ᴅʀ. ᴀɴɢᴇʟᴀ ❝ᴍᴇʀᴄʏ❞ ᴢɪᴇɢʟᴇʀ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cadeuces) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2017-02-19 12:00 pm
cadeuces) wrote in thisavrou_log2017-02-19 12:00 pm
( 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![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
clegane or on discord (gauche#5968) and we can work something out! ♥ )
february ● march ● april ● may ● june ● july ● august
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
no subject
As well as how deeply he cared for those around him. He's a good man. And intelligent beyond a doubt. The world has doled out so many shiners with him yet he still walked forward. That took a particular brand of strength she's long-since come to respect.
It should be horrendous how easily he figured it all out.
His words are kind and delivered with care, but still she shakes her head. ]
It shouldn't be anyone's "problem". I should be able to just be glad he's alive. It isn't something I should have to fight over and justify. No one's relationships are so cut and dry. It doesn't simply come down to "someone lied to you" or "what were my feelings for"; it isn't for me to make it about myself. Far more happened beyond my purview.
[ She isn't saying anything he doesn't already know, just... she isn't seeking sympathy nor is she upset. It's nice to tell someone, is all. Finally. Ahab's touch at her neck works back down to her shoulder, relaxing to his touch and then another fraction as he offers her a little squeeze, voice textured on her exhale with a soft hum. Her head tips to press her cheek to his knuckles— just for a moment. ]
You sound as though you speak from experience.
[ Halfway through removing, cleaning, and replacing the wiring now, on the elbow side. The opposite end would be an even larger chore, but this is a steady start as she puzzles out the technology. It's a good distraction for the topic. ]
no subject
It's not something Venom is used to.
(Something about him feels dirty— the part of him that wrings necks and pulls triggers and knows that he's never really been above anything, no. The part of him that sat, baking under sub-Saharan heat, with blood crusting under his nails and the blunt edge of a dead animal between his teeth.)
When Angela's cheek touches the crest of his knuckles, he jerks his fingers up to drum the flat of the back of them against her jaw. Her pulse is steady, and her breath is warm. It's instinct that drives him to rest his chin against her hair for a fraction of a second, as if her fortitude could be infectious. ]
That's easier said than done. [ 'Being glad', that is. But his tone suggests that he's not trying to admonish; it's a solemn admission of something that's probably more pertinent to him than it is to her. He acknowledges the shift, to some extent, and compensates by wrapping the arm he has left to circle Angela's middle.
Don't worry, he's still got her. ] —I've got experience, but I'm not as generous as you are.
no subject
It had hurt, but the pain was manageable. It fades by the day, by the minute, bit by bit. Putting more pain into the world is no way to live life, and she does her best to avoid it.
Everyone had their own ways to live their lives. (Even Venom Snake, with strong fingers about the neck of enemy soldiers and kills in the desert for survival.) This is simply hers. She can take anger and pain and disappointment into herself and wring the energy from it all, discarding the scraps and putting it forth into something better.
Just like this. Her nervous energy poured into repairing his arm because that was far more important, bettering his life and his functionality in the world. A positive butterfly effect.
Angela stills for the press of his fingers beneath her jaw, knuckles to her carotid and feeling the beat of her heart, calmed further from his arrival. Like magnetism, his chin is in her hair again and she can feel half an exhale against her head before he's tipping back out of her space. Did he catch the bug? ]
I suppose it is. I've had some difficulty convincing others that it can be so easy for me when others can't conceive it. [ She knows it's without admonishment. Ahab doesn't throw his judgment around so easily, either. They share that in common as well. Taking the time to analyze situations and feel out their own emotions in regards to it, never acting impulsively. Yet she also realizes how unlikely it is that he agrees with the mindset, even if he doesn't speak up one way or the other. They had drastically different lives when it came down to it, and have chosen to lead them in drastically different ways. For all the ways they're similar, they were also truly not. ] You must feel the same, but you're delicate enough not to argue with me on the topic.
