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

[cadeuces]

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

Comments

[cadeuces]

[ 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. ]

[alterplex]

[ 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. ]

[cadeuces]

[ 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. ]

[alterplex]

[ 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. ]

[cadeuces]

[ 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?

[alterplex]

[ 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. ]

SLAMS INTO U YODELING ANGRILY

[cadeuces]

[ 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. ]

HEADLOCKS U

[alterplex]

[ 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. ]

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

[cadeuces]

[ 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. ]

[alterplex]

[ 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.

[cadeuces]

[ 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. ]

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

[alterplex]

[ 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." ]

freshy holdin out on me all night, smh

[cadeuces]

[ 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. ]

[alterplex]

[ 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. ]

[cadeuces]

[ It's the smell of nature, above all else— a bit of the musk you'd expect from animals, honey and wax and flowers to encourage the bees the closer one gets to Jack's little farm, the green scent of a natural creek flowing through. Nutrient-rich soil freshly tilled, and whatever may be growing for the season. She's enjoyed it very much, so far, and it's relieving to see that Ahab takes the same reprieve from it once he's filling his lungs with fresh air.

Hopefully the conversation hadn't been too bad— she spoke of things she hoped would be easily recalled, details Ahab was already familiar with from his time spent in her home and around her dog, though she can't recall if she's ever walked him through the property itself. If he even knew there was a gazebo out past the orchard, along the wind of the creek passing through. They continue putting distance between themselves and the trolley's platform, her hand sneaking into his and weaving between his fingers and the tote straps, arm laid against arm and tugging some of the weight up as if she could help— and trying to (unsuccessfully) hide her smile when he lifts his arm to go for his TAB, bags sliding down the metal to rest near his elbow and effortless as he begins to line up shots. He looks calmer, too. She's glad for that above all else.

Still, the pictures are good. If he has memory issues like she suspects, especially after peeping at his medical file to see the details of that shrapnel, pictures are something he can look back on and spark his memory, or at least have concrete proof that he'd visited a place. That he must have spent time somewhere, at an annotated time. ]

Mm, sometimes that's the best part.

[ But only 'sometimes', because silence was also, on occasion, unbearably lonely.

So while he's taking his pictures, so carefully lined up, she slips her TAB out and catches one of him, too. TAB held up and expression placid, the set of his brow focused as he frames his shot, dappled sunlight catching his eye. There's no way he can argue about being handsome with the way she catches him. Whether he notices she's snapped a picture of him or no, she smiles to herself and sets about sending it to him, pocketing her TAB once more and waiting for him to finish before leading the steps again.

Maybe if he's feeling better a little later, they can go out walking and get more pictures. ]

[alterplex]

[ There are always new things to find out about her, about the place she calls home and the people she decorates it with. There are things he'll find in her living space that he finds incongruous with Angela's tastes, but those things become part of her whole with a bit of context; maybe some of his things will find their way into her as well. A lost hairtie here, replaced parts of a bionic there.

It's a shame that he has to let go of Angela's hand to check the message that's come up on his TAB screen, but he doesn't have very long to miss her. There she is on his screen, the designated profile picture of her from a few weeks back when she'd fallen asleep on his lap (he won't forget that, not by a long stretch).

Seeing himself as Angela sees him, eyes narrowed in fond concentration against the sun, is surreal— but it's not cognitive dissonance.

He's thankful that this is how she's framing him. Here's his response, shot to her in text despite literally being inches away. ]

Should have waited for me to shower first.

[ An easygoing tease, leveled even during his worst moments. The hand that'd been previously occupied by Angela's palm moves to rest on her shoulder, squeezing for a moment in gratitude before coming back to rest at his side, bags hefted anew as he scales the front steps to Angela's entranceway. ]

[cadeuces]

[ When the day comes that someone else's belongings come into her possession, they're usually long gone— it's just the way the world works. Forgotten pieces left behind not to be collected again, or things so inconsequential to someone that they don't mind her keeping them. She's received a few little gifts in her time here that certainly stick out, but it's the smaller things that she keeps even closer— one day Ahab will lose a hairtie, or leave a shirt behind that she'll offer to return after laundering and he'll turn down, and find it in her wardrobe. Around her wrist. Something to treasure and work into her every day life and be able to wrap herself in one way or another.

It's what she carried in her suitcase when she traveled back home; little pieces of others and her photos. To add to that was always a bittersweet fondness, both to have something to remember someone by and for the need to even require such an item. It meant that person was no longer actively in her life or someone far away.

