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

[ It happens again, this morning: Venom's mental track list skips a few songs on its way from Track 1 to Track 5, stutters midway through Track 6, and gets stuck in the crossfade. What he knows is that he left his home sometime between now and sunrise, that he must have smoked in the interim— his mouth still tastes acrid, a byproduct of the genuine article instead of the electronic substitute— and that he can't remember a fucking thing about how he managed to end up here, back pressed against a cool wall in a dim backstreet alley.

He takes a second to retch his discomfort into a nearby dumpster. All that comes out is stomach acid, which makes him smile grimly to himself. Good, it's not that he doesn't remember eating— he just hasn't.

The fact of the matter is that dissociation isn't rare or novel to Venom anymore; it just is, the way some people are daydreamers or compulsive nail-biters. Sometimes he takes a left turn and finds himself eye-to-eye with people he knows better than to believe are still alive, but that's the reality of it: some parts of him are irreparably off-kilter, and it's better to know those faults than to ignore them.

Still, this whole fiasco with the asteroid hasn't helped. Exhibit A: having to wipe his grimy lips on the back of his sleeve, to spit bile out of the corner of his mouth. Having to list the NATO phonetic alphabet to make sure he keeps himself here, in the moment. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta.

(It's a little pathetic, he knows it.)

After three sets of 26, his hands are still shaking. The nausea hasn't abated despite the emptiness that's made a home in the back of his skull.

Clearly, he only has one option left to him.

He calls a friend. ]

—Angela.

[ Is what he says when she picks up. Baritone run over hot coals. ] You at home right now?

[ Angela knows something's wrong the moment she answers the phone. It's the way he says her name, each syllable eroded by stomach acid, the thickness of voice that follows no matter how much you swallow. The slightest nasal quality from irritated sinuses.

It's a greeting and a warning, and the bustle of the market is a very quiet drone in the background. She was already walking home. ]

Not at the moment, but I was heading back from the market. What's wrong?

[ Her own reply comes at length, tired to the bone. The nightmares hadn't been kind on any of them, though they didn't have much effect on her beyond depriving her of much-needed rest each night. The circles under her eyes were covered with makeup and powdered up, yet it was still about the fringes. It was easy to extrapolate the fact that something was plaguing all who visited the asteroid— familiar faces she'd spied during her stay all haggard and sallow, and fool that she was, she hadn't even thought to check with Ahab.

Perhaps he's beating her to the punch. ]

[ He knows. He's not stupid enough not to, he's not blind enough not to have connected the dots. The asteroid is the common denominator, the main point of contention, and Angela was also there— he knows that she should be as sleepless as he is, that this is just as baffling to her.

That knowledge is usually enough to dredge his sense of duty back up from the mire, but for once, his words betray him. ]

Do you—

[ —remember seeing me, is on the tip of his tongue. It sounds just as absurd to him in his mind as it would in vocalization, so he stamps it out. Rephrases. ]

—Do you have time right now. [ A pregnant pause here, thick with the sound of swallowing. Venom's inflection is flat, perhaps too measured. ] I can find you.

[ Word of the nightmares, at the very least, had spread. It was affecting them all— everyone who went through decontamination to explore and had given over to swabs and fluid collections, some allowing more thorough scrapings and samples, fewer still going the full monte and seeking modifications via advanced technology present. It was near enough to "everyone" that had visited to be clear, even if the nuances within were less so.

Shiro had reached out to her, and she'd heard of a few others filtering through the hospital(s) once back on Thisavrou. She should have thought to contact Ahab and see if he was all right.

With the way he fails in his words, always so carefully chosen, she could kick herself. On top of everything else, even having only glimpsed the iceberg with him, she should have known.

His tone is off and he's struggling, and her heart's about in her throat with how her worry tries to choke her. She sharpens, alert, but when she speaks she's about as restored as she could get. Soothing, complaisant, steady. Still a pinch weary, but never too much so to see her dearest friend even on the good days. ]

Of course I do; always for you, whether I had the day off or no. I'm heading for the trolley. Are you near any of the stops?

[ She can wait at the one she's boarding, or simply flag him down once he boards elsewhere along the line. There are only so many between the market and her stop at Region 2, after all, and hers was the very first, with one of the first plots of land making for a short walk. After only a moment to wait and considering, she hastily adds: ]

You aren't hurt, are you?

