thisavrou_log | ( open ) there's a road that follows to a home

Entry tags:

( open ) there's a road that follows to a home

Who: Angela & you!
When: The month of February and onward
Where: Region 2 farmlands, at her cottage
What: A permanent downtime log for house shenanigans!
Warnings: None, but I will update if anything comes along!

[ Angela's work schedule is a fairly clear-cut thing on the best of days. Three days working in Kauto's hospital, three days up on Chioni, and then two days off. Around the time of planet discovery and the initial burst of travels, she hovers around the Ingress Complex to assist any who may return injured, and she's otherwise on call across all three if emergencies required her skills. To say she isn't home terribly often is a fair enough assessment, but she still had plenty of downtime every evening, considering the longer days.

There's a key in the base of the lantern beside her front door, but not everyone knows about it— not even a handful from her own world. Those who do, however, know they have a free pass to her home whether she's there or no. A spare bed to crawl into, a couch to wait on, access to her stash of medical supplies (but seriously just call her for help). A kitchen to rummage through, now often with fresh-baked bread and a steady offering of apples off her trees on hand, as well as any leftovers in the fridge.

Eiger still accompanies her to work as a resident therapy dog, but he could be found around the property when she works her shifts on Chioni, access out the back door through the flap when he no longer feels like awaiting her return at the front. The cottage itself is on a hill and the back extends out on a bridge as an elongated sunroom, stretching out over the creek running through her property. The back door itself leads one to a winding path down through the copse of trees preceding her quaint little orchard of apple and walnut trees, surrounding a gazebo set up with a fire pit and the basics for cooking in warmer weather, hammock piled high in furs leftover from the Midway Hub's game— if anyone chose to visit and didn't have access to her house, this would be the ideal place to camp. (Just make sure to message her so she knows you're there! She'll come around once she's home to let you in.)

If she's home and not in the house, one would undoubtedly find her in that hammock with her work, fire crackling at hand and her cup of coffee long-since cold, Eiger curled up behind her legs. It's not the largest of places, but it's home, and there's blankets on near every surface— even the chairs in the kitchen. The creek is a relaxing babble, the creak of the water wheel partially powering her home, and if she's home, there's always a fire going if it's cold out and coffee going. ]

( ooc: This will be a permanent post for house stuff! I'll be posting monthly headers and any prompts relating to events or going-ons within to link from my toplevels, but I am 100% open to casual plotting or visits; just hit me up at

clegane or on discord (gauche#5968) and we can work something out! ♥ )

february ● march ● april ● may ● june ● july ● august

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ As always, Ahab sees right to her core and knows. He reads her so easily and yet he allows her her attempts at mysticism, as if she could ever keep anything from him at this point. They've spent so much time in one another's vicinity that likely isn't possible anymore. She's opened herself to him readily and now it's just the waiting game for him to unfurl in return, slow and steady.

He allows her that chance to pretend otherwise, and he knows just how to make her smile— seeing Ahab crouch down to scruff at Eiger, sure she can hear his knees creak as her head tips down. Humbled, as if he were paying some sacred homage and she's witness to it all. He's just petting the dog, Ang. (And Eiger is, meanwhile, lapping the attention right up. He does his utmost not to lick excessively, but there is a dry little rasp of his tongue over Ahab's fingertips, then another at his wrist as his fingers sink into his fur. Reassurance and affection, just like his owner.) ]

That is true, though I should hope you wouldn't break into just any old doctor's abode. I'll expect the usual courtesies; clean boots, no dishes left in the sink without water, blankets folded.

[ Yeah there's no way that isn't true!! How do you show your friends you care about them if you won't kick down their door??? Either way, she doesn't miss that lopsided little smile he turns up to her nor the flash of realization as he does so, turning his attentions back down to Eiger before she's brushing the flats of her fingers along Ahab's cheekbone, ensuring he saw the pass of her hand before it skims over his blind side so she didn't catch him off-guard. As if ensuring he didn't crack his lacquer with that smile. He'd just confirmed her own drawn out for his actions that had only warmed further with his smile and she moves past him, down the hall to rest a hand on the dividing wall between spaces. Just long enough to turn back and ask: ]

And only if I can ensure you're up to date on CPR training. [ You know, in case he gives her a heart attack. ~~Please.~~ So yes, she's feeling better. Stabilized with his presence, and his attempts to cheer her up. ] Yet I should hope you know I'd never mind the company, even lurking in the shadows. Can I get you some coffee?

[ Hospitality first, to make up for bombarding him and help get him settled. As ever, he's free to wander and check her place out, or follow her if he likes while she gets the stove going and the espresso maker loaded up. ]

Edited 2017-03-02 03:07 (UTC)

[ It's just a gesture, and they're both only human. And in the end, this is what everyone does: fill spaces. Angela's hand skims over the uneven pattern of his skin to give reality to its dents and pockets (something he accepts with just a millimeter of a turn, jaw to fingers), and Venom knows that she'll be alright. She's still so welcoming, after all. ]

It's usually the ones I don't know. Not exactly something I want to do to friends, the breaking and entering deal. [ Contextual clues on his occupation, forthright but obvious. 'Friends' is probably the operative word in this sentence, given without prompting and swept along on an exhale that he ruffles Eiger's fur with, as fond as it is quiet. ] ...No guarantees on good behavior, too.

[ That was a marathon of words, phew. He's grateful that Angela has the initiative to go ahead with making the coffee before Venom can answer, her footsteps receding into the kitchen while he straightens and lets Eiger destroy his calves.