[ There's a healthy dose of mirth with that, gently baiting the hook on that topic to see if he'd share a little more in regards to the discussion— not as it applies to her, but rather, the feeling in general. But then his arm snakes about her stomach and it's reassurance as much as it's warmth and perhaps even an invitation— let a girl dream, but also dig her heels into the gap between cushions and effortlessly slip herself back, up onto his thighs and tipping forward to keep him behind her head, bodily blocking the project in her lap. He's free to displace her as soon as he's had his fill of her. ]
You're just as patient, though. I have a hard time imagining just what could truly rattle you.
[ Proven by the fact that she's just put herself in his lap like a dare to do something about it. ]
no subject
That's difficult. Pain is, in a way, easy to contextualize. Something that can be reduced to simple one-to-one ratios, even if reality is less cut-and-dry.
So it's that complex tangle of cause and effect that Angela carries with her when she pulls up onto his knees. If she weighs more for them, Venom doesn't notice, and that, that's what makes his brows turn down and his lips float upwards in a resigned half-smile, half-wince.
(How do people turn out like her?) ]
...Sometimes the things you learn aren't easy to digest.
[ He trusts her with this sliver of himself; knows that he doesn't have to tell her not to tell anyone else. The couch protests quietly under the concentrated pressure of two bodies in one spot, but Venom keeps Angela in place with the unhurried settle of his single forearm around her middle.
His head tips forward, the bridge of his nose pressing along the curve of Angela's shoulder. ]
Some of those things ruin people. [ 'People'. His grip tightens just a fraction, speaking to a vague runner of protectiveness he feels for his companion's situation. ] Patience might just be what's left over.
no subject
With the weight of that complexity readily accepted, even. ]
Perhaps not easy, no, but the human body is a wonderful thing. Usually all you need is a bit more time.
[ Which is to say, she's confident she can take on anything— even a mysterious little statement like that. Even if it might take a little bit to properly absorb it. It shows in the little smile she turns to give him once she's settled and his arm fits comfortably about her, head tipping in the slightest curiosity to see him wince. But then he's leaning forward and his head comes to rest at her shoulder, and she tips head head against his as she settles into working.
It's a brief lull as she disconnects and reconnects another chunk of wires after a wipe-down, ensuring the connections are clean, and then she's finished the elbow. Her attentions shift to the opposite end at the wrist, settling right into work. With the inner workings streamlined, she can work open the casing about the joints, clean and re-grease everything, and he should be good as new.
She can feel the faintest hint of the shrapnel in his brow at her shoulder when she moves her arm. The cut of his eyepatch ties across the bridge of his nose. All the little things that reaffirm that this is real for both of them, and she's smiling again.
It was always so easy. Just settling into a comfortable place with him. It only falters when he's tightening his hold around her waist with his words, leaning her head against his with a fraction more weight. ]
Are you saying you've been ruined by things you've learned, in your years? I think there's far more to you and me than that.
no subject
Something about it is familiar. History has the tendency to run away from itself: news travels from mouth to mouth, and gives fangs to people who've worn their canines down with their grinding. 76 wears the burdens of these rumors on tired shoulders, and Angela tries to temper them, still.
They both seem like stubborn people.
(Probably why they work so well.)
Venom eases when Angela opens her mouth again, offering him time and companionship in the course of easy facts and rhetorical questions. His grip doesn't relax immediately, but the thumb digging just a millimeter into her skin slowly peels itself away from the jut of her hip. ]
You and me. [ He parrots. His trademark syllables like exhales. ] —Hm.
[ She's right, though. It's not just patience; Venom doesn't just put up with Angela. He wouldn't be here, sharing personal space and parts of his truths, if that were the case. ]
I think I've made myself too comfortable around you. [ A gentle admission of truth, without accusation or sarcasm. ]
no subject
He eases, though it wasn't like she'd disliked his proximity or his hold on her— he hadn't been hurting her where his thumb dug in. Scarcely even noticed. She continues running solvent along the wires she's freed one-handed to cover his arm with her own, threading her fingers between his just long enough to knead the back of his hand, thumb swiping along his.
His voice is a rumble against her shoulderblade, the warmth of his breath skimming through her top. His hum vibrating the air.