[ Good question— is he near any of the stops? Angela'd be able to hear the faint rustle of fabric scraping along concrete, a body lifting off of a wall, soft footsteps moving along pavement. Testament to the fact that the man on the other end of the line doesn't exactly know where he's found himself.

His reply comes after a delay, but this time, with more conviction. ] —Yeah. Near the last stop in R1, bound for R2.

[ Which means that it's 22 minutes, tops, from where he is to the market, even factoring in the 15-minute wait he'll have to put up with if he narrowly misses the next train. The mental calculations help; a countdown to seeing Angela is the most welcome mental activity he's undergone all day.

He breathes, and starts walking. ]

I'm not hurt. [ He toys with the idea of leaving it at that, but: ] Wouldn't be asking about your schedule if I was.

[ And god, it feels good to be able to say that to her, dry joke or no. ]

[ It's the time between that increases that cold pit of worry in her, the anxious drum of her heart the longer it takes for him to speak, to answer such a simple question.

Was he lost? Or did he forget? A gap in his memory, perhaps... If he wasn't injured then that should mean no one attempted to jump him or knock him unconscious. Except then she worries deeper for what it meant otherwise. She listens intently as she walks, keeping the two totes full of groceries over one shoulder from rustling at her side to pick up any little cues in the audio, the sound of him climbing to his feet and walking with a longer stride than her own, getting his bearings.

She gets her answer, though, on both fronts. And she lets out a relieved little huff, steps mincing in a power-walk to get to the stop faster. To lay eyes on him quicker, splitting the seconds like it'd do her any good. ]

That's not too far, then, and I'm glad to hear as much. Though it looks like I just missed this trolley by a few minutes. Did you want to stay put or shall I?

[ It's just a waiting game, now, but the question is a quiet nod to whichever he's more comfortable doing at the moment— sitting or moving. She'll meet him in the middle. It's all just time to waste until the inevitable, until she can get a good look at him, ask the harder questions and see him righted as best she can. It will be a little more than fixing a maladjusted limb settled on his body to soothe an irritation, but when has she ever turned down a challenge?

Until then, they have an open line of communication and plenty to talk about. ]

It wouldn't be the first time you've tried to pull the wool over my eyes, Ahab. You play things off like it's your second nature. Give a lady reason to worry once and you just have to deal with the fallout.

[ The relief was in his voice and she'll meet him in this, too. The light teasing, the conversation made. It eases the mood before her amusement diffuses with the breeze, gentle, and her concern is threading through her tone again. ]

What do you last remember, about where you are?

[ The scenery rolls by for Venom as topography and landmarks, pale imitations of meaningful places meant to be inhabited and worn in. His heels scuff over crosswalks, and for a brief second, he recalls the memory of grinding his soles against hot tarmac to make sure that his combat boots hadn't melted into the metal.

He smells burning rubber in his mind, bites back the second wave of nausea and concentrates on the sound of Angela's voice. She offers him volumes in the span of a few sentences— options, courses of action, her honest opinion— and they're all met with invisible responses from him, be it a low exhale that she should know comes with an imperceptible nod on his part, or the elevated one-two beat of his feet hitting pavement more quickly than before. ]

Stay where you are. I'll come to you.

[ The insistence is coming from a place of equal parts obstinacy and reassurance that he can do this, that his feet can still take him exactly where he needs to be, inhibited or no. He can still find her— he can still crawl through the guts of this planet and come out with blood on his face, blood in his eye, to put his hand on her shoulder.

He can, and he would. That's the promise. (Why he feels the need to make it, that's the question.)

A signpost whizzes by, followed by lettering on walls that he doesn't care to read. This way to station, maybe. It doesn't matter, because he can hear the grinding mechanism of the trolley without needing to rely on directions. ]

What I remember. [ He parrots. The sigh he levels almost sounds exasperated, but the sentiment is directed at himself. ] You mean how I got there?

All right, then. A little walking never hurt anyone after all. Gets the heart going, right?

[ Another quiet tip offered to him. To focus on the measured beat of his heart, to keep count. If it's quick, slow his breathing and draw it out— if it's sluggish, walk a little faster.

