2012-07-16 Out to Lunch

The day dawns quietly; the night having passed by uneventfully. Miguel had left the door to his room open, and Angela stayed up knitting in the living room, listening to his through the open door. When she fell asleep, she didn't know, but sleep she did, slumped over on the sofa.

She'll awaken to Miguel tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and trying to stealthily remove her knitting paraphernalia from her to set off to the side. He does this with a hint of a frown on his features; he hadn't meant to upset her this much, that she'd doze off in the living room. While he does kind of hope it might jar her into thinking about things a bit more, that doesn't mean he likes upsetting her.

That gentle touch, something Angela can hardly remember, causes her eyes to flutter open. The motion is slow, and her eyes aren't fully open until Miguel's started to pull her knitting from her fingers. The silky thread slides from the needles, and several stitches undo themselves from the now nearly three foot long curtain covered in lacy flames. "Mmm? wha- Miguel," she asks as she moves to start sitting up.

"Nothing," he says quietly, forcing a smile for her benefit. "You'd just fallen asleep out here on the couch." The smile widens a little, and gains some sincerity while it's at it. "I'd've thought your perfectly nice bed would be better, but if you like I can haul this thing into your bedroom." He sticks his hands in his pockets, more from routine than anything else.

Angela sits up, looking a touch confused. Her eyes fall to her knitting and a soft gasp is given. She quickly scoops it up and starts to repairing the damage. "Yes. I like the bed better, I just... it's really quiet over there, and I well, it was comfy out here, cause I could hear you, and.."

That makes Miguel chuckle and shake his head. "Would it help if we got one of those baby-monitor-set-up-thingies?" he asks, turning to head into the kitchen. "Though if we do that, I get to turn it off sometimes for a little 'personal time'..." The look he throws over his shoulder, though partially hidden by the sunglasses, will surely make it perfectly obvious what the hell he means--and that he's /joking/. Either way, he starts to hunt down two glass tumblers and some juice from the refrigerator.

Angela looks up at the baby-monitor comment, and confusion reigns upon her face. It remains there as he comments about personal time, her head tilting. "Personal time? Like.. for showers? I don't care about hearing you shower," she replies softly, hands pausing in their repair work.

...right, another joke falls flat. Miguel's smile fades and he just shakes his head. "Never mind, it was just a dumb joke," he tells her as he fills each tumbler with orange juice. "Seriously, though, if you wanted a baby-monitor set-up, we could probably do that. I imagine it would have a similar effect." The juice gets replaced in the refrigerator, and he brings the two tumblers to the living room, going to hand her one.

Angie's brows pull together and a frown forms as his smile falls away. She averts her gaze, turning her face away, sure she did something wrong. She just nods at his assurances, not at all feeling uplifted by them. She keeps nodding through the baby-monitor, not at all certain what that is or why it might help, but she's agreeing anyway. She works on repairing the dropped stitches, and has everything reset by the time Miguel returns to her side. She looks up at him and smiles softly. With a careful motion, she sets her knitting in her lap and takes the tumbler.

Yeah, Miguel caught that. Arching a brow, he says, "You know, if you're confused by something or you're not sure what I mean, you /can/--oh." The proverbial light bulb clicks on over his head. He can imagine why she's not asking--because she /just did/ and got a hand-wave. A sigh escapes his lips, and he goes to sit next to her with--a contrite demeanor, of all things. "Angela, I'm sorry. I guess--I /know/--I must have seemed like I was brushing you off, about the joke.  That's really all it was, a joke.  And a lame one, at that.  It was a joke about masturbation.  I'm sorry I didn't explain it to you when you asked, because you shouldn't /ever/ feel like you can't ask me to clarify something.  I'm sorry." Yes, that's three times he said he was sorry. He means it that much. He goes to reach out and lightly cover her forearm with his hand, giving it the gentlest of squeezes. Hopefully she's realized he's not exactly the huggy type, so that touch means effectively the same thing.

A sip is taken from the tumbler, eyes downcast until Miguel begins speaking. She looks over, green eyes starting to grow angry as Miguel starts to offer for her to ask him when she's confused. She's starting to say that she /did/ ask when the light bulb goes off and he sighs and sits. His contrite apologies has her falling silent. A bright red blush dances to her cheeks the moment he says the word 'masturbation'. The touch means more than she can say, and so she leans into it, eyes closing. "Thank you, Miguel."

That makes him smile, and he gives her forearm another light squeeze before getting to his feet. "You're welcome, Angela. Now, I'm going to find something to eat before I stick my foot even deeper into my mouth." Which he's pretty sure he'll end up doing, anyway, but that's neither here nor there. He just doesn't seem capable of much else sometimes. And with that, he goes to head back into the kitchen, a good third of the juice drained on the way there.