But when his fingers unfurl from hers, she knows exactly what it's for and she fights to keep anything more than an idle smile off her lips, letting her touch skim up his arm to settle in the crook of his elbow, still loosely linked with him. Watches as he pulls up the image and long moment he considers it, seeing himself as she sees him— even exhausted as he is, in the dappling of the trees you can't make out the circles under his eyes, and she'd already straightened his hair and scuffed her nails through his whiskers, mopping up sweat. In a camera lens, he didn't look bad at all.

And when her TAB chimes and she has to fish it back out to read the message he had so obviously sent, her reply is only in her open laughter at his side, shaking her head and repocketing it. She leans into his touch settling at her shoulder, squeezing, the gentlest bump at his side that won't jostle him. They're almost home. ]

I don't think you need to worry; pictures don't have a sense of smell. You look perfectly handsome, Ahab.

[ And she scales the steps with vigor, a bounce in her step and ponytail swinging behind her until she's at the door, fishing out her key to unlock and swing open, inviting him inside with her laughter still playing at the corners of her eyes. Eiger's sitting impatiently yet attentively at the far end of the hall, butt wiggling on the hardwood with the ferocity of his wagging tail just to see Ahab in the doorway. ]

Welcome home...?

[ Because she's always shared her home with her friends, and Ahab's no exception. He's stayed the night before; it's official. ]

[alterplex]

[ The joke's on her, though: for every inconsequential item she sees fit to keep of Venom, she'll find that he's done the same. One day she'll turn around and find a glint of silver-gold in Venom's ashy-brown hair, a tie he'd accidentally pilfered from Angela's living room table without noticing that it wasn't his.

In the same way he'd kept his fallen comrades' ashes in his pockets as diamonds, he'll do the same with the most minute details of Angela's life. He'll carry them, because they matter.

(She'll always be an active part of him then, won't she? 'Put your roots in me.')

Angela's use of the word 'home' is like a cold compress on flushed skin, and Venom replies with a gentle sigh (the contented kind, the 'I-just-had-a-good-meal' kind) as he steps into the welcome privacy of his friend's space. ]

Always good to be here.

[ No posturing, no 'I'm only gonna be here for a bit's. Just another squeeze of hand to shoulder before stepping inside to settle Angela's groceries on the kitchen counter, freeing himself up to respond to Eiger's expectant tail-beating.

Look at this fucking old nerd, crouching next to this sweet son so he can ruffle his fur and whisper good dog under his breath. The Legendary Big Boss, ladies and gentlemen. ]

[cadeuces]

[ In all these little ways they weave their lives together, solidifying their friendship and tethering it down to the docks to weather through the storms careening around them, always adding more rope and wire. Buoy bumpers to protect the hull from crashing into wood and stone, no matter how the waves rocked them or tried to drag them out on the tide, time and again. If it was what helped, if it's what kept them from getting lost at sea— Angela will freely give up these little things and offer more. She'd give him everything she possessed if it meant something to him.

That soft 'home' strikes a chord in him, the soft breath leaving him to finally take in a lungful of spiced vanilla and apples fresh from the orchard just off in the kitchen, filling bowls on every surface. The rich soil and woody scent of whole walnuts, the green husks to peel away and reveal the pit to roast awaiting the busywork in a basket in her sink. He steps in and she closes the door behind him even as she toes off her flats with his hand steady at her shoulder, then she gives chase to the groceries with a cursory ruffle of Eiger's ears in passing before he's turning back to her dog, sure she can hear the creak of his knees when he crouches down to the beat of a thick tail.

It's something Eiger takes to with relish while she tucks groceries away from her totes, the regular sound of her opening and closing the refrigerator and freezer between armfuls, the slide of drawers— and she can hear the rasp of a wet tongue against his whiskers, eager to lap up all salty traces of distress from a friend, gentle in his demeanor despite the ardent affections. She may have murmured trösten in passing, giving a command. She didn't have much and it's only a moment before she's padding back over to lay a cool hand between his shoulderblades, thumbing at the nape of his neck when she strokes up. ]

Make yourself at home and get comfortable, Ahab. I'll see if I can find those pants.