He's an intense but familiar presence, and very much here in all these little ways.
Strange to think how easily they slotted into one another's lives, to be this comfortable. They both share companionship and warmth with the other, never batting a lash. They've built trust, had each other's backs, and even here— giving one another their most delicate pieces knowing they'll be taken care of.
For Angela, a glimpse into her heart and her thoughts as he treads the delicate gossamer webbing about the issues to peer through, and for Ahab, a vital appendage at her mercy.
His admission comes and she only smiles, turning her head a fraction against his. ]
Is that so? [ Rather, you don't say— entirely rhetorical, this time. From the woman who's climbed right into his lap like a little girl. In her defense, he'd taken to her presence without a single qualm. ] Is it a problem? To have a friend you can trust.
no subject
The issue of trust is tricky. He suspects that it must've been difficult for 76, as well. It's always these intangibles that cut the deepest, these personal betrayals that linger long after gunshots and knifewounds have twice healed over. It's a problem when the people who start to understand the soft underbelly of what makes you you turn around and grind their heel into that vulnerability, with open arms and soft voices and—
(warm Texan drawls—)
—dispassion.
Or worse, it's a problem when the people who start to fill the spaces between the simple concept of trust die. Conceptually speaking, the practical thing to do when your ranks thin is to replenish; emotionally speaking, it's never been that cut-and-dry. Not for Venom, not even when he wanted to be.
He's quiet for a long moment after Angela's question, eye closed and nose brushing along the seam of his companion's collar. Too close to feign an effort at keeping his friend at arm's length, too close to posture. The smart thing to do would be to straighten back up. He doesn't. ]
No. [ When he finally opens his mouth again, it's with conviction. Warm breath, a millimeter away from skin-to-skin contact. ] I trust you. With everything I have left.
[ No rhetoricals, no hypotheticals. He's done enough skirting. ]
no subject
As with all things, she's settled into her rhythm.
It's even another point of his trust that he doesn't feel the need to watch her, a testament to his faith in her abilities when he isn't protective of the limb.
Angela gets it— what it means to trust someone so deeply. When your life was volatile and filled with opportunities to be betrayed and hurt, to be cut down inch by inch in wounds one can't possibly heal from. Eventually, people toppled. Some sooner rather than later. There's simply nothing for it but to weigh risk and reward, carefully doling out your trust and hoping it isn't another inch lopped off.
Sometimes those pieces one hands out come back to them, but often they don't. Lost forever. Angela hadn't been expecting substantial pieces of her returned, in the form of Jack and Ana and Gabriel— even Jesse, who she'd been prepared to never see again. Genji.
The permanence could be too much to bear.
She could never do that to someone and would fight if she had to. She'd stay in this place as long as necessary if it meant those she cares about won't be left alone. Until they can all return as well. If she'll be returned whence she came, then where's the harm in that?
Ahab noses along the curve of her neck and he never draws away from her, never shrugs her hands off or tenses when she leans against him. Even here with a difficult topic, when one would often distance themselves for a moment to think, he seems to do better curled over her and staying close, the knit of her top soft against bare skin. If she really focused she can feel the thicker twists of scar tissue littering his front. She's halfway through the wrist connections when he answers, hands slowing to a stop.
The answer comes so seriously, after all. What's she to do but turn and meet that head-on?
Her smile's entirely fond, lips skimming just below his eyebrow but not quite the corner of one closed eye to reward the surprisingly straightforward reply, reaching up to lay a hand on the opposite side of his head. Don't mind her gentle pat there before settling, smoothing over sun-faded hair. ]
That's still quite a hefty bit, you know. You're no small man. [ But she shouldn't be teasing. ] It's an honor to have that trust, Ahab. I know it doesn't come so easily in your line of work.
I hope you know you have mine, as well.
[ Then it's her brow to his, lashes teasing at his cheek. ]
no subject
So Venom makes a mental etching of Angela's smile, radiating from just to his side. Under those thick lashes, as gentle as the fingers in his hair. One detail at a time.
If he's going to hurt sometime, he might as well hurt fondly.
He laughs, low and warm under his breath. ]
I can work with that.