Angela watches Miguel go, and about a second later, she's scrambling to her feet. "We can go and get some sushi," she's offering quickly, bare feet padding on the carpet. "Or Italian?" Maybe?

"Okay, up to you," he says, turning to lean against the counter and rest his left arm on it, the right hand holding the glass. "Italian, sushi, something else. Pick it, and we'll do it." It really is kind of the least he can do for her, after seeming so disinterested a few moments ago.

Angela ponders, then beams. "I'm going to change, then we'll go get some food and maybe go shopping? Can I take you shopping," she's saying as she starts toward her room. "There's this place down near Times that I want to try. I've heard the lobster there is wonderful."

"Sounds like a plan," says Miguel with a nod. "I'll be right here, waiting." And he will, too, after he drains his glass and sets it in the sink. It's nice to see her in better spirits, though he does have to wonder if he'd missed something he should have seen even earlier, and thus could have avoided at least some of this.

That Angela is almost innocent at times, might now be growing more and more apparent as she slips into her room, leaves the door open, and shuffles about, changing clothes. Every so often, she can be seen peeking out into the living room, giving a little smile that Miguel's still there, before she disappears again. Once dressed in a very stylish sort of tweed dress and coat set, Angela puts a high-end British posh sunglasses over her eyes, and adjusts the large floppy hat on her head. She pauses once more, collecting her purse and adding her current knitting project to the bag's interior. One last stop by the mirror to smooth her hair and she looks over at Miguel. "Okay, I'm ready," she says finally, a light smile on her face.

When she's out once more, he gives her a smile, then says, "You look good. Like you're ready to hit the town and take no prisoners." He'll follow her out, making sure he has his house key before locking the door and closing it. It's tested, to make sure it's locked, then he shoves his hands into his pockets and goes to follow a tad behind Angela. Walking has become somewhat novel for him; he's used to using the forty-story express; walking's something to do inside of buildings, not outside of them. Still, it does have a certain charm to it.

Angela smiles and waits through the door locking ritual, seeming comforted by it. It's him walking behind her that her shoulders start to tense. She swallows uneasily, glances over her shoulder, and starts to slow down, hoping for Miguel to catch up to her.

"Hey," Miguel says with something approaching a smile at one corner of his mouth, "I'm staying only a step behind you, and even then that's cause you know where we're going. Besides the city looking a lot different at ground level than it does from a few dozen stories up, it's just respectful.  This way you know I'm right behind you, ready to tackle anyone so much as looks at you funny." That near-smile widens just a hair's breadth, and when they get to the elevators he reaches forward to push the call button.

Angela's nodding, but the way her lips thin as she presses them together hints that she's not altogether pleased by it. Once in the elevator, and three floors from the ground, Angela finally speaks up, "You can escort me properly, as opposed to walking as a bodyguard." Her tone is slightly tense and haughty.

That makes Miguel arch an eyebrow, looking over and down at her. "Well," he says, a little puzzled at her reaction, "I'd like to do that. I'm not trying to get away from you, to add some metaphorical distance or something.  I'm really not." He wracks his brain, and finally latches onto something Xina showed him in some old black and white holo. When the car settles and the doors open, he goes to take her arm and loop it through his, to end with her hand on his forearm, his hand on her arm. "Is this better?" he asks, and sincerely, at that. It should be obvious that he's not being sarcastic. He genuinely hopes this is more what she had in mind.

"Much," Angela breaths softly, smiling as she grows relaxed in a heartbeat. She adjusts how her arm is looped in Miguel's. Clearly the noble is very comfortable with the motion, and leading the way from the seemingly demure and submissive sort of arm-hold. "Thank you. I guess... engineers aren't used to walking properly," she comments. Yes, someone still thinks Miguel's a high tech engineer. oy!

Whew, he actually managed to /not/ make the situation worse. Miguel is surprisingly pleased with himself, watching her as she relaxes and even smiles. That's a sight for sore eyes, there. "Well, you're right," he tells her with an agreeable bob of his head. "I mean, I used to spend all my days at a computer, creating nanites to alter the genetic code of test subjects. Etiquette lessons didn't come up very often." He pats her hand, staring ahead to keep himself from frowning at a memory. She doesn't need to see that right now. She deserves better.

Too busy peering at the street ahead, Angela misses the full weight of the frown. What little of it she does see, has her head tilting faintly. "I can't begin to imagine, but I won't hold your lack of manners against you, give that you are quite understanding of my... idiosyncrasies," she's saying, her speech a little more formal now that the pair are on the street and headed toward an eatery.

