[ Ahab offers her the stretch of his neck and what he gets instead is a gentle kiss to a damp brow, as always, nose in a wet fringe and gracing the peak of his hairline with her affection and her thankfulness that he's still here. That he made it out of that trial by fire and still stands tall, not allowing the gnarl of burn tissue to restrict him. (Because it's clear, by now, that he was burned by it; how he decides to let it affect his life is what makes all the difference, however.)
Angela continues the gentle massage of her palms over his scalp, folds of the towel between her fingers and scruffing at him from brow to shoulders, then right back up to go again until she's satisfied and is wrapping her arms about him. More than anything, all she's ever wanted to offer him is the ability to be who he wishes in any given moment. That he wouldn't have to put up a facade or pretend to be in any other state than the one he was left in. He's always had her to reach for him and hold him in place, the slide of her fingers through his own, her warmth to lean against and know she had eyes on their surroundings where he can get some rest. She's never once turned the times she's cared for his wounds against him, nor let the thought cross her mind that he may owe her anything.
That just isn't how their friendship worked. They filled necessary pillars in each other's lives, and when he tips into her hold and covers her spine with his hands, they're both all right in this moment.
He may not need an apology, but it's still something she's sure he needs to hear. They're no spring chickens at this point and it's all too easy to assume someone of a certain age would know how to deal with these things— but that's just it, isn't it? That component was missing. No one knows how to deal with being in a coma. How to come back from grievous injury and continue to function. To have that all nearly ripped from your hands and then placed back in them like you'll be able to continue on the same as always. No, it isn't easy. Not by a long shot.
That gentle nudge of shrapnel against her cheek has her kneading the nape of his neck and turning into him with the softest hint of a nuzzle, hugging him a little tighter. ]
Except you're far from wicked. That's no excuse. [ Words a breath against his skin, over the shell of his ear. When he says he'd lost his memory... She softens, to start. Melds against him further, grip tightening another fraction with her exhale. ] A head wound like this... That isn't an easy trauma for the brain to recover from. [ So yes, dissociation makes sense. ] Have you had much memory restored?
[ He's told her stories, after all. Vague though they may have been, in some cases, and she realizes the vaguest were ones regarding his past. Anything else had been fairly recent to her understanding. The tone of her voice and the way she holds him says that it's anything but fine, and she wants to know more with carefully-tailored questions. ]
no subject
Angela continues the gentle massage of her palms over his scalp, folds of the towel between her fingers and scruffing at him from brow to shoulders, then right back up to go again until she's satisfied and is wrapping her arms about him. More than anything, all she's ever wanted to offer him is the ability to be who he wishes in any given moment. That he wouldn't have to put up a facade or pretend to be in any other state than the one he was left in. He's always had her to reach for him and hold him in place, the slide of her fingers through his own, her warmth to lean against and know she had eyes on their surroundings where he can get some rest. She's never once turned the times she's cared for his wounds against him, nor let the thought cross her mind that he may owe her anything.
That just isn't how their friendship worked. They filled necessary pillars in each other's lives, and when he tips into her hold and covers her spine with his hands, they're both all right in this moment.
He may not need an apology, but it's still something she's sure he needs to hear. They're no spring chickens at this point and it's all too easy to assume someone of a certain age would know how to deal with these things— but that's just it, isn't it? That component was missing. No one knows how to deal with being in a coma. How to come back from grievous injury and continue to function. To have that all nearly ripped from your hands and then placed back in them like you'll be able to continue on the same as always. No, it isn't easy. Not by a long shot.
That gentle nudge of shrapnel against her cheek has her kneading the nape of his neck and turning into him with the softest hint of a nuzzle, hugging him a little tighter. ]
Except you're far from wicked. That's no excuse. [ Words a breath against his skin, over the shell of his ear. When he says he'd lost his memory... She softens, to start. Melds against him further, grip tightening another fraction with her exhale. ] A head wound like this... That isn't an easy trauma for the brain to recover from. [ So yes, dissociation makes sense. ] Have you had much memory restored?
[ He's told her stories, after all. Vague though they may have been, in some cases, and she realizes the vaguest were ones regarding his past. Anything else had been fairly recent to her understanding. The tone of her voice and the way she holds him says that it's anything but fine, and she wants to know more with carefully-tailored questions. ]