Meanwhile, the scenery on her end is at a standstill. Her bags weigh down one shoulder, leaving her almost-imperceptibly off-kilter, arm bent to cover her ear on the side not occupied by the TAB. She's 100% keyed into Ahab's voice, the sounds around him, that soft exhale that leaves her perfectly picturing his nod because yes, it's all familiar.

It's almost unfortunate how well they ground one another only to be apart so often. It hasn't been so long since she's last seen him and still she misses him, a small part of her glad it won't be much longer until he's beside her even if it's floundering beneath the tidal waves of worry, steady at the shore.

Angela has no doubt he'll make it, because if anyone, she knows he won't lie about his well-being— not to her. She'll await him patiently, continue speaking to him in a tone not meant to disrupt his own focus unless he needed it in that moment. ]

A bit of both. You sounded like you didn't know where you were.

[ Venom trots up a short flight of stairs, pushes past the turnstiles to where the trolley is on its way out, whistling in warning of its departure. He almost fumbles his TAB where he has it tucked between jaw and shoulder, mumbling a sorry in apology to the stern-faced alien species that he jostles on his way in.

That should give Angela an ETA: 4 minutes, tops.

He isn't exactly thrilled with the new arrangement— too many bodies, too little exits— but once again, he swerves his consciousness right back to the voice at his ear. It reminds him of being out in the field, receiving briefs as he wades through sand and grit.

These are the important things. These are the important people.

Now, more than ever, he just wants to see Angela. ]

—I'll fill you in. [ The small train rattles on its tracks, making Venom's teeth click. ] It's about what I've told you before.

...Probably better to talk about it in person.

[ His weaknesses aren't for just anyone to eavesdrop on, after all. In this moment, they're meant for Angela only. ]

[ Backtracking just to touch base with her sooner, lengthening the time until they get to her home— she hears the quick little rush as he boards the trolley, the odd scrape of his beard over the mic, sandwiched between canvas and skin, but it sounds like he boards. There's a brief period of shuffling bodies and the din of voices, but he likely turns around to sequester himself in a corner before turning his attention back to her.

If he's on the line, though, it'd only be a few minutes. She's glad— quicker than she expected. The least she can do is keep him company; it'd make the time fly by for them both. It feels like it's been too long since she's last laid eyes on him, exacerbated further by her worry. ]

You're right, yes. It can wait until we're back at my house. [ So until then: ] How's DD? I feel like it's been years. He must have lost his winter coat by now.

[ And beyond that, until he arrives, it'll be idle pleasantries. Telling him briefly what she plans on cooking, how Eiger caught one of those runaway lemurs from Region 3, how she had to chase it off with a broom because it kept trying to break into the house and was making a mess of her apple trees. Things to keep him focused on her instead of the train, whittling down their ETA. ]

[ He minces semantics with Angela all the way to his destination, talks about DD as if his hand isn't sweat-slicked with exertion and hums into the mouthpiece of his TAB when Angela tells him about benign disasters in the comfort of her home. Whenever it sounds like he may be wandering— that pervasive emptiness corroding in his skull since the asteroid, tugging on his sleeve for attention— Angela seamlessly segues into another charming anecdote, one that he rolls between his teeth and volleys a response to.

She pulls him back, time and time again, and his eventual reciprocation is that he steps out of the train to find her in the crowd. ]

—4 o'clock, coming in hot.

[ His voice should come in duplicate, over the TAB and just to her southeast. Kindly put, he looks like shit— but he always does, just a little, with his disheveled hair and unkempt beard, his sleeplessness etched into dark patterns under his eyes. Black shirt, black eyepatch, dark pants. Red prosthetic tucking his communicator into his pocket, Venom pushes past a throng of commuters to stride towards Angela, palm wiping subtly along the knee of his pants.

He looks at her, split-second hesitation stilling his hands. Caught between confidence in her and caution against wishful thinking; no, I'm not just seeing things. ]

Edited (i see you, fuckin spelling error) 2017-05-25 05:09 (UTC)

[ She knows he's shaky, imbalanced and fighting to keep his pieces pulled together, hearing the occasional moments where he strays and starting up some new little thing connected to previous bits, bite-sized. A narrative he can swallow without choking, self-contained yet familiar little stories to get him through without jarring him too badly by changing subjects, knowing she has his full attention.