"So, essentially, you're saying that you'll put up with my crap 'cause I put up with yours," Miguel says, both brows lifting as a small smile appears on his face. And he hastily leans down a bit to add, in a stage-whisper, "That's also a joke, by the way." Hopefully his tone makes it clear that he really is joking, that he's trying to keep the mood light--that he's trying his best, for her. Maybe he should have started sooner--alright, fuck it, he /should/ have started sooner. But he's trying to do for her what he asks her to do--be more mindful, be more thoughtful. Maybe this "lead by example" shit will work, though it's not like he's ever really managed to pull it off before.

His quip is met with widened eyes. Angela might have grown upset, but Miguel's quick stage whisper causes a giggle instead. "Oh, yes. Quite so," she agrees, nodding. Yes, this lighter mood is helping quite a bit. Her grip on his arm is amiable, and relaxed. Reaching the restaurant, Angela gets them in at a table for two.

When they reach the restaurant, he opens the door for her and follows her through, taking his arm from hers only to take her hand. He'll follow a half-step behind her, but that's more out of convenience. It's not like most restaurant foyers are all that large, after all. Holding her hand hopefully makes that clear, and keeps him psychologically next to her. When they get to the table, he pulls her chair out for her, for once thankful for all those ancient holos Xina made him watch. He doesn't get the helping-her-scoot-in quite right, but at least he doesn't dump her on the floor, either, so. Granted, spider-born reflexes kind of help with that.

All of these motions makes Angela smile, calm and at ease as Miguel shifts to hold her hand, and push in her chair. Either there are no faux-pas, or she doesn't make mention of them. Rather, the Brit smiles and sweeps off her hat and sunglasses. "Quite the gentleman," Angela comments softly, setting her purse in a near by chair before she sits back and waits for the waiter to carefully place the cloth napkin to her lap. Yes, it's one of those places.

Yeah, they'll deal with Miguel keeping his sunglasses on. He's not going to blind himself just to follow a social example. He does follow Angela's example with the napkin, shaking it out to unfold it before draping it across his lap. It doesn't seem to be the most useful place to put it, as food can still hit the chest and stomach, but no one asked for his input when they wrote the etiquette book. "I--had a friend who was interested in this--era," he says carefully, though truthfully. "I had to watch a lot of programs about it, so apparently I picked up a few things."

The comment makes Angela tilt her head, a mite confused by it. Her lips frown lightly and her brows pull together. Her hands reach for a menu. "Era? Ah, the era these proper things come from? Yes. I also found 'My Fair Lady' to be quite delightful," she's saying, expression smoothing over as she skims the menu.

...he really can't believe he'd forgotten to have that conversation. Miguel could just about smack himself. He'd just gotten so caught up in trying figure out where he was, /when/ he was, and then trying to help Angela--he just forgot about having to tell her where and when he was from. Well, here isn't the place to do it, so it'll have to keep for now, but he knows he'll have to do it soon. "I have to admit I haven't seen that one," he says. "My friend was mostly interested in science fiction shows, but she also liked some movies. Still, I guess I managed to pick up some things even from science fiction." A small and lopsided smile appears, there.

Angela reads the menu, as he replies, expression flitting about as she pondering what she'd like for... well, breakfast. What time IS it again? Given their hours, any time between 10am and 4pm. And really, it doesn't matter what hour it is. "I've watched some Dr. Who, but really, I think it's rather droll. The notion of time travelling space-aliens is just... quite...," she just shakes her head at that, chuckling. "And really... a police call box?"

"Couldn't quite get into 'Doctor Who'," admits Miguel, rubbing the side of his neck. "I was more into 'Star Trek', myself. Though, there /were/ plenty of older science fiction shows, like 'Twilight Zone' I liked." A shrug of one shoulder, and he picks up his menu and looks through it, as well, as a waiter is finally free and heads in their direction. Food is still an interesting thing, to him, coming from synthetic everything as he does. As such, everything looks pretty good, he'd have to say.

Angela looks up, a bit confused by the TV titles, but doesn't comment past a very softly offered, "Perhaps we can watch some this evening." The arrival of the waiter has Angela ordering her meal. "The stuffed mushrooms look amazing, and then I'll take the lobster for the meal. Oh, Cesar salad will do," she's saying before she looks to Miguel as the waiter does.

That actually surprises Miguel, somewhat. He hadn't pegged Angela to be interested in science fiction enough to really want to watch it. On the other hand, even if not, some of the classics are, well, classics for a reason. He's already putting together a list of possible episodes and things to watch when the waiter comes over. He--really has no idea what to order, he realizes are looking over the menu. "Umm. Make it two," he says, deciding to just go with what she ordered rather than trying to figure out what everything is. He'll also copy her drink order, just to continue making things easy.

