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

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

Edited 2017-05-31 06:48 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

Edited (enter key nO) 2017-05-31 09:39 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

Edited 2017-06-01 07:40 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

[ 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.

[ ~~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. ]

[ 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.

[ 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.

[ As far as Venom's concerned, he's told her his story through the cracks in his foundations— from the bile he'd swallowed back at the fountain, the jagged end of his syllables over the phone. He's made admissions in the form of casual asides, in behavior that most people consider to be an old soldier's nascent acclimatization to civilian life.

His photography, his music, his dedication to action. He knows them for what they are: motion-activated lights.

(Clap on, clap off. Walk far enough away from him, and the last traces of blue turn invisible in his gray eyes.)

The sound of running water fills in the space between Angela's question and Venom's moment of self-reflection. When he turns the heat up just a sliver, Angela should be able to feel the humidity curl around the room. ]

Dissociation. [ The flatter, more medical term to use. Venom lets the hot water hit for a few more lingering seconds before stopping the stream altogether. ] Comes with the hallucinations.

[ Which she already knows about. A light huff, and an arm reaches out from behind the glass door to rifle for the towel Angela'd left for him to use. ]

You remember when I told you that everything happened 9 years back, in my time?

[ He starts drying himself down, mulling over what to say as his hands work. Efficiency always helps. ]

[ She feels like she has the framework. The sort where you look at the timber aligned and screwed together just so and say "this is going to be a house— there's the bedroom and a closet, here's a bathroom, you can see where they're going to run the electrical through the walls" even if you can't guess which side of the largest opening will be the kitchen or the living room. She knows the shape of Ahab and the keystones of his personality, knows why she adores him and knows where he's weakest, even if she doesn't know how these things came to be— it didn't matter, really. Something that's nice to know, but regardless who built the house or how long it took, the end product is something a family will live in and make their own, paint the walls and decorate, fill the kitchen with good cooking and bedrooms with personal touchstones, comfort. Angela sees him from a different point in time, it seems. Before these things have come to roost.

And that's fine with her. She'll catch up, and he hits fast forward every time he tells her something new, allowing her closer and closer. Perhaps soon she'd be able to wander through that house and help keep the lights on for him. Ahab creates his own touchstones in those photos and with his music, fills empty halls with something to sing along to; it's less lonely that way. Just like he turns up the shower, warming a space she isn't used to anyone else occupying but herself. The heat is welcome, as is the humidity even as it settles on her skin.

(She already knows they're blue— it doesn't matter what they look like at a distance, anymore.)

Dissociation. She'd suspected. Nothing concrete, but she's certainly seen him drift before, and it explained his blackout leading up to this point— can't help but wonder if it hasn't happened before, when he's been under duress and seems to surface, anchoring himself to her if she was present. Those quiet moments of confusion or blankness as he pulls himself back together and lets her hold onto him. When he's grasping for the towel, she cracks an eye open to fingers over textured glass and pushes the towel along the bar and into his fingers, closing her eyes once more to rest her head back. ]

I do recall, yes.

[ She'll let him finish instead of interrupting with questions; he'll likely answer them as he continues either way. She also recalls the way he'd let her draw his weight down onto her and the cold sweat she'd dabbed off his brow, still salty on her lips when she'd kissed his temple. The swipe of his thumb collecting cream from her mouth before lapping it up, the idle confession he'd dropped her way that hardly seemed fair. Trying to take the brunt of the blame for someone's death. ]

[ Of course Angela helps him with the towel; she always seems to know exactly when to open her eyes and offer a hand. Venom smiles thinly behind the opaque fog separating himself from his friend, and presses the soft towel over the hard planes of his face. Building his words so that they won't startle, mentally chiding himself for his melodramatic assumption that Angela would be startled.

He's shifting into his new clothes when he finally decides what he wants to say about his lost near-decade, purposefully rustling fabric over his skin to make sure that his companion knows that it's fine to turn and look. It would be decidedly unfair to hide behind his relative state of undress, after all.