(He notes to himself that he talks more than usual when Angela is around— why is that, he wonders.)

Since Angela is now a safe distance away, Venom takes the liberty of curling his lips up again into the void she's just left. An appreciative one-two of sigh to smile before finding it prudent to settle himself down in a chair and peel his shirt off, as promised. He doesn't want to hover. ]

[ Angela wears her hurts well, beneath the skin where it isn't visible, able to compartmentalize until she can pull those drawers out later and refold the contents. At the rate she's going, however, she hasn't had the chance in... what, a month, now? And now Jack on top of it. She'll be fine, she is fine, and she would be welcoming even on her death bed. But fine is only halfway there, and she readily accepts the distraction when it means taking care of someone else— especially when it's Ahab. He allows her touch along his cheek and even turns into it, fluttering slender fingers along seamed skin before she's moving away from his space. ]

Well, now you have no reason to. Do you make a habit of breaking and entering? I can't say you ever struck me as the type. [ Her best guess was a special forces team, covert ops— if he wasn't marine material she wouldn't know what possibly could be.

She's called him a friend before and seen his reaction, but to have it turned on her— it wasn't mimicry, he hadn't repeated anything she'd said to him first, and it's such a little thing, isn't it? To make her flutter this way. A touch of lightness to her steps, a buoyancy to the roll of heel to toe. A sweet little gift as he makes an effort to lift her spirits. (It's working.) His followup gets a dubious hum out of her, leaving Eiger to not only destroy Ahab's calves but his thighs as well. He's grown quite a bit since she'd found him outside her door with the mail; still growing, but he's nearly to her hip. He is nothing if not a gentleman, however, and his mindful of his clipped nails. He doesn't jump unless invited, though she fully expects Ahab to invite him the moment she's out of sight.

(Could it be, perhaps, because she prompts him? Knows how to ask a question and give just the right look to expect it answered properly?)

It doesn't take her long to walk back around the wall with two steaming mugs in hand, softened with cream and set down on the table before him atop granite coasters— he would've been able to watch her move around the kitchen through the fireplace at least, and coming back to see that he has officially removed his shirt doesn't phase her in the least. For as used to scars as she is, they never do quite settle well with her. The very obvious rends of past trauma, inescapable from notice. He's covered in so many, peppering his front, his face, careening off his sides. Criss-crossed in leather straps as well to hold the heavy prosthetic in place, and he's quite the sight.

Angela finishes her sip before setting her mug down to join his, and then she's placing pleasantly hot hands atop his shoulders, head tilting as she gets a look at him. From his face down to the prosthetic, then back up and across. Measuring his tension, any possible swelling, feeling him out beneath sensitive hands with the gentlest kneading possible. ]

Have you suffered any particular aches from the weight, strain, or sharper pains? Do you remove the prosthetic at night?

[ This, right here? This is easy. It flows for her, the questions and the exploration, knowing how to manipulate his body to give her the answers she needed through the perceptiveness of touch. This is something she can autopilot, nearly closing her eyes to allow just her fingertips to pick up the cues, getting lost in the motions. ]

[ There he is, Frankenstein's monster. His sins absolutely involve casting a girl into funereal waters, by the way.

But despite it all, he's a beautifully-made cryptid. Held together by circumstance and fate, patterned by the depth of his emotions. Living and breathing, solid under Angela's touch. Tense where the straps of his bionic pull into his skin, left side slightly stiffer than the right from efforts to suppress the occasional unwanted tremors running along his artificial appendage. ]

Still a lot you don't know about me.

[ He waits until Angela is within earshot to reply to her first statement. Matter-of-fact. Apologetic? Squint and she might see it, sewn into the lines of secrecy that he wears as a face.

It's another under-the-table admission, though. Without being explicit, this is another way to say that his silence comes from 'years' of involvement in a nebulous equivalent of black ops.

But that's that, and this is this. ]

Biggest inconvenience is the break in concentration when the arm acts up. [ He holds himself still, allowing her scrutiny before proving his point: his shoulder jerks forward just a half a centimeter when the pinky of his prosthetic crooks involuntarily. Eerie, given that it's the sort of movement a human hand wouldn't make. ] Aside from that, the usual. Phantom pains. [ whoooaaahoooahhhhaaahh ] ...Haven't felt like taking the arm off at night, either.

[ A testament to how much stock he places in his 'assured' safety here. His tone verges on cynical with that last statement, an unspoken 'I'm not keen on getting caught with my pants down'. ]

[ Now, there's no need to be so dramatic. There's no bolts in his neck nor green tinge to his skin, and Frankenstein's monster never had such soft eyes. Wasn't capable of the delicacy Ahab's shown her, both by touch and by demeanor, whether it was clipping her wings or simply twining his fingers through hers, the press of a seamed brow against the back of her hand. Mindful of the shrapnel, finding the sweet spot between organic and inorganic, where her knuckles brushed into his hairline. His fingers had yet to stiffen via rigor mortis nor were his eyes clouding. He didn't carry the scent of ozone and embalming fluids scorched out of his veins.

Ahab is beautifully-made and beautiful, full stop. For the softness of his soul burning hot within him, for the venom deep in his veins, for every mark twisting his skin that howls "I'm still alive", he's flesh and bone and life beneath her hands, gently kneading at muscle. Seeking out those furrows of tension in him with the efficiency of a plastic surgeon, finding his lines of cleavage to split him open and sew him back together to heal without marring him further, where the scars would quickly fade and flush won't pucker. She didn't care to be faced with another's trauma so openly on display because it was no longer their choice to share these truths of their past, even if they physically don't bother her. She found herself grateful for every mark knotting one's skin as if they were medals for emerging from a battle victorious. ]

Shall we play 20 questions, then? That won't count as my first one, either.