His copying her order makes her grin, and she holds the menu up for the waiter to take. She turns her head to look out the window, a calm sort of half smile on her face. She's relaxed, she's calm, she's unperturbed. The joys of having company with her, it seems.

Well, Miguel certainly isn't going to argue with apparently making he feel better, though that's still not something he's used to. The very idea of him being a /calming/ presence. He'd laugh, really, if he didn't realize he would look like a loony. "So," he says, half just trying for something to say, and half genuinely curious, "do you come here often?" And yes, he knows that's a cheesy line everyone references. Partly why he used it.

Angela blinks at Miguel, the pick-up-line completely going over her head. So, her head tilts faintly at her dining...breakfasting partner, brows once more pulling together. "No... I just moved to town," Angela replies with complete serious innocence. "But if the food is good, I might."

That makes Miguel chuckle, though by sound and looks, he's not laughing /at/ her. He understands the innocent mistake, so he leans closer a bit to say, "It's kind of a joke, to phrase it that way. I don't know where it comes from, but it's kind of a cheesy pick-up line, like some drunk would say to a beautiful woman who wants nothing to do with him." At least, by implication, she's the beautiful woman, so it's not like the joke can, hopefully, be taken too badly. "But I think it's an interesting place, so far. hopefully the food will be good, yeah."

And what does Angela get out of it: "You don't want anything to do with me?" Her cheeks start to pale a bit.

And Miguel's eyebrows slowly lift over the sunglasses. "How could you...?" he starts, genuinely surprised. He honestly can't see that connection. "No, I--seriously, how could you come to that one. I mean, in the joke, it's the girl who doesn't want anything to do with the /guy/.  But--it's a joke.  That's it.  Why wouldn't I want anything to do with you?"

"OH," Angela says, blinking a few times. "I... umm.. well, I mean I... guess.. I just..." She bites her lower lip a moment, looking down. "I just got worried?"

Reaching across the table, Miguel goes to take both of her hands in his, trying to make himself appear compassionate. He /is/, but he realizes he doesn't always seem that way. In a sense, he's trying almost as hard as she is, though only almost, and he knows it. "I'd like you to do me a favor," he says a bit more quietly, affecting a small smile. "Next time I make a joke, and you think I mean that I don't want to be around you, that I want nothing to do with you, whatever else--next time you can take a joke that way, look for another way to take it. I can guarantee you it'll be that other way."

The motion makes Angela stop, looking up at Miguel. A soft blush dances to her cheeks as he speaks, as she too leans toward that compassion. When he smiles at her, she too smiles in return. Her green eyes mist faintly, and her lips press together. "Okay," she says softly, voice breaking faintly. "I'm so glad."

"Good," he says, squeezing her hands lightly, careful to not press the backs of his talons into her hand. Being the backs, since they're folded against his fingers, they'd just be rounded--but most people find them odd, and he doesn't want to make her feel too odd. Again. "You're stuck with me whether you like it or not, so you may as well get used to it, okay?" He ducks his head a little, and the lighting in the dining room is enough to see his eyes through the sunglasses, that he's trying to catch her eye.

Those rounded little talon backs press ever so slightly against her hands, but they just add to the reality that he's there and not going anywhere. He's sarcastic sort of assurance, so lightly given, with his down dipped chin to show those red eyes, draws Angela's green gaze. Her lips turn up at the corners as a warm full smile blossoms. Really, she's getting better and better at the expression, and at making the feel of it more genuine. Her fingers squeeze in return as she holds Miguel's gaze. She nods lightly. "Okay. I'm stuck with you. I'm pretty sure that I've never had anyone willing to be stuck with me and so I think I'm liking it," she replies with several starts and stops and nods, but no drop of warmth and joy to her voice.

That's really not a feeling Miguel himself knows, but as long as she does, that's what counts. "Liking it's not a bad thing, so--good," he says. "It's normal to be afraid. It really is, but it's also normal for people to want to help you overcome your fears." Or so he assumes. It had better be, or he's been fighting the fight for nothing. "I know you can't just--just let it go, just pretend everything's okay. I know that.  But maybe you can accept that people can care about you, feel responsible for you--which isn't a bad thing.  It doesn't mean you're not good enough.  It just means that--that people see in you something that is really great, and just needs a chance to come out.  Feeling responsibility doesn't mean they think you're a child, or--or messed up in the head.  It means that someone wants to /help/ bring that something out in you, because it was done for them once upon a time." He doesn't take his hands from hers, or even seem like it. She needs to know that she's cared for, that she's important.