As always, Venom decides to shoot straight. ]

I fell into a coma after that incident, 9 years ago.

[ He steps into Angela's periphery, offering her the now-moist towel to dry his hair for him if she wants. Give her hands something to do.

Despite the words that come out of his mouth, he's steady. He's already compartmentalized this; he doesn't let this grenade blow up in his face anymore. It just—

—burns, caustic and slow-moving. ]

I was in that coma for 9 years.

[ So, okay, maybe his math is wrong: the accident happened a little bit over a decade ago, technically.

The point is, he hasn't been awake for long. ]

[ She can hear cotton dragging over whiskers and nearly the gears turning in his head, puzzling out his silences for what words he may be stringing together, why he's deliberating and what it may be over. Then that towel travels elsewhere, over sun-baked skin and down his legs, hearing his joints work as he bends forward, then the clothes he pulls on. The last bit of rustling preceding the following silence tells her he's finished and she opens her eyes again with a little smile, turning her head to find him exactly where she'd pinpointed him.

It's quick to lose its ease when he finally says what he'd been building up in his mind, though it never entirely falls— he's stepping closer and offering her the towel, after all. One brow furrows as she tips her head, huffing out a soft sigh before she's pushing herself upright with palms at her knees and taking the towel from his hands. She doesn't look terribly surprised; only chagrined. Ahab is steady, yes, but it still isn't easy to discuss. Especially not when he follows the fact with another, and she throws the towel in a tidy loop, up over his head before tugging the folds of terrycloth up from his shoulders to cover his hair, fingers splaying wide.

Her touch is gentle even as she ruffles wet hair, using the proximity to draw him in just another inch closer. As if the topic were something to keep private between them, as if anyone else were in the bathroom, let alone the house. ]

With injuries as severe as you've sustained, I'm glad it was only so long.

...So when you'd arrived here... [ "You hadn't been with us very long, had you?" finishes itself. She remembers how quiet he'd been back then, as well. Overwhelmed. Needing the quiet to process, conversation sparse but friendly, kept shallow. How they'd joked so lightly of having hours-long briefings thrown in his face, still expressing gratitude they had familiar faces to find here at all.

One thumb brushes along the base of the shrapnel embedded there before both hands slip down to cup his nape, thumbs rubbing the towel behind his ears until she can draw him down into a hug. The kind she doesn't let go of easily, cradling his head to her shoulder and ready to stand there for hours if it helped. ]

...You've not had an easy life, Ahab. I'm sorry.

[ There it is, that little admission. An apology for all he's had to suffer through and everything else thrown at him. ]

The dissociation is tied into this?

[ He offers her his head, neck craned and eye downcast. Like maybe he wants her to judge him, or slide that proverbial blade down from the ceiling to finish the job once and for all; who knows? He never knows what will really come of a confession like this, if it's even anything to admit under any sort of pomp or circumstance. It seems presumptuous to preface this with a disclaimer that he's not looking for pity, because he knows that that's not what Angela has to give.

Instead, she has her touches: that fluid slide from his hair to his ear to his nape, a natural progression that ends in a hug, because of course it does. They've communicated this way from square one, even when Venom was disoriented and looking for a way to digest his new surroundings— she offered her openness through the fact that she felt safe enough to fall asleep in front of him, this strange cryptid with an obvious alias for a name.

So he tilts into her contact now, wet hair against blond hair, warm palms at the small of a thin back. No one owes him an apology for this, let alone Angela, but that's not a debate that needs to happen right now.

Don't worry— he can even joke, albeit at his own expense. ]

No rest for the wicked. [ A light nudge of shrapnel to skin. No, he hasn't been awake for too long, but he's been managing. Active. ] It's fine, Angela.

[ His arms tighten just a fraction around her middle, punctuating the sentiment. ]

When I woke up, I had no memories. Pretty sure the dissociation comes from that, too. [ Once the outlines of his secrets are bared, it's easier to fill some of those blanks in; it's a bit alarming, to some extent, how effortless it is to work up to the rest. ] ...Still working out some of the kinks.

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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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