[ There's no need to be apologetic, and the press of her brow to the top of his head says it's all right. He's giving her bits and pieces along the way to keep her afloat, yet she's left wondering just how on the mark she may be— or off it, for that matter. Angela offers no hesitation in how she lays her hands on him, giving him no warning beyond approaching within his line of sight and giving him ample time to dissuade her that he's never taken. Once she's had a few moments to feel him, he continues on with his explanation and summarizes well.

Succinct and to the point. Of course. He stills and it doesn't take long for one of the aforementioned bits of mischief rears its head, shoulder jerking against her palm and finger twitching in towards the palm, the faintest click of metal on metal accompanying the motion. One brow furrows as she observes him for further examination, trying to see where the problem may lie first. Now it's her turn to look apologetic. ]

I can see how that would grow annoying quickly and hinder you, yes. Have you been doing anything for the pains?

[ The mention of not feeling like taking the prosthetic off at night leaves her drawing back to look at him, tipping her head in silent question. No sympathy, perhaps, but a soft understanding for what she can guess after as well as inquiry to confirm. She blinks, a touch owlishly and slow, the physical equivalent of 'I can see where you're coming from, but—'. ]

Did you used to? You know it would help with the stiffness on your left side, I presume. Lessen fatigue on the arm itself, as well. May I? [ Begin removing it, she means, if the fingertips tracing idly enough the straps weren't enough indication. ] I'll likely need to pick it apart a bit, and I don't want you to have to manage possible dissociation.

[ He breathes a laugh, even while his expression remains still. A ripple in the water. ]

I'll give you three, not twenty.

[ She can ask, and he can choose not to answer. It's a slow dance between them, but Venom is learning the steps; shuffling along with her even footing, skirting along the edge until he isn't teetering over the precipice. Sometimes he forgets that there's a world beyond the yawning emptiness of the pit he skirts around, after all.

(Looking away from that darkness seems like a betrayal at this point; sorry, Big Boss.)

Venom is still keeping tabs on Angela, of course. Feeling for when her touch is clinical, when she seems to want something more out of him than his voluntary compliance. Reading between the lines. Does she need a patient, or a companion? Something more? Something less? ]

Nothing for the pain. [ Predictable. But he makes it obvious that his negligence is born out of something that isn't so much about machismo as it is a coping mechanism; the little tip of his head and the lowering of his left shoulder speaks to his comfort in his answer. He isn't Kaz— he doesn't need to suffer constantly for his perceived mistakes— but he carries his losses with quiet affection. Yes, my arm used to be there. Yes, I don't mind it hurting. ] Haven't taken the arm off to sleep for a few months.

[ That camping month was a wild ride... not exactly the kind of situation that let him relax without an arm for any reason. That said, he reaches with his remaining hand and guides Angela's fingers to the buckles keeping his bionic in place, a silent affirmation for her question. ]

You're supposed to be bossing me around, Doc. [ None of this eggshell-treading, Angela!!! The softer edges of his prior laugh remain, however. ] Get your manhandling quota in.

[ Her smile is worn with reckless abandon compared to how Ahab metes out his visible emotions, but her smile in itself could be a mask. An easy expression others can overlook, something that doesn't draw attention because it's the norm. His laugh conveys far more than her smiles, especially here. Unguarded, pared down to seamed skin and straps to be unbuckled, leaving him off-kilter once the weight of his arm would fall away.

I'll give you three, he says, as if she'd been expecting anything more than none. A small enough victory, but forgive her: ]

That's not the name of the game; please. [ Teasing comes all too easily. ] Let's see...

[ A predictable one-two here, a pivot, a twirl— his hand never leaving her waist, and her own a steady presence at his shoulder, no matter how clasped palms may separate as he guides her weight around by her fingertips, letting them swirl against the heel of his hand before he's wrapping his own back about her fingers. She can only hope they careen away from that void centered in him, swallowing emotion and sound and memories alike. An oblong orbit that carries them away for a time, skimming close only to arc back out as they make their way around the dance floor. ]

Favorite places— and their accompanying seasons. That can count as one, right?

[ How would one quantify the need for both in her touch? The press of her forehead to his hair, the gentle knead of fingertips to the grain of muscle beneath the flesh, offsetting one another? She takes of his presence and his warmth as much as she gives him her own, her care and her touch to soothe his aches, the careless pass of her breath along the line of his nose, skimming off his cheek with every exhale. Every shift and turn she makes offers him a view within if he squints, trying to focus on the world through the cracks in her exterior.

The little nod offered in response drags her brow against his hairline, understanding the lack of 'pain is weakness' ideals and instead realizing that it's something deeper. A way to accept the trauma inherent, nothing defensive in the way he allows his answer to slip out, settling beneath her touch. Slender fingers frame the joint of his shoulder, one at his bicep and the other at his shoulder to knead, another part of him she accepts openly and without hesitation. That she finds no sympathy to spare, instead appreciating what such a loss and damage suffered had meant for his will to live. She can at least see to the pain, even if only temporarily. It's a brief massage, but one nonetheless to work up to removing the biotic. ]

It's manageable then, I hope. No cramping or clenching tension? [ She'd be glad to hear a negative on both; those were often the worst compared to tingling or sensations of temperature change or pressure. ] Ahab... I know it's difficult to settle into this place, but it's important for your body to be able to heal as well. That's a lot of strain to place on yourself without the chance to recuperate.