She really does need to know that, and believe it. Had Miguel come out saying this right off the bat, Angela would most likely not have believed him at all. But as the days have run together, and Angela's starting to get something like actual sleep, and has eased her nightmares with Miguel's terrors, she's starting to dare to believe that it's nothing but the complete truth. Her eyes mist over as he speaks as she runs that gamut of sadness to relief and joy. She's squeezing his fingers, not sure how what to do with what she feels right now, and so the confusion turns into a single clear drop rolling down each cheek.

He just looks at her for a moment, the small smile staying on his face. He can only imagine how hard it is for her right now, but he /can/ imagine it. He remembers what it was like after his--incident--that left him all these stupid spider-related powers, no idea how to use them, and too many people wanting his head. After a moment, he says quietly, "It'll be okay--one day. Might not be tomorrow, or next week, but one day it'll be okay.  You'll find out that I'm not just blowing smoke up your ass, that you can have something close to a normal life." At least as long as she doesn't end up on the wrong side of gods, demons, or spirits. There's /nothing/ normal, there.

A normal life? Angela's brows pull together sharply, another tear sliding free and rolling down a cheek. Her teeth catch her lower lip again and she's nodding. "God, I hope you're right. I hope you're not just lying to me, or trying to use me... because, I don't know what I would do. I'd love a proper night without nightmares, or needing to grinding into another's to try to keep mine from-" And the waiter returns with those stuffed mushrooms. Angela shuts up really durn fast and turns her face away from the stranger, hands yanking away from Miguel's promptly.

Well, that's better than some reactions she could have had, so Miguel will take it. He gives a nod to the waiter as the food and drinks are laid on the table, and when the young man departs, he says, "I'm not trying to use you, and I'm not ling to you. There's only one thing I'm worried about." Which she should understand, considering how much of his head she's rooted around in. He failed his brother--well, brothers, technically--and they hate him. He failed his fiancée, and she died. He failed Kenny, and he died. He's failed too many people, and too many of them paid for it with their life. He thinks he'll never get to a point where he can forgive himself for their deaths--and he's afraid of failing Angela, whose only crime would have been being in the wrong place at the wrong time and trying to control a part of herself that fights any control.

"I know," Angela replies softly, a faint murmur of sound now that she's done drying her face as she collects her fork to bring a mushroom to her plate. Yes, she knows too well Miguel's fears and worries, that feel of failure that drapes about him. That he pushes through that, and allows her psychic touch when no one else does, is a rather large miracle that he hasn't run screaming from her. She cuts into her mushroom with a knife delicately. "I'm really grateful. I'm not sure how I can repay you.. You're comfortable, right? in the apartment? You don't need anything?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he says sincerely. "Got a place to crash, got some clothes, got some food; don't need much more than that, if you think about it. What's--what's important is having someone you care about, who cares about you.  That's what really matters.  I mean, for some people, it's a dog, or--or some people, like vigilantes, it's the people they help.  Other's--well, I don't know, but everyone has something." He realizes that he may be that someone for her, and--that's a very, very odd feeling, if that's the case. He's never really been the sort to be depended upon, looked to.

Angela grows wistful at that. Her eyes fall to her mushrooms, spearing that bite to bring to her lips. "I've never had that before," she notes softly before putting the morsel in her mouth to chewchewchew. She flicks her green eyes up to Miguel, a faint touch of rose on her cheeks.

"I didn't, either, for the longest time," says Miguel, glancing at her before looking down at his plate. "Sometimes you don't find it for a while. Sometimes all you have is the belief that you can /get/ it." He spears a mushroom and looks at it with an arched brow, studying it as one would a specimen in a laboratory. Well, what the hell. That gets popped into his mouth, where he finds it's not half-bad.

"I didn't even have the belief," Angela admits before taking her next bite. Half a mushroom per bite. "That we've found each other..." She shakes her head, smiling softly again. "Let's stop talking about this? I don't want to jinx it."

"Okay, 'cept for one thing: I don't believe in jinxes. Magic, sure, kind of--but luck and fate are what we make them." And with that, Miguel brandishes another mushroom in something of a mock-toast. "Okay, so--what are these supposed to be? I mean, I know they're mushrooms, but, you know..."

"They're stuffed mushrooms," Angela says with a smile and a note of question in her voice at the brandishes mushroom. She's giggling softly too, following Miguel away toward the next subject of the afternoon: food. "Have you never had stuffed mushrooms before?"

"Not really, no," admits Miguel, looking down at the plate. "My mother's Mexican and my dad's Irish. Most of the time if it wasn't a  plain meat-and-potatoes kind'a thing, it was some dish my mother got from her grandmother." Who'd--probably be a young girl, now, he realizes. He spears another mushroom and plops it into his mouth.

