2012-08-14 Sowing Doubt

The Garden is busy--but then, it always /is/; in a city of dizzying architecture and thought-provoking art, the Garden is a place with one foot in a simpler time, a meticulously planned and arranged rebellion against the frenetic pace of the city without. For all that they may marvel at the city's many wonders, a great many tourists and New Yorkers alike have learned to appreciate the Garden's pseudonatural beauty.

Among them - or, perhaps more correctly at the moment, /obscured/ by them - is Logan, elbowing his way through the nature-struck visitors with purpose and a dour grimace. He doesn't offer any apologies, despite the dirty looks he gets along the way; if they knew what he know, they'd be impatient too.

Eventually, he finds safe passage through the throng, much to their relief; brushing himself off, he rounds the edge of a lily-laden lake until he's beside the dangerous, dark-haired woman lingering near the water.

"Gotta hand it to ya, darlin'," he murmurs, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Three days; not bad."

In a very prim and proper sundress, softly golden cream colored with rich green flowers hand embroidered onto it, green silk ballet slippers on her feet, and a cream colored floppy sun hat on, Angela is the measure of calm, peace, and acceptance. She turns at the sound of the voice, lips curled up into a soft and very happy smile. Her eyes are covered over by a pair of dark sunglasses. Her hands are holding a little knit bag, and her hands are 'protected' by delicate green lace wrist gloves.

"Good afternoon, Logan. I'm very pleased to see you," Angela starts, voice even and almost a bit spacey sounding for all that it is smooth and relaxed. Especially compared to the tension and terror from their previous encounters. "Thank you. I've had some help, and I feel... I feel worlds better," she admits with a happy sigh in that break in her words. Her head tilting to one side as if into the caress of a hand only she can feel.

Is she...?

"You /high/ on somethin'?" He rubs his nose with some agitation as he narrows his eyes on her; he didn't get a whiff of anything suspicious off of her, but the flowers and sweaty New Yorkers everywhere are--irritating, to say the very least. "Normally, I ain't much of one to judge," he mutters as his hand slides back into his pocket, "but I dunno that that's the kinda 'help' /your/ little problem needs."

A soft giggle drifts from the british noble, chin tilting down as she does so.

"No, Logan. I'm not high on anything. Like I said. I found help. My mind's clearer than it's been in ...well, years. I don't feel alone all the time like I used to anymore. This is a feeling, I don't think, any drug could offer," Angela replies, still smiling and not at all bothered by the blunt question.

"I'm very glad for your concern. I've been thinking about you, and my friend Kurt too, wanting to show you both just how much better I am. And Miguel too, but... I worry he won't understand as much. Given how I've hurt him so," she continues, a frown starting to form at the mention of the name Miguel. Her scent shifts subtly, a worry a fear starting. And then, just like that, she calms again, smile returning, comforted sigh escaping her.

"But that bridge gets crossed with I get to it. At the very least, I can keep paying for the apartment for his use."

Logan's eyes slowly narrow as he continues staring at the girl whose blood he once imagined creeping down his forearms. Nine days(or just three, depending on one's perspective) was apparently enough time to undo God knows how many years of psychological scars and traumas--and even if /he/ doesn't really buy it, she certainly seems to. Grunting, he looks out over the water and shakes his head as he continues to listen.

When Miguel's name is mentioned, his eyes quickly flick towards her, just in case something terrible happens; he doesn't relax much when the moment passes, but his eyes don't linger.

"If that kid comes back," he matter-of-factly murmurs. "it'll be a miracle. What brought this /on/?" A beat; his eyes slide towards her again, and when he asks, "Where'd that waitress go?" his voice is lower, with a decidedly suspicious quality.

Angela buys it, hook, line, sinker. Almost as if the last few years weren't nearly as horrid as she had lived them, and the last few months were a torture she endured before being rescued. She says she's better, but then the junkie says that when given a steady supply, don't they?

"My Father found me," is Angela's easy reply. Her scent gliding right to that calm, composed, relaxed, almost dopey at the mention. "He's the only one that could have helped. I'd forgotten, and I don't know hy I didn't see it before. I was too lost in fright, I think. The waitress? I...I don't know," Angela aadmits. Her whole frame grows mildly confused, then soothed again.