[ It's good to see him calm, now, greatly reduced from how she'd first seen him today. His words coming sure, no trembling in his hands as he scruffs Eiger, no tinge of green at the gills once he'd settled into her presence and knew he didn't have to be on-guard against the world. And now in her home, always quiet and private, extended to him as his own, she can only hope that continues to hold true. That she'll be able to offer him more than a back to follow and a bottle of water. Angela wouldn't kid herself and even hope to believe he was so easily helped out of the hole he'd been in. The best she'd done is peek over the edge and tell him she'd go find a rope; whether or not she'd be able to successfully help heft him free would be another matter entirely.

Thankfully enough, she still had a few pieces of Jesse's things— or maybe they were Genji's, but... holding them up, no, definitely Jesse's. or would have been, had he ever taken her up on her offer to stay. She'd still gathered a couple changes of clothes in the correct sizes for anyone she could have expected, always kept freshly laundered. They should fit Ahab just fine, though the shirts would be another issue altogether— shame she hadn't found anything for Jack just yet. She pads through upstairs from the guest room to the bathroom to deposit the clothes near the tub, claiming the corner of a little stool with some plant or another, before she's at the top of the staircase. ]

You're in luck! I found a couple things that should fit. [ Just chonis and lounge pants, but it would have to do. ]

[alterplex]

[ And really, the fact of the matter is that Venom's not looking for Angela to save him. Melodramatics and heavy-handed reflections on the plausibility of salvation aside (being a demon, coming right out of hell, venom in his veins, blah blah), Venom wants Angela's help far less than he wants her to simply be her. Surprise, surprise, she never disappoints— even her home is like an extension of her personality, dense and welcoming and armed to the teeth with items that are cozy without ever bordering on kitsch. Organic pieces suit her well; she seems to favor things that have just a little wear to them.

Venom sees a trend.

When he pulls up to meet the sound of Angela's voice, makes his way to the foot of the stairs to greet her with a tip of his disheveled head, his exhaustion is a gentle gauze instead of an oppressive cloud over his head. Something he can work with instead of having to wrestle to the ground. ]

I owe you one.

[ He says, without any sort of actual commitment to the idea of exchange. Neither of them have been keeping track of the metaphorical "debts owed" tally for some time now— it's just a thing to say to make Angela puff up.

(It's kind of cute when she does, in all honesty.) ]

Don't peek. [ Is his dry warning while he scales the steps to find the bathroom, the statement as dispassionately delivered as the one preceding it.

She's already seen enough of him, none of this is going to be new or exciting for her. ]

[cadeuces]

[ Looking for salvation or no, Angela does her best to help regardless. It's in her nature, and it's in her job description— at the heart of it all, she wants others to feel better. It's as plain and simple as that. Her friends are no exception to the rule. So yes, she surrounds herself in comfort, favors the warmth of wood over the sterility of metal, and lets her environment pull its weight as much as she does.

It's a trend he'll have to 'suffer'.

And seeing the exhaustion slowly beginning to soften as it unwinds, never fully leaving him but at least lessening, she's glad and meets him head-on as he comes up the stairs, stepping into the bathroom just before he's at the top landing. ]

You owe me a few hours of rest, and we'll call it even. I'll start the water.

[ Not that she didn't expect he couldn't figure it out, but it was easier on him to just go ahead with it. (Because she does puff, the slightest ruffle of feathers and straightening of her shoulders he'd even try to imply she'd keep track, cheeks puffing with her 'ire'. Soft-hearted though it may be, and because it left him a little softer in expression.) So she turns away, an idle gesture at the clothes she'd laid out (and a shirt to try, though she has her doubts it'd be comfortable with how tight it may be) before she's cranking on the water. Close enough for him to see how she did so, so he knows how to turn it off after. The sundries are clearly labeled for shampoo and body wash, and she hangs a clean washcloth beside her loofah before dipping her fingers in the shower stream, feeling the temperature. The tub was a separate entity but there's still plenty of room in the glass stall, quick to steam.

With the warning, she very nearly startles— the faintest twitch as she begins to turn toward him and changes her mind right after, twisting the other way with a little quirk of a smile. She hadn't heard him shed anything, but just in case. ]

I'm a medical professional; it's nothing I haven't seen before, sir. [ Cheeky, that. ] I'll be back in for your clothes in a minute, all right? So I can get them washed. I'll stay if you get light-headed.

[ He's in her peripheral when she turns, just enough to lay her hand against his arm and catch his expression before moving off, leaning the door behind her for his privacy. ]

[alterplex]

[ Venom starts inspecting the loaned pants as Angela starts the water, and wonders idly if they belong to 76. It's not outside the realm of possibility, since 76 is roughly the same height as him— similar build, too, and also presumably within the ranks of "people who Angela would invite over to her home for trifles".