[ The smile he gets when he guides one hand to the buckles holding his arm in place and he chastises her so gently, though, is significantly more genuine. Lopsided and soft, with an apologetic draw of her brows. Her manhandling quota, is it? ]

If you're insisting. Allow me.

[ Her fingers are nimble as she works open buckle after buckle one-handed, bracing the arm along her other with fingers curving around the elbow, ready at a moment's notice for it to fall limp and turn to dead weight whenever she's released the right combination holding the sensors taut. For all of the manhandling she's to be doing, she's no less gentle as she unbinds him, eyes glancing over the furrows left in his skin from the straps.

It certainly has been a few months, at the very least. She's sure once she runs her fingertips along the paths left behind she'll find a different texture to his skin, having worked up a tolerance to the leather lest it blister or chafe. For now, this is something she can focus on whole-heartedly. Once she's set the arm aside and offered a few minutes of massage and she really settles into work, she's sure the words will trickle forth. He had a way of drawing them out of her just by sitting at her side and giving her a certain look. ]

[ One at a time. Ultimately, this isn't about Venom— superficially, yes, but a glitching arm is a serviceable excuse to wield when you want to offer the solace of a soul in someone else's basic vicinity. It's not about comforting, because comforting implies that the other person can't handle themselves; it's about resting. Venom knows what that feels like, thousands of feet above sea level and hovering. Synthesizers and faux-Southern accents in his right ear, his pilot humming a few bars of the Stones in the other. Not comforting, but quieting.

Angela doesn't need Venom to tell her that things are going to be alright. But she does have needs.

So Venom doesn't say anything. He waits, humming from the back of his throat when he's questioned about his pains (a no in his unique language). He sighs when she reminds him that recuperation is a necessity (sometimes he forgets, and that's on him). Turns his brows downwards when Angela smiles at him and starts to remove the artifice pinned to him like a red flag. Property of Diamond Dogs.

He waits, every heartbeat aligned to the ups and downs of Angela's ribcage as she breathes. Acclimatizes to her massages, adjusting in increments to her guidance to let her bring him back to peak performance. Measures her expressions not in sincerity, but in the conviction with which she wears them. Sometimes, someone else's ease is more important than their truths.

(many people have lied to him; that's just how it is.)

When he finally feels the weight ease off his left side, when he flexes and feels nothing, he finally takes his mind off of the disappearance of his limb and back to his modified version of 20 questions. Expression serene, chin tipped to the side and away from Angela's working hands. ]

Favorite place and season. [ He echoes. A reminder: I remember what you asked, I'm getting to it now.

Still, it takes him a second. The silence is long enough to be awkward for some people. ] —It was always summer, where I was. [ Costa Rica, the Seychelles, the Middle East, Africa. All he remembers is sweltering heat, and he looks vaguely amused about it. ] Hard for me to answer.

[ how the fuck is it that he can't even answer this very simple question............. ]

[ It may not be to him, but Angela's yet unaware of that fact. It's still about Ahab for her, and frankly, it always would be. He is his own man and she has no doubts that he can mind himself, but she still cares for him. Wants to see him well and taken care of, knowing that he has someone he can depend on. Open up to. Someone to help him sort things out in a quiet place if he needed it. A friend, simple as that. She isn't convinced he has many of those, back home or here, not when he quietly struggles with simple aspects of interactions, relearning genial conversation topics and how to well and truly answer questions about himself. Not hold his cards so close to his chest that even he can't see them. She prioritizes him quickly and likely always will. It's a small price to pay for earning his trust and she'd never think anything of it.

That he minds her amidst that only warms her, feeling his scrutiny gentle about her, allowing herself to unfurl and let down her guard once she's sure he's all right. He affirms the negative to any sort of unpleasant pains, accepts the tranquil reminder without annoyance, conveying her contentment with the response not in words but with the skim of her lips between his brows, finally easing up where she'd come to rest against him and straighten to finish working open buckles and straps, slowly picking apart the complex web spanning his torso when she can no longer feel it out by touch.

And he waits for her, releasing him from obligation made corporeal, in twists of wire and metal plating, varnished over in blood. No longer beholden to anyone, even if only for a few moments. The arm and its bindings are set aside, carefully laid out and on his blind side so she can settle her hands back on him and really get a look at the amputation site, fingertips as delicate as ever feeling out his flesh and twists of messy scar tissue, not unlike the artifice she'd just set aside. Starting low with her touch, easy, curving over the blunt end to ensure there are no bunched muscle fibers curling, knots of tendon, that the wound had been properly secured back down before closing up and healing over. Then her palms skim up, encasing what little remained below his elbow, kneading. The prosthetic can wait; it isn't flesh and blood, no matter how it may try to appear as much.

In this, at least, her serenity is genuine. Immersing herself in helping others was always an excellent distraction, to do some good in the world and find order in one's body where it may not exist in her soul. She has some measure of peace. Ahab's focus is on her and not her questions, she realizes, but eventually he begins to formulate an answer for her and give her something more than the flex of her hands along his flesh, already over his elbow and working up his bicep. She can't reach her hands around his arm, but she's thorough as she shifts back and forth, covering every inch of him. There was little enough conviction to be found behind her smile between the gladness of his arrival (genuine) and the calm daze she can slip into as she massages him (also genuine), but it has settled back in as she works his muscle loose and urges him to relax, ease down and allow the spasms to work out of his system now that there's no cause for strain. No reason to contain flighty digits or the rigid line of his shoulders as he fought back the reflex to twitch. If she had been tense upon his arrival (and she had), it's quickly unwinding. Knowing he's at ease and all right sets her at ease, and she won't struggle to contain the similar automatic motions of his shed limb.