His replies come short as ever, but she knows he's immersed in them all the same. Angela's parked herself up on fountain ledge near enough to the stop to see, just far enough to separate her from the crowd and make her easy to spot— a quick trot away. Her knees are drawn up in front of her and the totes rest against her side, one strap slipping off her shoulder and smiling as she continues to chat with him, eyes almost closed where she watches the drum of her fingers before her.

The trolley stop bell sounds on her TAB but not beyond, yet the sound of the trolley is unmistakable. When he notes her 4 o'clock, she perks right up and unfurls from her seat, bags left alone just long enough for her eyes to scan and find him.

He stands a head and shoulders above most in the crowd, that jut of shrapnel catching the sun, hearing the latter half as an echo— his voice here, for real, and a touch tinny in one ear. Her thumb swipes the device and it's also tucked away to free up her hands, smile widening as she turns toward him and takes a couple quick steps toward him.

And those very same hands are held out for his, shoulders drawing up in that cozy little show of elation, contrasting the crease of worry furrowing between her brows. The concern is there, immediate, but quiet. She takes him in with the subtle periphery of a medic, not obviously staring through him head to toe even as she feels about him, extending those feelers and minding him. Exhausted and sleepless, harried, unkempt more than usual. He at least rakes his fingers through his hair to tie it back each day and scuffs his palms over his jaw enough that his whiskers lay flat, tidier than they certainly could be on any other day but today. It's not good, is what she sees. Whatever was plaguing him.

Angela wants nothing more than to reach up and cover his cheeks, smooth down his scruff and right his hair a little better, help him hide that weariness from the world. But she can fuss in a bit— she never approaches him so outright, least of all when something's gnawing at him. She's glad to see him, though, above all else. If he'll give her his hands, they're going to be drawn right up between them near enough to her face that he'll know exactly what comes next. ]

Ahab— that was quick. Come sit down for a moment...? The opposite trolley will be a few minutes yet.

[ She has water, once he's thrown the rope to dock and she can wrap it about herself to anchor him close. And the fountain's nice. Just enough of a mist to be pleasant. ]

Edited 2017-05-25 06:36 (UTC)

[ Sometimes when a man wears his exhaustion like a second skin, when 'disheveled' becomes the expected standard, a man can hide his troubles in plain sight. It's a form of camouflage of its own, in the same way that all a chameleon really needs to do to hide in the thicket is to turn just a deeper shade of its original coloration. Venom's scars may cut a little deeper than usual today, but isn't that normal for him? No one that has a horn in his head and an eyepatch bisecting his face is ever going to look fresh-faced and spry, after all.

Still, he knows that there are things that he won't be able to keep from a keen eye. He doesn't need to be wringing human remains out of his hair or wiping refuse from his eye to be tired or in pain; Angela has always been able to reach right to the crux of the problem and cradle the cause in her hands, bare-skinned and willing to let the mess stain under her fingernails.

It's what Venom'd dreaded at first; incidentally, it's also what he likes most about her now.

Still. When Angela takes his hands and leans forward, Venom pulls the artificial wrist back from her grip to pull the back of his metal hand over his mouth. He can still taste the rancid stomach acid in the back of his teeth, an unsavory first impression to leave if Angela decides to come closer. ]

...Don't remember if I brushed my teeth this morning. [ He makes light of it, ignores the way his stomach turns again to quirk a brief half-smile at Angela that doesn't quite reach his eye. ] But, yeah. We can sit.

[ The furrow of her brows and her open concern are reason enough to keep Venom from contesting, so he sets one of her bags of shopping aside to assume a perch on the edge of the fountain, right where the water jumps the hardest. ]

[ If only life were always so easy to fool, no? Not everyone could have the wool pulled over their eyes, and Angela is especially keen at seeing through those threadbare fibers. And he's allowed her close enough to see the subtle differences, to know him on a better level than most, and she won't be the one to blow his cover. Ahab carries his demeanor in his eye, in his body language— fresh-faced or no, there were ways to read him. She's still learning, but she would have the ego to say she's confident she could tell when something was wrong. Maybe even be in the right ballpark with a guess, depending.

These things weren't iodine. They wouldn't stain her skin or yellow her nails; she doesn't mind delving right into the matter if it meant improving someone's life, better yet if it was something that she could excise and cure. She could just wash her hands after. She can handle the mess of the moment for what it would help in the long-run.