"You're Irish," asks the posh Brit with a note of surprise and force-fed disdain in her voice. "You don't sound it," she adds, not trying to disgruntle her savior, and yet not really able to mask that social stigma she's learned from childhood.

"Well, technically," replies Miguel, one brow lifting a few centimeters. "On both sides of my family, they'd been Americans for generations." A shrug of one shoulder, and he sets down the fork to reach for his drink. "But, trust me, anything bad you'd care to say about the Irish, it was true at least for him. Guy was an asshole." Which is an understatement, made obvious in his tone. There's a hatred that he's only ever really felt for the worst or the worst, the people he's seen do the most horrific acts--and his father is the prime target.

"Oh. American. I'm sorry," Angela replies, as if that was a fair deal worse than the Irish. Or it could be that his father was an asshole. It's open for interpretation, really. She takes another bite of her mushrooms, chewing and taking a drink to clear her mouth before continuing on the conversation. "How did they meet, your parents," she asks.

Taking a moment to sip his drink, Miguel uses the beat to reflect. It's been a while since he thought about his parents so much. "Mmm, college, I believe," he says as he sets his glass down. "Dad was an engineer, and I think my mother was going for a degree, though it's been so long, I forget, now, what it was for. After they married, she 'settled down' and tried to play housewife." Which the woman was decidedly unsuited for, though she did her best. He shrugs one shoulder again and returns his attention to the plate. "Okay, so, your turn--how'd your parents meet, so on and so on." That's said with a small smile as he glances up at her. Turn-about is fair play.

The question draws Angela's shoulders back, and the warmth that had begun to develop chills. "At a court function, I believe. I am not privy to all the details, save that everyone's life would have been quite better off if the peasant had remembered his place," she answers with a sharply chilled disdain and a flash of hurt in her green eyes. Woo! Father-Hater's Club, right here baby!

To that, Miguel nods his head once with an agreeable expression on his face, then takes a moment for another mouthful of food. It's definitely good, if--odd. "Well, I can understand that. No one can pick their family, after all, and it's not like there's really a good selection to choose from anyway.  Everyone's crazy, I realized.  The differences are just in flavors of crazy." A lift of his brows in humor, there.

It takes a good five seconds for Angela to realize there's even supposed to be humor in it. She was about to get upset, but he's words from just a moment ago return and remind her to look at things differently. Angela ends up chuckling softly, nodding as she chews another mouthful. And yet, her eyes avert, and a note of pain flicks across the frown of her lips.

Well, that's a better reaction than it almost was, Miguel notes to himself, watching her from behind the sunglasses. And it means she really is trying--which reminds him. "Thanks," he says, somewhat more gently, "for trying so hard. I do see it, and I do appreciate it." He'd been told too many times by too many people that he seemed unappreciative, so is trying to fix that. Maybe, he thinks to himself as he goes for another mouthful of food, this can work out to give them both a second chance at life.

Angela nods to Miguel at the thanks, but puts more food in her mouth to keep from saying anything. The ache and the hurt and the anger is still too sharp for her to look up at him. She almost sneers as a thought drifts by: why hasn't she just come out and kill the bastard? Spared further conversation on the subject for the moment, the waiter interrupts with their meals. Two large lobster tails, some skewered shrimp, rice, and stemmed veggies.

Saved by the food. And it looks pretty good, to boot. He pushes his plate aside to make room for the main course, and is nearly overcome by the smell. It almost takes an act of will to not rub his hands together and start drooling. "Now this looks pretty good," he says before he starts digging in. Good food is the remedy for most bad moods, at least that's how it worked when he was growing up. It sometimes surprised him that he came out as fit as he did, considering.

Angela sits back in her chair to allow the waiter to take her appetizer and replace the plate with her lobster. When her plate is before her, she's carefully reaching out for her silverware as Miguel starts digging in. She looks up, a touch startled, before she begins to grin. "Slow down and chew," she comments softly as she begins to carefully cut free her usual small mouthful. "You're missing a treat."

That makes Miguel chuckle quietly, and he sets his silverware on the plate to reach for his drink. "Yeah, well," he says then takes a quick sip. "It /is/ a treat, and I guess I'm not used to it." A beat as he sets his glass back down. "Thank you. It's not often I get this kind of thing." That's said with a small smile as he retrieves his silverware to continue working on the lobster tail--a bit more slowly.

Angela smiles now, the expression soft and subtle. "I would eat this daily, Miguel, and so... you shall eat like this daily." Her tone is that haughty princess, and yet it's tempered by a calm assurance that he's not leaving. Giving him good food is a no-brainer to help sweeten the deal in his not leaving.