Where his fingers would curl in and twitch, she reflexively hid her worries and emotions beneath a calm surface, drawing a blue-green cover over a body of water to hide the brown tinge of kicked-up silt after a storm.

His silences are never awkward. They're quieting and calming, knowing he's formulating a careful selection of words. Readying to convey himself when he so often refrained. There's an acknowledging hum to his statement of the subject matter, continuing her work as she finally perches on the edge of a sturdy coffee table, legs slotting amidst his own to allow their proximity. ]

And where was that? Were you comfortable in the heat, or is it simply all you've known? [ A bit of a tease, in that, not knowing how right she could be. His amusement is what leads to that particular follow-up, before answering the same. A get-to-know-you game. ] I don't mind the heat so long as it's dry, but the moment there's a lick of humidity... [ She shakes her head, sighing. ] Switzerland was always pleasant— most of Europe, really, but the Iraq deserts were kinder to me than I had originally presumed. Far more than humid jungles or riverside lands. Still, I love bundling up in the cold and enjoying the spices of holiday food and drinks, the crispness in the air bringing appreciation for shelter, good company.

[ Which should say plenty for the emphasis placed on these experiences, when she had the tendency to run cold already. Her exposition encourages more of his own, offering keystones to touch upon and formulate descriptions of his own, should he choose to indulge and work on his answer. ]

[ He can coin the feeling of flightless flying now: The Angela Effect. Freed from networks of restrictions and bindings, Venom rolls his shoulders and eases into the undulations of Angela's fingers, trusting in her natural-born magic to lessen the effects of gravity on his limbs. How novel, he feels lighter already.

And he enjoys this, the rapport. He could spend hours just listening to his companion paint pictures of the Swiss Alps in accented English, put color to descriptions with her inhales and exhales, but Angela isn't a cassette and this isn't an impersonal ACC; if he wants more from her, he's going to have to give.

That's also novel. What do you mean, conversations are two-way streets???

He exhales as she rises up to sit, a whisper-sigh-laugh that ruffles her clothes. ]

Makes sense that you're a winter person.

[ A warm spot in an avalanche. Without explaining his somewhat obtuse statement, his vague smile persists, and V hums the first few bars of a song that he woke up to in Dhekelia under his breath: "walk out to winter, swear I'll be there—" ]

My stint in warm weather sure as hell wasn't comfortable. [ a rare moment where he uses a half-expletive. He's comfortable around Angela, sue him. ] The Middle Eastern heat sticks around. The sand, too.

[ Another laugh-sigh, since he seems to be full of these today. ]

Keep fishing. Pretty sure you'll find half the desert in my hair.

[ Ahab eases into her touch and she continues to work his muscles over, slipping the artifice from a shortened arm and allowing him to just be himself. The man, the myth, the legend, though the latter two certainly don't apply here. He is simply her friend in need of a little TLC, and it's within her abilities to see him back in peak condition. (Well... At least physically.)

He's listening to her every syllable and she always feels like she can keep speaking to him, allow him to listen when he takes it all in so readily. Yet she wants more out of him, always wanting to learn, and that means letting him say his piece as well. Gently nudge him into a zone of his discomfort to glean further information from him, if she must, but never out of spite. His laugh catches her sweater and leaves her smiling in turn, a flash of teeth as she settles about his shoulder joint and takes his elbow in one hand to pivot his arm about, giving her access to the tendon and a wider range of deep muscle.

Before she had the chance to reply, in the few moments his words sink in, he hums a few bars and her eyes fall shut, listening to his voice, head slowly tipping in an imitation of a sway.

The expletive only leaves her smile twitching a fraction wider. He's comfortable; that should be a given with his shirt off and his arm detached, but it's still a nice indication. ]

That it does. Though on the topic of seasons, if I had to peg you, I'd say you're a crisp fall sort of man. Leather jackets and scarves; I'll have to find you one when the season's right.

[ Her hand skims about the joint, pressing in to feel, yet he laughs again and his good humor is plenty contagious— and, with the gentlest tug at his elbow to encourage the remains of his arm to uncurl, she leans down to reward it with a kiss to the crook of his elbow. The joint feels all right so her hands reposition at his shoulders, one on each side to work into a gentle knead. ]

I was quite certain I washed all of that out, but I can always go for another pass just to see.

[ Okay, the shoulder massage is briefly abandoned to slip her fingers into his hair from his temples, nails skimming along the shrapnel on one side to give him a tiny ruffle. There, see? Sand-free. Her integrity as a hairdresser wasn't to be questioned today. She'll go back to kneading the heels of her hands into him, brushing down his neck to settle back where they'd been resting before. ]

[ Angela smiles, and the expression is miles closer to the present than it'd been before. No more or no less convincing, but rooted in the here and now.

Beyond the massages— which work, make no mistake— what lowers Venom's guard is the realization that the more he relaxes, the more Angela does. The kind of proliferation he can get behind, a language rendered in flesh and bone. ]

Hellbent on cleaning me up, huh.

[ He takes her affection without protest, the kiss to his skin and the sift of her fingers. He even files away her preference for him, the image of himself in a clean-cut leather jacket and a scarf. Ha.

(not red, Ocelot— Venom wouldn't dream of stealing someone else's trademarks.)

Angela ruffles him like a dog, and he shivers lightly under her hands like one. His body thanking him and the attentive hands for freeing him from weight and pressure, reciprocating by slacking and relinquishing. No contesting Angela's ability to make him look like a human again after a long day; no, he won't tarnish her credibility.