Angela doesn't expect him to tug a hand back, but she lets him go without a fuss and continues to draw the organic hand up between them where she can bring thick knuckles to her lips in greeting before flattening a rough palm against her cheek (she's right here, in case those hallucinations were wreaking havoc), brows pinching in light-hearted exasperation with the voiced warning.

Because bad breath was her biggest worry. Far more rancid things had passed under her nose without turning her stomach— she can deal with this. That's what friends were for. She holds her hand out patiently for the sleek red one once more, fully intending to take those few steps backwards and draw him along like she couldn't take her eyes off him. (It's more fondness than worry.) ]

I may have you beat— coffee and carb breath. [ At least he controls himself better than to go green around the gills, but that shallow smile is something she hasn't seen in a very long time. He'd been getting so much better about sincerity, after all. It's what really draws her worry out as they settle back on the ledge and the fine mist cools their backs, refreshing at the nape of her neck and the breeze drying it on their clothes before it had the chance to dampen them terribly.

She keeps ahold of one hand, fishing around in one tote with the other to produce: one(1) bottle of infused water (grapefruit, ginger, and some herb she couldn't quite place) to place between them, already a fraction gone with her lip color at the lid, and one(1) sourdough baguette, still warm from the bakery. She does need to reclaim her hand to rip into the baguette, but she never pulls away from him.

If he really wanted to, he could leave his resting atop the back of her hand. She is often just that gentle. ] You don't look like you've had much to eat yet, or drink. Or sleep, for that matter. Here, if you'll try.

[ The doctor's already popping little chunks of bread into her mouth; she expects him to do the same with the offered hunk she's torn off. Didn't even need butter. This would have to be a start. ]

[ His breathing settles in time to the rise and fall of Angela's chest, scattered focus drawing back to center from where she makes contact, lips to knuckle to hand to hand. He pieces together his cognizance like a puzzle, fitting actions and statuses in sequential order from most important to least.

It's only when an incoming breeze whips at his mussed hair that Venom realizes how slick with sweat he is. ]

—I'll take the water.

[ Keeping the bread down is more trouble than it's worth right now; he has some dregs of pride to safeguard, even after his shitshow of a morning. If he's going to bend himself over to throw up, he'd rather do it in the comfort of Angela's bathroom, not a public fountain.

(He's tired of being Public Enemy No. 1 for the day.)

Palm-up to refuse the morsel of food, he reaches for the lipstick-stained flavored water and puts his mouth right over the pink-coated rim. The contents of the bottle taste exactly the way he'd expect Angela to— refreshing and clean— and it's such an absurd thing to mull over that he almost chokes on the water as it goes down his throat.

Mercifully, he keeps himself from spitting all over Angela's clothes. Just a mild cough, which he curses about under his breath in mangled Russian that he learned as a joke from— Ocelot? Sly Ox? Viper?

So much for keeping everything down. Venom turns to the side, puts a palm over his mouth, and just barely manages not to waste Angela's offering in rippling water. ]

[ He takes his moments generously, milking every millisecond from them as he begins to align his breathing to hers and she settles into a familiar count, thumbs smoothing over one or both hands— whatever he had given her. She waits patiently, brows only furrowing further as the effort he expends has him perspiring, but she won't reach up to mop his brow (just yet).

The last thing Angela wants to do is interrupt him as he gathers himself and seems to center. Stabilize notch by notch, like finding a clear station on an old radio. Fine-tuning his presence to lock out the static. She holds off until they're sitting, until his fingers have wrapped around the cool glass bottle and the fruit within shifts to the roll of his wrist, and then she's tugging her sleeve down to press to his brow. A light linen for the season, finally, something embroidered in soft blues. Careful around the shrapnel, but largely mopping him up as he takes a sip.

She's barely drawn her hand away before it's swished in his mouth for that brief second and it catches in his throat on the way down, his stomach rolling and clenching— her hand's at his back and she's on her feet quicker than his own flies up to cover his mouth, giving chase as he twists away to the side.

If there had been any doubt before that he's ill or something was wrong, it's so many coins in the fountain jingling free of her pocket. Her touch soothes down his spine, stroking his back to help his core relax and fingertips coming away damp from the small of his back, cool. Was he ill? Was it something from the asteroid? She doesn't even concern herself with contamination— if it had been, she would be catching up sooner or later, having been there too. For now she's fine, and she hones her focus in on the man beside her, pressing one cool hand to his brow as he catches his breath. ]

You're all right, sweetheart, just keep breathing. Slow and steady. Wrong pipe?