"What about a good, old-fashioned hamburger, eh?" replies Miguel, flashing another small smile as he glances to her. "Sometimes it's nice to just go low-key, or get something delivered." He works on removing another piece of lobster meat from the tail, plopping it into his mouth with obvious enjoyment. While he /is/ more of a low-key guy who's about as refined as a ump of rock, he'd have to admit that stuff like this is /tasty/.

Angela's nose wrinkles faintly. "Hamburger," she repeats, then head shakes lightly. "If you'd like to chose the meals now and again, I shan't complain overly so," she offers before munching on some shrimp.

"I don't know if you'd always like my choices," Miguel says with a grin, one that /almost/ shows off his fangs. "I mean, I saw a--I don't know what you call them, a large vehicle meant for moving cargo. Not the kind with the open back end, but--anyway, the woman inside was making food like my mother did, the few times my father let her." One of the few good memories he has are of food. And it might be deduced that he's talking about, colloquially speaking, a "taco truck", usually a large van or small R.V. transformed into an eatery on wheels. Though the Mecca for some, others are worried since they aren't usually exactly /licensed/ and thus don't have legal health codes to worry about.

Having only ever eaten at the 'best' or had a family chef prepare her meals, Angela clearly doesn't parse the description into anything she has experienced, and so her reply is a questioning little, "Sounds... delicious..." Of course, her tone carries no hint of confidence in her own words. It's that little social lie that allows for the wheels of the aristocracy to keep on keeping on.

"Yeah-huh," replies Miguel, not even pretending like he believes her, but it's said with a humorous tone, so. "It--might be something to try, if you want to expand your culinary horizons. There's a lot of food out there to try, stuff that's at least as good as anything you can find here." That's said as he spears a shrimp with his fork, bringing it to his mouth curiously. Seafood isn't exactly something he has a lot of experience with, but at least he's interested.

Angela quirks a brow at the response. It's so far removed for the pleasantly snipe remark she'd get in return that it's ...much real, some how. After that initial 'wha-?' moment, she grins and nods to him. "Yes, perhaps we should find one of these food vehicles," she agrees amiably to the idea before she puts some steamed veggies into mouth.

It /is/ difficult to not constantly pop out sarcastic remarks, but Miguel knows how well that /wouldn't/ work. "Good. I hope it'll be worth the attempt.  If you don't have experience with it, you might not know you dislike refried beans or something," he says, smiling again before reaching for his drink once again. He's pleasantly surprised with her readiness to try new foods--and just hopes she actually likes them.

Oh, verbal willingness and /actual/ willingness are two /completely/ different things there, Spider-boy! Angela too sips at her drink now and again between her delicately taken mouthfuls. "I'm certain I have never heard of that style of beans, but.. if you think.. they are delightful, I shall... be eager to try it." Ten points if you can hear the hesitation in her voice.

"Yeah-huh," Miguel says again, no less humorously than before. "We can maybe try different things, so you can find something you like. And there's always this place to run back to, too." He takes a sip of his drink, then sets it back on the table before going after some of the vegetables. He was one of those kids who avoided vegetables, and though he's kind of gotten over that as an adult, it's only "kind of". At least he goes for them anyway.

"Sounds delightful," she replies again, after taking another sip of her drink and before putting some rice into her mouth. She falls silent as she eats, seeming not to know what to say over a meal, or even to have much practice with it. Nor does she comment on his food choice. She sips her drink again too, eyes glancing up at Miguel. This is one of those awkward silences.

"Yeah, I realize it probably sounds--less than tasty," Miguel admits, working on the lobster tail again. "But there's a lot of interesting food out there, I think. Plus it's interesting, I think, what people come up with when they don't have much to start with." He thinks it's wise to not mention that people sometimes eat roadkill, as in the literal, found-on-the-side-of-the-road kind. Not exactly a great meal topic, that.

Angela blinks at him a few times before she manages a soft, "Quite so." And then she's back to eating, taking those dainty bites until the waiter breezes by to check on everything. She just shakes her head at the man, without giving him much of a glance.

And he's about run out of ways to keep the conversation going, so Miguel just focuses on the food. He takes his bite of the lobster tail, which to him is still one of the best parts of the entire meal. A sip of his drink, then he goes back to the steamed vegetables.

With the conversation lapsing into silence, Angela seems quite more at ease, and yet there's that touch of... something. She liked hearing his voice. It reminds her she's not alone, and so and the meal moves on, she's looking up at him more and more. By the time Miguel is done with just about every morsel on his plate, Angela's eating a little less than half her food. The waiter stops by then, asking Miguel if he's done eating. With a small forkful half way to her lips when the question is asked, Angel a quickly sets her fork on her plate and sits back in her chair. Eyes going from the waiter to Miguel and back again.