Instead, he breathes a soft huff. ]

Skip the leather. People say I look scary enough.

[ leather daddy is intimidating, ok ]

[ Ahab had a way of cementing here in the here and now, much as she tries to do for him— theirs is a friendship that takes place in the moment, second by second, and doesn't dwell on the could've beens or what ifs. It takes time but he continues to draw her out, his own ease encouraging hers and the simple act of minding him was soothing for her, actions coming to her out of muscle memory. The kneading of her hands, the flutter of her fingers, thumbs seeking out each point of tension to hone in on once she's softened the surface— all familiar, things she could draw up out of her with her eyes closed. ]

Clean often means comfort. I'm hellbent on seeing you comfortable.

[ It's the least she can do. And, she's often convinced, about all she can really and truly offer him at the end of the day. He allows her kisses and her attentions to fall on him, distracting from everything else whirling about outside these walls, but her image of him is nowhere near so harsh and menacing.

Ahab shivers to her touch, quiet though it may have been, before she's righting his hair still pulled back in a tie and grinning with her mischief. ]

You're not scary at all, Ahab. I was thinking more along the lines of an old bomber and something dustier. Olive drab maybe, or a denim blue.

[ It'd bring out his eye(s) and soften the severity with sheepswool and earthier colors. One of her legs careens in and she catches his knee between her own, a bit of warmth to combat that earlier shiver lest his body get any ideas about goosebumps, yet all he manages is to relax further until she's working up the sides of his neck once more, ensuring as much of that tension from hauling around a mischievous and heavy arm gets smoothed away. ]

How's that feeling?

[ He tips forward in her hands, in the cradle of her knees, and his horn brushes just along the side of her jaw. Nonthreatening, in the way some dogs teethe in repose.

Comfort will ruin him; he knows that softness will only make whatever roughness waiting for him in the future chafe more.

Still, Angela will be Angela. He lets her have this, hands on skin on heart. ]

Sounds dangerous.

[ Both her mission and her outfit choice for him. Take a snake out of the jungle, sure, but don't remove his fangs; Venom can't imagine being so civilian, but maybe that's just him.

Still, his lips twitch upwards imperceptibly as he rears up, letting Angela's hands slide down to his shoulders. ]

...Feel as good as new again. [ He rolls his neck, demonstrating his ease of mobility as he fixes her with his single fog-blue. ] Now it's just the other arm that needs to be looked at.

[ The brush of the shrapnel is something she's grown used to with him, no sharp edges to harm her, cool against her skin with the warmth of his brow at her cheek as he leans into her hands. Working his neck, hands splaying for one to chase back down to work over the shoulder joint of his right arm, down the bicep as she kneads his nape. She always wants to turn and plant a friendly little kiss right beside the horn ever since he'd allowed her to the first time. Her quiet appreciation for the intruder continuing to behave, never jostling or harming him. Instead she just offers the tip of her head, rubbing her cheek against him and resting there, listening to his breathing.

(Or will it brace him when the going really gets rough, knowing the world can be better? That people can be better?) ]

You never struck me as a man who shrunk away from danger.

[ Her amusement warms his skin, carried on syllables reverberating along sun-faded brown because she can't ever imagine him as unintimidating. The power in his frame, his sheer size alone speaking to his strength, the scars and eyepatch— he is someone who's lived a rough life and still come out ahead, still breathing. A change of clothing isn't going to make such a difference when his shoulders will always be broad, he'll always be scruffy, and the softness of the expressions he turns on her will never quite make her forget that deep vein of anger roiling beneath the surface, ready to open a yawning void in the earth's crust and swallow cities whole. A quiet danger, something she's only seen once rendered impotent with his control over it, never turning it on anyone or anything. And it had receded back down given time and the twine of their fingers, speaking of the circumstances allowed to mitigate those emotions.

He had his venom, yes, but rarely did he bare his fangs.

And she doesn't miss that little smile when he rises from her hold, hand slipping back down to his shoulder and the other in the crook of his elbow, first hand eventually joining the second as he rolls his neck, finishing the job as she kneads down his forearm. ]

I'm glad to hear it, as always, but do let me finish. [ The little smile that echoes his own has another fraction of genuine relief warming it, mirroring his own and all the warmer for it, finally working down to take hold of his hand and massage the joints, between the tendons in the back of his hand and thumbs working deep circles in his palm. ] My reputation's at stake, you know. I don't leave a patient half-cured.

So you're admitting to being dangerous.

[ Careless banter, delivered with ease. Angela brings that out of him, the easy rapport that he used to share with—

—with? It's hard to remember, but he casts that thought aside to settle his remaining hand against Angela's palm. She's still smiling, and the temperature of her voice pitches a few degrees higher than the cool skin against his now-relaxed muscles. The difference is always welcome; like the first whistle of spring after a long winter.

He turns his hand over, and curls his fingers over the unmarred plane of his companion's skin. It always strikes him, how clean Angela is despite the hellscape her hands must've seen. ]

...Sounds like you've got a hell of a success rate.

[ Fully cured or six feet under. That's more illustrious than it sounds. ]

If that's what it takes to get you out of uniform? Certainly, I'll be dangerous.

[ It's come easy to them for some time now, and she appreciates the familiarity and idle distraction as she works down to his hand, eyes closing when he turns palm-up for her, fingers curling about one hand while her thumbs work gun-worn flesh. She hadn't missed that quiet moment of consideration after his statement but she wants him to remain relaxed, and it had passed either way.