(he wonders if the space between them have evened out any, if those rough waters have calmed enough for communication to sail; none of his business, of course, but maybe he'll check in with 76 to see if any invisible weights have been lifted from those squared shoulders.)

With that done, and his wandering thoughts set aside in favor of lingering back on the way Angela touched his arm before leaving, Venom finally starts peeling away at his layers. His sweat-stained skin thanks him for it, and even more so when he steps into the slow of the hot water and lets the stress of the night and morning roll off of him in fast-moving rivers.

He realizes too late, when he squirts a generous helping of body soap onto the loofah left for his benefit, that the entire bathroom now smells like he's dipped himself right into Angela's preferred choice of perfume, but. It's not exactly a pressing concern, so he gets right to scrubbing himself down in what almost feels like pure vanilla. Ditto with the shampoo, even if that's a little more floral.

The sound of the door opening from the other side of the shower curtain, heralding Angela's entrance back into the bathroom, is the opportunity Venom sees to open his mouth. ]

Smells like a bakery in here.

[cadeuces]

[ Jack doesn't have the ass to measure up to V, let's be real for a sec. She's out of the bathroom shortly after he's shed his shirt, nothing she hasn't seen before, as she says— she leaves to sort out the guest room, just in case, and fishes around for any other possible shirts. Nothing comes up. So she's back in the bathroom after a single rap of her knuckles on the wood, soft, just enough to hear.

And he heard. The door is quiet on its hinges but she makes no effort to conceal herself, only taking a second to ensure that, yes, he's in the shower by now, and yes, the glass has steamed enough that his silhouette is impressionism in motion, no scars and no defining metal— his arm is only a shadow on the far side of his body this way. The air is sweet with her wash, vanilla and honey and woods, realizing too late she hadn't brought out the other soap (because she did actually purchase soap for men, at the rate her friends are over). Well. He was still using it, so it clearly didn't bother him.

Only confirming her thoughts when he speaks above the water, her laugh under her breath and barely audible for him. ]

I'll make sure Eiger doesn't try to take a bite, though I don't make any promises for myself. Are you feeling a little better? Any dizziness or lightheadedness?

[ She'll want to stay on hand just to ensure if he does suffer the effects of such, she's at least on hand. There's a stool to sit on and she'd keep him company. ]

[alterplex]

[ He doesn't mind the company. This isn't the first time he's been taken stock of, conversing with medical staff stationed outside of his shower stall regarding diagnostics; picking sand from his then-new bionic, fielding questions on its durability on the field. It's almost familiar to have someone grill him while he's scrubbing his unease from his skin, even if the line of questioning is distinctly gentler than those from his past. ]

The nausea's gone. [ There's a shift behind frosted glass, the dull red of Venom's prosthetic refracting and glittering in pink-grays. ] —Still trying to work out the fading issue.

[ A subtle warning that the hollow space in his skull keeps dragging him back and forth along an unwanted tide. If he sounds apologetic about it, well.

He's sorry for the trouble. ]

Might want to tell you what the source of that is, for future reference.

[cadeuces]

[ It may not be the first time for him, but it is her first time being this overtly worried for someone— she'd accompanied Genji a few times, through the initial bird baths he took, then later when he could attempt his first shower (keyword: attempt; it took a few more tweaks before he could shower unaccompanied and safely). She's more familiar with bedside sponge baths and the shampoo caps for hair washing, and this isn't her typical venue for such mother henning. It sets her at ease that he doesn't sound as though he minds her there, though, allowed to remain— where she can be sure he's safe and she can be on hand if she's needed.

As it is, she's behind the door and her eyes are closed, head resting back against the tile wall. ]

I'm glad to hear that much. [ She isn't looking, but his lack of any cursing or fumbling tells her her repair work is holding up; she's glad for that, too. ] ...Fading issue?

[ Is that what he's calling it, those moments of drifting? The blankness? Hallucinations...? She'll let him put it into his own words, though, instead of guessing at blurred shapes in the distance. The apologetic tone, however, is thoroughly unnecessary. She can hear it over the din of falling water and has the decency to be cross, though it likely doesn't carry strongly enough to be heard through the humidity, dampened and made weak. ]

It might help— just a little. [ That's an understatement, but she's still trying to be calming. It's not something so easily turned off, and while the topic can of course wait until he's finished showering and in clean clothes, refreshed and able to attempt winding down: ] You know I'm always ready to listen whenever you feel up to the discussion.