tongue over the pad of his thumb some months ago. It'd been cream, then. He'd bought her a white russian to tell her about his hallucinations, and the girl she saw reading him a book who had since passed away. In an explosion, he'd said, bearing the furrows and twists of knotted tissue speaking of proximity to such a blast. She'd never asked, but she didn't think she needed to. He'd been there. He knew. The truth was rent in his flesh, protruding from his brow. A constant reminder in the mirror, and every time she ran her fingertips along his scars.

Angela can't help but wonder if he minds. If it makes things better or worse. If he doesn't even care. She catches the proximity of his hand to rub her cheek against anyway, smearing that droplet of water at his knuckle along soft skin. ]

Perhaps not, but sometimes I've been nice enough to pretend. [ Though he's never given her reason to think he couldn't take her honesty or her sincerity at face value, so it certainly hasn't been with him. That smile's too good to pass up, tired though it may be; it's real. ] There's a few minutes yet before the trolley arrives. We're in no rush.

[ Her groceries will be fine. Continue to be fine until that car does come, with a quaint little chime, and she's careful when she finally untangles herself from him. Not moving too quickly, ensuring he has time to readjust and hasn't settled too much of his weight or balance against her that she'd throw him off. And then she picks up her groceries and caps her water to stick in her bag, and they can go board the car as if nothing had ever happened.

She's good at that, too. Never making a fuss. ]