She'll let it go to curl her fingertips against his wrist, giving him her hand and stroking over the soft thin skin there, the network of blue veins relaying his pulse. ]

Nanotechnology has its uses. With a bit of bedside manner. [ Her hand slips from his slowly, fingertips ghost off his palm, tracing down his fingers until they drop off the ends, nails rasping off the very tips to pat his knee, easing back out of his space so she can stand and shift over to sit beside him, scooping his prosthetic back up. Cradled along her arm for quite the picture, yet she's delicate. It's an extension of him that has worked hard and to the bone, and it's time for a little TLC. ] All right, that should tide you over. Scoot just a bit, please.

[ Because once he gives her half the couch, she's pulling over a lapdesk to cover with an anti-static sheet, crossing her legs up beneath it, and turning her back to his side to spread the fingers out at a relaxed curl. Here, too, she's at ease. It takes her back to late nights and younger years, fiddling about with spare parts and learning how to care for biotics. She's interested to see what sort of technology came in a 1980s biotic, reaching for the necessary tools to begin removing screws, piecing apart the outer shell. Angela's spent enough time examining his arm in all these months; she knows where to start.

And no, she doesn't leave anyone broken. If her best isn't good enough it's usually for a reason, but Ahab is nowhere near such a point. Is it any real surprise her success rate has such a narrow middleground? ]

[ Okay, he's actually going to laugh at that first bit: low and throaty, like desert wind. ]

Stay professional, doc.

[ As if he didn't start it first, with all his allusions to being shirtless in her general vicinity. Even a half-dead man with a fake face has his moments.

With his limbs free from attentive hands, Venom employs the luxury of mobility (debatable, since he was enjoying the massage) to get up from the couch for a spare beat and find his TAB between the folds of his discarded shirt. Even in comfortable company, his movements are silent— not even a rustle as he dislodges his device and settles back against Angela, giving her the requested space. The familiar click and grind of his prosthetic is cognitive dissonance when it's not coming from directly to his left, but that's fine. He can adjust.

His right hand fiddles with the controls on his TAB screen. The mechanism shifts to camera mode, and he cranes backwards along the length of the couch to get Angela in frame. A serious-looking profile, cast in warm overhead lighting.

Click. ]

[ Angela only softens further to his laugh, warming her through as if it'd skimmed right off the sun-baked dunes of Iraq, familiar and welcome as she settles on her half of the sofa and her teeth flash with the gentle chastisement. ]

Right, right. Please forgive me.

[ No one's pointing any fingers, especially not when she's lifted back up in his presence, a sorrow-wilted flower given water and sunshine once the clouds were parted with that desert breeze, a place to thrive in the presence of a friend. No restrictions on her behavior or expressions, no needing to reel in her words or body language— she would never have called Jack a stressor, yet she had gone out of her way the entire week to ensure he didn't bail at her slightest show of discomfort and that he could rest and relax. It certainly hadn't been his fault and other things had compounded her malaise, channeling that energy into other tasks at hand. Continuing to file it further back in her to-do pile until it stares her in the face once again.

And relaxes another fraction again with his ease in her presence, padding about the living room half-bared and without his arm, not making so much as a scuff of his socks on the floor and weight distributed so there wasn't even a creak of wood beneath him. If she weren't aware of him in her peripheral, she wouldn't know he was moving at all until his weight is sinking the cushion beside her own, feeling the shift of the sofa frame accommodating them both once again as his warmth returns.

With the protective plating and the casing off, meticulously set aside on another sheet laid out on the table, she's exposed the inner workings to the expected grit and grease and dust buildup of age and the occasional twisting of the limb to crack open the sleeve beneath, allowing in the occasional organic bits of the world. With another tool she tests for live wires and begins thinning out some of the excess redundant ones, especially the ones that have long-since gone cold. It's antiquated, certainly, but well beyond its time even so.

It's when she's carefully unwinding the wire ends from a particular bundle assigned to his ring finger that he snaps a picture, turned halfway between sideways and the back of the sofa as he frames her and the click is chased with the twitch of a smile, freeing the wire a moment after to set aside with the rest. It will lighten things for him, yes, but also give her more room to work. ]

Shall I pose?

[ Venom keeps his prosthetic carefully angled out of the photograph's boundaries. Not so much for the discomfort that the detached appendage could make him feel— he's far past that juncture— but because what he wants to remember aren't the parts of Angela that'd tried to fix the defects he presented her with. What he wants to remember is a moment of calm concentration in trying times.

Sentimental, he hears in the back of his head. Chiding and biting.

Still, he takes another picture before leaning over Angela's back and extending a forearm over her shoulder to show her what he's taken. He's not half bad, really. ]

You look fine.

[ As if she'd been asking if he wanted her to pose because she was concerned about how she looked— buy yourself a clue, Venom Snake. No real attention paid to his opened arm laying across her lap. He trusts that she has that under control. ]

[ The second picture comes with her awareness and a soft smile, this time, trying not to look up at him and instead continuing her work with the quirk of her lips, still serene. When he moves to lean over her, however, arm snaking over her shoulder to hold the phone in front of her, there's a quiet snort of a laugh through her nose and she leans back into him, head dropping to his shoulder just for a moment, back arching. ]

Have you ever considered photography? You're quite talented, Ahab.

[ She hadn't been worried about how she looked, no, but the praise is certainly warranted. It was only the TAB device but he still had an eye for taking them. The undulation of her spine has her sitting back upright, shoulder skimming under his arm before raising with a little shrug, head tipping as if to hug him there. Trap his arm over her for a split second as she sets her tools down and makes to take the device.