"One moment she was there, the next not. I didn't question. Maybe I dreamed her," she offers, nonpulsed that Logan, who wasn't there, is asking about someone /she/ dreamed up.

"And you /didn't/ take anything," Logan jokes in a tone devoid of amusement. "Alright; sure." He doesn't react to the (brief) emotional shift, curious as it is; he doesn't press any further, either. If she's /really/ as together as she seems to think she is, it would be downright cruel to take her peace of mind.

And if she isn't, there are a /lot/ of innocent people stinking up the Garden today.

"So you found--what, God?" There's a /little/ bit of amusement, there; Kurt would be pleased. "Your dad? Couldn't 've been therapy."

"Not a thing, Logan," Angela replies, smiling brightly, proud of herself, almost. "Just my Father's hand," She adds taking a moment to consider his words.

"I did, actually. My Father is a god, and he's so glad to have me home, and I'm glad to be home. It feels like... like I've been away all my life, and now I'm back." Angela's cheeks are blushing softly, with the warmth and happy joy of seeming to finally know peace and trust. A young girl in love, finally knowing the embrace of family.

"All I've ever needed was my Father's love again. Just the smoothing presence of him near at all times brushes away all those nightmares. And, you'll be glad to know, that he is actively helping me control myself, helping me find the way to get with my mind needs without hurting anyone with it," Angela adds, smiling. She turns her face away, upward, toward the sun.

"The days are so beautiful." Wistful, dreamy.

Some of the color drains from Logan's face as his fellow lily-watcher waxes spiritual, and as much as he wants to, he doesn't let himself look at her; his expression is a thing of incredulity and the dawning realization that this girl has really, miraculously found her way, or is on the verge of becoming someone even /more/ dangerous than the frightened, capricious murderess of weeks ago.

"--glad for ya," he manages to mutter as she admires the sun. He rubs his face, trying to banish the images of cults and poisoned punch from his imagination. "Sounds--peaceful." His hand goes around to the back of his neck, then, and his face is neutral enough that he's willing to look her in the eye when he flatly adds, "Guess you didn't need yoga after all; congratulations."

The delicate sound of Angela's laugh, carefree and bright, floats free again. She turns to look at Logan and then steps to him for a hug.

"Thank you. Thank you so much. I know you were trying everything you could think of, everything you knew to help. And I'm really sorry if I hurt you. I really am," Angela says, cheeks still with that young girl blush of life-is-rainbows innocence.

"It's not always peaceful," She admits, the smile fading a touch. "Just this morning I learned that someone was trying to hurt my Father. He's alright, thank God, but resting right now. I got so worried when I heard of it. But I'm just happy they couldn't hurt him."

Logan's mutation affords him the sharp reflexes and keen senses of an apex predator; neither do him much good when Angela throws her arms around him. He immediately plants a hand against her shoulder, but it falls once he reminds himself that shoving an affectionate young woman away in public for no apparent reason would make him look like the world's biggest asshole--and that she might just backslide and kill or torment everyone in the Gardens, besides.

So - tough, unbreakable mutant that he is - the man sometimes known as Wolverine does what he does best: he endures. After the first few bewildering moments, he even reaches around and--pats her on top of the head, unsure of what /else/ he should be doing.

As soon as she shows signs of releasing him, though, he will back away and fold his arms over his chest. "Save the apologies; I don't need 'em. You're--/healthy/, now; one less thing for the city t' worry about," he quietly says. After a beat, he looks her square in the sunglasses lens; his own eyes narrow. "Right?"

Angela doesn't hug long, just long enough to say thank you, really. The worry over her father's health is once more soothed by something internal, and Logan's gruff exterior and question is met with a brightest of smiles.

"Right," Angela says with a nod, very much seeming all of her 19 years. Her eyes, barely seen behindhte sunglasses are open and peering right back at Logan.

"As long as my Father isn't hurt so much that he can't help me until I'm completely on my feet again, that is. I"m a little worried, but I know everything will be alright. It isn't just us anymore, He and I. I know everything will be alright," Angela adds, hands once more clasping the little clutch purse in her hands in front of her.

"And whether you think you need them or not, you have them. And from my Father too, no doubt. I'm sure that He would enjoy meeting you; you did try to look after me, and all," she adds. The way she's captalizing the pronouns and the word Father is evendent in her british inflections.