[ With his one eye open and his scarred brow coming to rest along Angela's cheekbone, he taps his remaining hand along her knee. A steady pat-pat in time to his heartbeat. ]
—Feeling better?
[ 'You're okay?', redux. The entire point of his excursion, the entire reason why he's still draped behind her, chin to shoulder. ]
no subject
Her current company knows how painful it is not to remember. Minds as sharp as theirs didn't take so kindly to blurred scenery and gaps in the road. A handful of hugs. The moment she'd found out 76 was Jack and he'd clung to her. She had a bad habit of letting others have their fill but never taking her own— and then there's Ahab, who offers her what she offers others, what she's offered him time and again. That bit of selfishness that doesn't pull away after an appropriate amount of time. He's always too good to her.
In the midst of soaking her in, her fingers splay about the shrapnel in his brow and settle carefully, nails sifting through his hair with the rhythmic curl of her fingers that falls somewhere between their breathing patterns. Nearly synchronized.
It's his laugh that really leaves her relaxing into him, inch by inch, sinking deeper as time ticks by until she's fitted against him near-perfectly. Her teeth flash just to hear it, smiling a little wider every time. He's starting to grow into it— that easier laugh.
"I can work with that", like her trust was an unwieldy tool in his arsenal to learn. It leaves her huffing her amusement and shaking her head slowly, nuzzling against him with the motion as his hand slips from her waist to pat her knee, the heat of his arm sinking right through her leggings. ]
...I am, yes. Thank you for listening.
[ For being here. For insisting so gently. For staying close enough to feel his heartbeat at her back, knowing the touch at her knee aligned with it. her head rests against his as she puts the finishing touches on reconnected wires, having cleaned out the interior of the arm and weeded out no small portion of dead wiring. She fixes the carbon sleeve back in place to protect the innards again, carefully adjusting the tight weave to fix gaps where stray bits of shrapnel or otherwise had punctured through and let in desert sand. Connections all clean and tightened properly, and now to clean up and oil the joints. A far quicker process as she begins piecing off the casings of each digit.
If only she had better words to convey how much this all meant to her. There are little ways he'll understand it even without being spoken aloud, she's sure, especially in the gentle rise of her shoulder that her head tips into, a pale imitation of a hug, but it was still nice to hear it straight sometimes. Instead: ]
Will you stay a little longer?
[ Once she's finished. ]
no subject
He gives her a point of focus on her knee, fingers curled inwards with enough pressure to let her know that he's steady, that he hears her. When she reciprocates with her own touch, airy and affable, he relents his half-grip and smooths his thumb over her leggings to soothe the unevenness he'd left under his palm.
It's easy. Simple and uncomplicated, but important.
Venom is a rattlesnake that employs his warnings far more often than he uses his fangs; venomous snakes are often the most shy, and often the most territorial. Give him a family to protect, and he'll run himself ragged.
So he coils around Angela when she fits up against him, covers the smaller body to bolster the virtue of her trust. ]
Don't thank me. [ Despite his words, his voice is warm. ] Thank your patriot for being alive.
[ He's sure that 76 will make it up to her. They have the time to do it.
That said: ] Yeah. I'll stay.
no subject
Even without the touch at her knee, she knows. Her nails slip back out of his hair and along the shrapnel cool to the touch mere millimeters from his skin, feeling the squeeze at her knee give way to the smoothing of rough fingertips. Callouses scraping over cotton, audible and pleasant even as she feels the snags nearly tickling her leg.
It is important, and easy and uncomplicated. If only life would follow this example in this moment. Just as important as the way he curls around her, a warm shield to protect her from who knows what in this world, his weight pleasant and knowing she could be in no better hands. It shouldn't be this easy, but here they were. Fitting perfectly and coiled together, strengthening one another to stand tall so far from home and comfort. Creating their own. ]
I already have; he didn't take to it so well, I'm afraid. All I can do is hope it'll grow on him. But I can thank you, too. For everything. Your company's always a relief, Ahab.