Assuming the woman is in any possible way understanding of the non-verbal "cues" from others, she'd see that Miguel really enjoys the food--een the vegetables, surprisingly enough. He's actually very glad she took him here. It's not something he's really need to make a daily habit out of--but then again, they /do/ have a wide selection of food, he remembers from the menu. Mmm, food. For a moment, she can see that he was, as it is said, "turned inward", but then blinks and snaps himself out of it. Being a slave to his metabolism can get rather--annoying, especially when he's all but surrounded with food. When the waiter comes, he collects his empty plates for the waiter, leaning back a little to let him grab them without worrying about smacking him or something.

Angela is not completely adept at reading anything other than fear and terror in the body postures of others, but she does note how much he seems to just enjoy the meal. It brings some comfort to her. And so, when the waiter is puzzled by the amount of food left on Angela's plate, and so leaves without clearing her plate, she frowns lightly. Looking over at Miguel again, she head tilts, not sure what else to say.

After a moment of thinking about it, Miguel says, "I think he thought you weren't finished. If you're not hungry anymore, we can get a doggy bag to take it home so you can have it later.  Or I can flag him down and tell him you're finished, if you like." He sets his forearms on the table, interlacing his fingers. He doesn't put his elbows on the table, thanks--he was raised with better manners than that. Not that he ever used them until, well, now, but that's not the point. And he's offering to talk to the waiter for her, since he knows how difficult it can be for her to talk to people.

"Oh. Well, I wasn't until.. I guess. I'm done now," Angela stammers faintly, having already shut down that need-to-eat feel when she was interrupted earlier. She ponders a moment, looking at her food before she looks up and with all do seriousness says, "I'm not sure that this food is healthy for dogs."

"It's an expression," says Miguel, leaning forward a little. "I don't know where it comes from; I picked it up from my friend, the one who was into old shows. It means to take food home from a restaurant for later." He smiles a little at her, with all the patience he can muster to show. He knows that some things, as yet, go over her head--but he also knows that little by little, that list is shrinking. He just needs to show her that he doesn't think bad of her for any of it.

"Oh," Angela replies, listening to Miguel's patient explanation. She ends up smiling softly, relaxing a bit and leaning forward. "Oh, well. There's no reason to take it home. I won't eat it," she says softly, lips turning up.

A single nod in understanding, then Miguel says, "Ah. Well, I will, then.  I mean, you know I'm always hungry.  When have I /ever/ turned down food?" A soft chuckle; more like a cough in sound, but given with an expression of humor. "I mean, if it weren't for the money, I could almost literally eat all day long." He unwraps his fingers to reach out for his drink, so he can take another sip.

Angela is taken aback by that, eyes blinking. She's about the argue a moment about him eating old food, but as he just merrily chatters on, she's nodding. "As you like, then," she offers lightly, taking one last sip of her drink. "As you... still hungry, then?"

Splaying his fingers over the table, Miguel says, "Hey, no, I'm good for now. Trust me.  I just--have this really hyper metabolism.  On the one hand, it lets me--do what I do.  On the other hand, it means that I'm always hungry." A shrug of one shoulder, there, as he hopes she got the reference. Having a souped-up metabolism means he can run around as Spider-Man all day long--but it also comes with the price of constantly needing fuel.

It takes Angela few moments to work through that before she's nodding. "Then get a doggy bag, and... I'll give you some cash pounds... hmm.. dollars, to carry with you, if you need to stop and get food sometimes... while you're... out." Her cheeks darken faintly as just talking about being alone causes an emotional reaction.

"Nah," says Miguel, leaning back to look around for the waiter. He glances back to Angela to add, "Food and company waiting at home gives me reason to get back there quicker, eh?" A lift of his brows, there, then he gets the waiter's attention with a gesture. He knows anything to get him back there quicker /should/ make her feel at least a little better; it's not like he's finding reasons to stay away, so.

And Angela smiles, shoulders coming up then falling down in a relieved sort of sigh. "Yes, I dare say it would," she offers, pleased by it and what it means. The waiter comes by and at Miguel's request brings both that to go box and the check. Angela lays down a hundred for the meal, then rises when the food is packed, ready to leave. She pauses suddenly. "you called it home!"

Rising when she does, Miguel smiles at her and shrugs one shoulder. "That's what it is, right?" And with that, he goes to her to offer her his arm again, taking the packed meal in his free hand. It might, in some ways, be a very strange home, but it /is/ home. Which is kind of odd, to him. On the other hand, it's no more strange than the one he left behind, so he supposes that's where the lack of hesitation comes from.