Let her have it, and she may take a picture of them both. ]

[ He doesn't deal in these things— he doesn't know what to make of gestures like these, where people come together in gentle folds. The realm he usually occupies necessitates harsh yanks to his fatigues, rough jostles of elbow to elbow, exhausted slumps against hard surfaces and maybe, on the rare occasion, a quiet brush of knees to knees.

Angela curls like crepe paper, hair to shoulder to cheek to jaw. She's in his space before he realizes it, and the scent of her shampoo is warm and dense to offset the sharpness of medical disinfectant. He barely smells the latter at all, really, as he shifts to let her slot against his chest and take the TAB from him. ]

If I ever put down my gun.

[ He says, offhanded. Some part of it is melancholy— he knows he'll never actually do that— but it's not particularly weighty. Just a statement of fact.

It's also a little strange to see himself on the other end of the lens, austere and scar-pattered on his TAB screen. Something about seeing that face next to Angela's smooth, perfect features feels like cognitive dissonance.

He almost pulls a face. ] You sure you want me in this one?

[ Perhaps not, but Angela's always been a patient partner. He's had to put up with her thus far and she's grown comfortable by this point in entering his space, pressing back against him. She's honey and woods, scent curling up at his blind side with the nudge of her cheek to his, encouraging him to turn his face in against hers. ]

At least here, for however long we're caught, you can. I think we could find some beautiful places to get pictures. Now, what do I have to bribe you with to smile? Even just a little.

[ It's held a little higher than eye level to look up into, drawing his cheek in against hers and to angle his horn away from reflecting light, her own coy little smile on the screen beside him. There's no countdown, no "say cheese", just the shutter-click of the camera when he seems to decide on an expression.

She'll trust him to let her lean against him a few more seconds to send herself the picture. (And still not giving it back.) ]

What kind of a question is that? I'm appalled it's taken so long to get a picture with my sweet, handsome friend.

[ "For however long". Right, this is temporary, isn't it— he never forgets, but on some days the thought is less active than others. People come and go (perhaps the reason for why Angela'd seemed less on her toes today; just a speculation), and as much as Venom would like to be the one to leave without a trace, he also knows that even if he won't remember what being next to Angela feels like back when he's home and baking under Afghan sun again, some part of her is always going to be coded into his bones.

So, yeah: he smiles. A sliver of one, with scarred lips angled upwards just a millimeter. Relaxed.

He knows he'll lose her too, but it doesn't hurt too terribly to commemorate her. ]

Sounds like you've taken a picture with the wrong friend. [ Sweet????? Handsome??? Ok, Big Boss is probably handsome, so he can't exactly refute that outright, but.

He breathes into Angela's hair, and watches her relinquish control over his device. He's in no rush to get it back. ]

—Your teammates settled in alright? [ On the subject of friends, though. ]

[ That's one of the reasons, at least. Angela's sure now and then she does forget, and sometimes it scares her. Not the being here, but forgetting that it won't be forever. That she won't always have David, or Jack next door, or Lena dropping in with pasties, or kids crawling up her trees to help her pick apples. Or Ahab's visits and shared earbuds with old music playing. That there is a life she eventually will be going back to poked full of holes with all those losses. There's a split second where that sinks into her expression reflected on the screen— after the first photo is taken and sent to her own TAB, held up for another, but it's gone just as quickly.

It's the knowledge of forgetting everything so important that's happened that really gnaws on her bones. Rends cartilage and rips tendons. She could lay in bed a rag doll some nights just thinking about who's left and that they don't remember their time here, and that one day it'll be her not remembering the gradual ease of her new friends adjusting to her presence and the warmth of their trust in her hands. The way Jack had held onto her so tightly or Jesse's easy drawl still curling in her ears. 'Just here and there, Ang. You know me.' She wants to believe they'll find a way to keep one's memories, somehow. Even if it'd hurt. It'd hurt worse in the here and now to know there'd be those gaping holes in her and not know why they exist once she's home. You can't cure a disease when the symptoms have already flared and there's no underlying cause visible.

His words are what spur her back to action, reflected smile lopsided with her exasperation before she's turning just a pinch playful, one hand coming up to his opposite cheek to hold him in place while she turns her face, camera snapping one last photo a millisecond after she plants a kiss on his cheek. There's one for the photo wall. He can write "Not Mistaken" on the back. She doesn't reply until she's well on her way to forwarding that one, as well, leaning back on him. ]

I have a PhD, you know. I don't make mistakes so easily. And you're perfectly handsome. Here; all yours.

[ He can finally have his TAB back and she'll finally climb back out of his space, hand at his leg to push herself back upright after resting so comfortably against him. Time to get back to work. As for teammates, though... ]

Ah... As far as I'm aware, yes. Though everyone ended up quite scattered throughout the regions. I don't hear from many of them often really, and Genji... [ Ahab should remember him; he'd been camping in her tent with her during their trek, and he was seen at her hip more often than not before the Moira had crashed. ] I don't believe he made it through.

[ The million dollar answer right there. It explains enough, doesn't it? The fine sag of her shoulders even as she's picking her tools back up, her sails falling limp until she could catch her breath to fill them once more. ]

I can only hope he made it back home safely, but I couldn't get an answer one way or the other.

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I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU SOULFULLY WHOOOOAAAAHOOOOOAHHHH'D ME

I SAW MY CHANCE AND I TOOK IT...

FRESHY WITH THAT SNIPER'S FOCUS

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