[ He breathes, and it feels like inhaling dust. Air whistles through his teeth, reedy, and it's only when he can fully grasp that Angela is touching him that he rounds on her with a vehemence that she should recognize from soldiers with some form of PTSD; they forget themselves, where they are. The blurred line between 'safe' and 'danger' diminish even further, and everything requires a second look, a reconfirmation.

Still, it's a testament to Venom's self-control that when he puts his hands on her, palms on either side of Angela's face, he does so with utmost care. Fingers shaking, holding back from curling and applying painful pressure.

(It doesn't matter that I can't remember, he tells himself.) ]

Nausea. [ He says, by way of explanation. His thumb skitters over the ridge of Angela's cheekbone, stops at the corner of one brilliantly-blue eye. ] It'll pass.

—Don't move. [ "For me" is left unsaid, because it sounds too much like pleading to be comfortable; it eats at him that this is what Angela has to see of him, but he needs this, needs her stability. ]

[ Except he does reconfirm, evaluates her touch as friendly and pulls himself back, his every breath hollow behind his hand, and she stands just as steady for him. Doesn't pull away or press further from what she'd instigated, maintains the connection. There's no one around to set him on edge; it's just the two of them within view of the EN-Line stop, and the steady splash of the fountain. That brief moment of dizziness and nausea had swept him away, but he's fighting to get his feet back on the ground. For just that split moment he was wild and ready to fight, losing his place, but everything she exudes is calm and safe. That there's no reason for alarm. Nothing is happening and there's no reason to fight.

Sometimes that's the hardest truth of all, for a soldier. No purpose and no orders beyond the ones she gives, to just breathe. Assuring him that he's all right; something he had to take into himself and believe.

When he reaches for her, she doesn't so much as blink. His touch is welcome and she isn't afraid of him, a little quirk of a smile leaving her cheek twitching into his flesh-and-blood palm, nearly drawing her hand from his brow until he's telling her not to move. So she won't. Won't even nod her acknowledgment that she's heard him, instead offering it up as a soft hum, that yes, this is nausea. Yes, it will pass. Even as his hands shake, he's gentle with his touch, stroking over her face and along the fine structure, thumb settling at the corner of her eye. She closes them for the tease of long lashes against his skin, one long moment, before opening them again. She's looking right at him and believes every word she's said. ]

I won't. Not much. [ Because she will a little bit— her words preface the way she flutters down to perch on one of his knees, moving slowly and weight settling, the tangle of their arms perfectly accommodating. She continues to stroke his back, the opposite elbow resting at his shoulder where she's pressed cool fingers to his brow and her thumb skates between his brows, soothing the bridge of his nose. Once she's settled, she breathes out a soft "there" and maintains eye contact, patient and warm. See? Not much. She can be steadier for him while sitting, instead of bent forward. Whatever she can offer, he has it. He should know this intimately, in the very fibers of their friendship. ] Just take your time; I'm sorry if I pushed.

[ They can always take the next train. Or the one after that. They won't move until he's ready. ]

[ It helps, that Angela never responds with shock or surprise. Where people would start sounding alarms or pulling at his sleeves for his pulse or perspiration, she remains attentive to her principles and their mutual comfort. The hand at his back and the mopping of his brow is practical, yes, but it never veers into the territory of clinical professionalism— Venom knows that whenever she feels for him, she's doing so because she wants to. Not just for some perceived quid pro quo, and not just for the benefit of her 'patient'.

The understanding stills Venom's hands. It helps him put things into perspective. He smells warm florals mixed with fountain water, like waking to a patch of flowers under the shade of an old tree in Zaire.

Angela always smells gentle.

And really, Venom knows he has nothing to prove when it comes to Angela, so he slowly peels his hands off from that familiar face, meets her smile head-on, and curls sideways towards where his companion is settled on his knee. ]

—You're good. [ A long, slow exhale, and Venom puts his hand on Angela's shoulder. ] I might want to use your shower when we get to yours.