[ For this, and all facets it has entailed; it was no easy task to admitting to being lonely when surrounded by one's 'family', yet in this moment, for these troubles, she'd been alone. Roundabout it may be, it was still sincere— her thanks and her admittance. She's picked the plating off of one digit, flushed and re-lubricated the joint, fitted it back together— and onto the next, and the next, the mindless monotony of it drawing her in. Once she'd figured out the first, the rest go easily, old grease wiped away on a clean cloth to gather all filaments and granules of dirt and sand and grime up until it comes away clean. There's resistance in moving the digits without power behind it, but it still moves far more silently and smoother than before. No clicking. (Not yet, at least.)
His acquiescence is met with another smile, something relieved as the last scrap of tension leaves her body, relaxed against him in full and legs curling up beneath her workspace in her lap to tuck her toes in the depths of the couch. She doesn't reply aloud; didn't need to, likely. He'd know she's thankful for it. Eventually, however, that silence and warmth and his easy hold on her gets the better of her.
It was only two fingers left to do, but busy hands slow and go limp, her weight easing further— she's fallen asleep in the curl of his body around hers.
She'll find the time to be properly embarrassed later, certainly. ]
no subject
So Venom uses his third-party status to his utmost. No preconceptions or pre-packed stipulations, no shared past to color the decisions he makes now, in the present. To him, Angela is a companion whose work has stilled to accommodate her fatigue— there's no judgment call there, aside from the gentle relief that sits warmly in his subconscious.
She's finally getting some well-deserved rest.
Carefully, Venom picks the heavy prosthesis from between Angela's relaxed palms to set it aside, to free her for ginger maneuvering across his lap. He assumes her in a strategic position with her head at his chest and her legs up and across the couch, laid out where he can put his palm on her waist, anchoring her in place.
(Maybe this is how he felt, back when his affiliation was one word apart from Médecins Sans Frontières. Maybe this is still him, a medic at heart when everything else has burned and been left for dead.)
His breathing is steady and his expression is open, warm in a way he wouldn't be able to identify. Sifting his fingers through her hair, Venom sits back and hopes that Angela's dreams treat her well. ]
no subject
It's a testament to her relaxation and trust in Ahab that she doesn't so much as stir when he shifts her, gentle and careful and terribly precise as he works his prosthetic from her hands and lets her sink between splayed legs and slide across his front, bone-limp and pliant to fit right against him as her shoulders give into the turn, nearly front-to-front. Once he's steadied her, she stays, ever the easy sleeper. No tossing and turning, no splaying, no muttering. His heartbeat strong in one ear keeps her floating along, the ebb and flow of her dreams matching his tempo for a change, his breathing anchoring her when so often it's the opposite.
Skin to skin, body warm and strong beneath her weight and fingers lifting from her waist to thread through her hair, pale gold parting to a nimble touch that only casts her out further from the shore. All these things combined keep her dozing for over an hour, well beyond a power nap and far, far more restful. Ask her another time, even months from now, and it'll still probably be the best sleep she's had in recent memory.
Having a living, breathing companion beside you makes all the difference, really.
But eventually she does stir, and it's nothing he's done. Instincts overridden, but not for long— slow and shallow breathing picks up, her lashes flutter against his skin, and eventually her eyes crack open. It's a long bleary moment as she turns her cheek in against him, senses filled with him, his scent and the beat of his heart and his warmth, his touch having since stilled in her hair and arm anchored about her shoulders, and she very nearly gives into the primal tug deep down that lulls her back to sleep.
It's fine, this is comfortable, familiar. "You're in good hands." A truth that blankets her and tries to soothe her back down. Except she isn't used to these things, nice though they may be. As if someone'd snapped their fingers, she goes rigid and sucks in a quiet breath, one arm anchoring her as her hand sinks into the cushion of the couch, trying to peel away from him as carefully as possible.
Lest she disturb him, if he's fallen asleep. No small part of her is mortified, quite frankly, even as she knows he wouldn't mind mind. Because it all comes back as she's reeled back to shore, back within the range of the waves crashing at the sand, threatening her with that very same rude awakening. She'd fallen asleep on him. Right in his lap, with him curled around her. No wonder. ]