[ Look at him, not even asking if he can. He knows she'll say yes. ]

[ Were his heart racing or pounding terribly hard, she would have felt it where her fingertips brush his temple— it isn't the best indication, no, but it is still enough to go by. Once he's calmed further she can touch his neck and be sure, but going for a vital area or closing a hand about his wrist would have only set him further on edge if he was checked out. This is easier to take; it gets the job done, it's soothing, and more importantly, he's comfortable with it.

More than anything, she wants him to feel better. It hurts her to see him suffering and in pain, confused, but still he'd come to her. She can keep it to herself because no, he isn't just a patient— he's her dearest friend, and he needs the steady parts of her that know just how to handle the situation. Her years of experience battling PTSD and dissociation, of handling skittish soldiers used to sub-par care and being able to hide their truths and hurts. And eventually the flavor of her touch seeps through and reaches him, and the trembling of his fingers stills at her cheeks, smiling wider into his palms and smoothing her hand at his brow up over his hair, righting some messy strands to brace the nape of his neck as he curls forward, into her.

Where she can hug him that little bit closer and further narrow his world down to her, kneading at him gently. He's slick with sweat here too, but she can feel his pulse. He's calming significantly. She softens with her gladness and recovers her water for a sip herself, holding the cool glass bottle between them in easy access. Beneath the sweat and grime, the acrid peak of his confusion, he's familiar leather baked in the sun, canvas and metal, the inert softness of the lubricant she'd used fixing up his arm. So when he's close enough, her lips find his hairline where the tie of his eyepatch disappears, humming soft. ]

Of course. I should have some pants to fit you; I'll launder what you have on in the meantime. [ All just idle things to speak, period, to give him something to listen to. Direction and order. ] Whatever helps. I want to see you feeling better, and not just trying a front so I'll be relieved. I know how you work, dear.

[ Because she knows he'd opt for the bare minimum and try to move forward on that alone, too. ]

[ His pulse's calmed from the initial breakneck staccato Angela would have felt when she first put her hands on him, ebbed into a reasonable one-two that gives his lungs enough space to breathe without his heart hammering a warning against his ribs. Angela's palm is cool and soft against the uneven planes of his skin, and it prompts Venom to instinctively tilt the flush of his cheek into the contact.

He recovers in increments, but he recovers. The world takes on a familiar shape again, outlined in strokes that he can put a name to. It helps that it's Angela that he's looking at, warm smile and patient half-tilt of her head and all; the frown that'd split his face along its seams irons itself into exhausted neutrality, tense but without the anticipation of fight to sharpen its creases.

Water beads at the corner of Angela's lips, and Venom reaches to wipe the excess with the knuckle of his index. True to form, he does so with his usual level of attentiveness. ]

You're selling yourself short. [ "Even the bare minimum feels pretty fucking good when I leave your place." ] The front's never worked with you.

[ This time, when he quirks his lips up for a short, tired smile, it's more genuine. ]

I'm ready to go when you are.

[ 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. ]

[ Really, they both know what this is: they've lived it, walked it, drank stale coffee through sleepless nights because of it. Venom doesn't need to explain that his hands never shake when he has to take up the gun and aim the barrel between fear-blown eyes, that he can tighten his grip around a thin throat and ride out a stranger's death throes without his expression twitching a millimeter away from neutral. But when the world settles and he's left to himself, elbows on his knees and waist-deep in the knowledge of his persistence, that's when his vision doubles and his teeth file themselves down another fraction.

This isn't weakness; it's the price he pays for what he does, and he's secure in the knowledge that Angela will run her fingers over each of his ill-healed sutures and understand that he earned them.

(She says 'you are alright' instead of 'you will be'.

For however long he's in her company, Venom believes it.)

When Angela picks herself up off of his knee, when that metaphorical eye of the storm steps away and frames herself against the glint of the fountain mist and midday light, Venom is reminded of something he'd already told Angela months back: lying face-down in Carribean underbrush, wiping fresh sunbeams out of his eye.

For her trouble, Venom insists on carrying half of her groceries, which escalates to him carting most of them, as he subtly moves to take her plastic bags as they push into the corner of the trolley. "I'll hold these while you find a spot", he says, which is just another way to say "try to get these back: you won't." ]

[ It's always the after that gets you, that chases you through the nights. She knows. Angela's not one who's taken many, if any, lives, but she knows. She's had her fair share of failures and stopped hearts on the table she couldn't get pumping, not enough blood left in some people as their veins collapsed, organs left without anything to pump, put through the grinder and left on an impersonal sheet of stainless steel far from home. You couldn't save everyone and sometimes self-defense came at a high cost, but it still hurt all too well. Knew just how to seep into those cracks and stain the lacquer of your soul, refusing to budge.

It's pain, plain and simple. Not weakness, but the residual ache of your actions that never leaves your joints. Yeah, she knows it. To say that he's earned his scars, however, is not something she'd attribute to anyone. No one deserved to be in pain. She knows what they were really from; not his actions after but one specific event, one life-changing force that rippled the surface oh that lacquer, causing more fissures. So when her fingertips pass along those ripples and fissures, she's appreciative he's still here. That they healed as well as they could instead of splitting wider, consuming him whole. And that's how her touch slips from his neck, heel of her hand skimming his ear, slick with sweat. It's something she lets dry on her palms instead of wiping off on her pants.

Again, she won't bring attention to these things.

Ahab curls his fingers around a couple totes, Angela slinging the rest over her shoulder as she anchors to his side, and she smiles the short walk back to the stop, knuckles brushing along his own with as close as they are. She sets a slower pace than usual, ambling, until they're boarding— thankfully a thinner crowd leaving than arriving, but still crowded enough for a few people to linger between the seats along the sides to spread out. She takes his hand to draw him through behind her, murmuring a soft "excuse me" here and there, until she can guide him to a corner seat. He's slipped the remaining bags from her shoulder along the way and she only huffs good-natured annoyance with it, because she knows she won't be "seeing" them again.

With a little gesture, she motions for him to sit, fully intending to blockade off the corner to ensure he has some breathing room as subtly as possible. Usually the saying is "got your six", but in this case, it's his 12 o'clock; it's the most she can do to keep people from jostling closer until the doors are closing and everyone's settling in for the trip, and only then will she seat herself on his free side. One leg crossed over the opposite knee, pressing in against his leg and turning into him, shoulder settled against the cool glass window to face him and mind their surroundings.

He only had to endure ten, fifteen minutes at the most— the trip goes quickly. He doesn't have his cassette player on him, either— so instead of helping herself to it and nestling the earbuds in each of their ears, she continues the light stream of conversation whenever he drifts, how excited Eiger will be to see him, how they can walk down to the gazebo after he's showered so he can see the mushrooms and moss along the river, how she's carted some furs down to the hammock. And then it's time to get off just as quick, and she awaits everyone else emptying at the stop before rising and moving, reaching to hook a few fingers through his to keep him close until they've reached the winding dirt path stepping off the stone platform to lead into the first plots of farmland. Then it's up to him if he leaves tangled fingers together or not. ]

I always love the first steps off the line; you can smell the apples in the air, and it's so much cleaner, isn't it?

[ Angela hasn't even tried reaching for the bags; he isn't relinquishing a single one. ]

[ The unobtrusive warmth of well-kept farmland that hits him when Venom steps out from the tram is a welcome reprieve from the static, insulated cocoon of city air. It's a gentle transition, facilitated by the ever-present figure who'd spent the bulk of the past 15 minutes replacing the drone of atmospheric chatter with subjects near and dear to her heart; she flits by his side now, fingers meshing between the weave of the tote bags in his hand to lead him along a well-worn pathway.

Something right out of a storybook.

He's calmer now than he was before the trip, undefined panic conceding center stage to gentle numbness. He walks in a straight line, even-paced to match Angela's slightly-shorter strides.

Hm, is Venom's initial reply. His expression relaxes, and he hefts the bags resting on his bionic's forearm to slide further towards where metal meets flesh so he can reach into his pocket for his TAB. ]

Quieter, too.

[ It's, for a lack of a better word, nice. Something worth preserving for posterity.

So he brandishes his device up to eye-level, finds a good panorama of farmland bracketed by the effervescent rustle of leaves and branches. Snaps a picture, and then takes another one from a different angle for good measure. ]

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SLAMS INTO U YODELING ANGRILY

HEADLOCKS U

wriggles!!!!! unhand me u fiend this was too good we gotta Fight

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can you believe i thought i submitted this tag for 6 hours before realizing that i didnt

freshy holdin out on me all night, smh

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