2012-07-03 No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Slightly overcast and humid in New York today. Now that the Stark Expo is wrapped up things are returning to 'normal'. Walking the streets is Angela. Her black hair cut into a ear-length bob bounces faintly with each step of her petite frame. An emerald green silk blouse covers her top half while black skinny length jeans, the kind fashionable in Britain, cover her legs. A light weight cotton trench is over that, rich and charcoal gray. Her shoulders are a bit hunched, bags under her eyes, as her green gaze shifts this way and that. ('Alone, alone, alone. Don't to be alone,') her mind is repeating to itself as she searches for someone to sit next to or walk near with, uncaring if she knows them or not. Being amongst people seems to be the only thing on her mind.

Alone? Alone is something the Martian knows everything about. Even as he comes out of a coffee shop in the human form of John Jones, he is keenly aware of the separation between him and these people. True, they have many things in common, but they also have much to keep them apart. Lifespan. Methods of living. The power he fears that they would seek to destroy him for. He does, indeed, catch the edge of the lonely girl's thoughts, though. Allowing himself to drift that way...perhaps she will give him some excuse to reach to at least the edges of that loneliness.

Departing the local soup kitchen, Miguel raises an eyebrow as he takes a beat to look around. That was--indescribable, really, and he's pretty sure that any words that /could/ describe it would be the sort one shouldn't say. Still, food is food, beggars can't be choosy, and all the other trite clichés. He sticks his hands in his pockets and starts down the street, ignoring the temptation to change into the union suit and travel by air. It's starting to hit him how next to impossible it is to get home. That's a sort of funk that's best walked off.

There's energies at work in that people take completely for granted. Connecting lines that link people to incidents, a silver cord that hooks them to specific places at specific times. An intricate design created for the sole purpose of watching people hop and skip along their path for the amusement of the individuals who originally put the whole big show together. Constantine has bucked that system his entire life. Manipulated it for his own ends and cast the middle finger up at the sky everytime he throws a big ol' 'fuck you, wankers' into the divine machine. Unfortunately, he's not a master of it. Nobody really can be. They can just figure out it's there, try to sort out how it works, and go about their business hoping that it actually /is/ their business... and not just some test.. A cigarette hangs from his lips rolling smoke up around his nostrils as it slow burns closer to the filter than most people, even professional smokers, would be comfortable with. In his left hand is a crumpled piece of paper with a solid crease across the middle... He'd been holding onto it for weeks. Waiting for the exact wrong time to respond, at the exact right moment... On that paper is an address. An address he glances up at with a squinting eye.

Angela's green eyes are quick to catch John Jones drifting closer. The nondescriptness of him is... almost comforting and unsettling all wrapped into one. She attempts a grin in his direction, but fails miserably, clearing not wanting to get close, but eager to not be walking alone. Her steps slow. Her eyes drifts now to Miguel's form, who's just stepped out and started walking in front of her on the sidewalk. The cant of his shoulders, with hands in the pockets, makes her head tilt slightly. It's John Constantine, and his cigarette, that gets a double take and a faint sneer. Gross. Well, at least she's not alone anymore. There are more people around. People means that if someone attacks her, it'll be seen... and she won't be... Dark memories swirl about the front of her thoughts, paling her cheeks and causing her to avert her gaze from the smoker. The smoker. One of those men had smoked. That scent had clung to her for what seemed like months after she got home, and refused to go, no matter how much she had showered. Her brows knit and the corners of her lips pull down.

Yes, John Jones does notice the other John's presence. And the cigarette. An unpleasant habit, that...he does not quite understand the human penchant for addictive substances. (Unless, of course, they're cookies. But that's different. It is. Really.) Angela's failed grin gets a rather more genuine smile in response. Miguel? Walking out of a food kitchen. Poor guy.

For a moment, Miguel's thoughts revolve around the last moments he spent in his home--being swallowed up by cyan energies, watching an orange bomb sail and explode, destroying the only thing that could being him back. He's shaken from his reverie by the feel of eys on him. It's an odd feeling, at least when he's not in the costume. A memory of digging that stupid thing out of his closet years ago flits through his mind as he looks over his shoulder to try and figure out who was looking at him.

At least Constantine's cigarettes are a sweet smelling clove. Silk cuts. The burnt filter is removed from his lips, reversed with a turn of his finger, and used to light another that rolls up to replace it. The cherry is twisted out between his calloused fingers and the butt slipped into the pocket of his trench. Less because he gives the first shit about the environment and more because that's another linkage. He's in a strange sort of metaphysical mood... It's rare, but it happens. After a long drag that brings a deep curl of smoke from his nostrils, John closes scissors fingers around the cigarette and lets it hand down beside him. In his free hand, still clutching that balled up paper, a coin rolls like a wheel between thumb and index finger. Pushed along its center with his pinky nail. Everyone around him, all the people who are also drawn to this spot, at this moment, are given a casual sort of back glance.. Some of them picked out as more important than others. It's little details, little things... Around three in particular his haunted eyes move from them specifically, to the air around them... tracing the silver cord to this, exact, spot. "Sneaky gits..." Muttered. They'd got him here... Against his better judgement and best laid plans, they'd managed to sneak 'fate' into the mix. He really fucking hated when they did that... Constantine's thoughts are chaotic... difficult to pin-down or comprehend in the jumbled manner in which they jump from one detail to another. Like he's having several different thoughts at once, a hundred different ideas collapsing on a single notion. Now he's waiting... and he's not even sure for what.

Green eyes were on Miguel when he glanced back, before Angela's gaze drifted to Constantine and the memories darkened her features. As the new cigarette is lit with the remains of the old, Angela's quivering begins. Her eyes return to Constantine's form, to that bright red pinprick of heat, the curl of smoke around his hand as it lowers to his side. She takes a step back suddenly, green eyes scanning about in a panic. It's as if the weight of sudden anxiety slams into her, the way she's suddenly wide eyed. ('Nono... too bright. Now there's too many people! God, when did I sleep last,') she thinks to herself, as her breathe suddenly spikes into short shallow puffs.

John Jones frowns. The girl's reaction is obvious enough that it would not betray him to react to it. He sends subtle calm her way, just a hint of empathic support, just enough to keep her from completely losing it. But what is she losing it AT? The...smoker? That would seem strange, if one did not understand a bit about psychology. About transference. A phobia of cigarettes could reflect all kinds of things. For that matter? John's none too keen on them himself, although the dim glow is not enough to trigger his own phobias enough to drive him from the area. Cigarettes. Fire. Too many people, the anxiety attack flowing through the young woman he's now fairly close to. "Are you okay?" he asks her, softly. "Do you need to sit down?"

Catching the last second of that green gaze, Miguel arches his eyebrow again and narrows his eyes behind the sunglasses. Her sudden reaction--obviously not to himself, he can see that much, and he looks in the direction she was looking just as the apparent panic attack hit. This might merit a little investigating, he muses as he starts to head in that direction. If nothing else, it might not be a bad way to divert himself.

Something strange is afoot at the soup kitchen. Constantine was waiting on it, expecting it, and pissed off that they thought it was some how important. Angela's reaction catches his eye, how couldn't it?, and he looks pointedly towards her. No sympathy, no concern. In fact, if he knew the cigarette caused the duress, he'd probably smoke it deliberately to make it worse. As it stands, he smokes it now because he wants to. Fingers bring it back to his lips and a drag burns the white paper with hints of orange glowing through the scented tobacco. Even before his cheeks have un-puffed he's releasing the noxious, though aromatic, smoke from flared nostrils. All with his head tilted downward to look at the unfolded address seated half in his palm with an old coin clutched between his fingers. Fate. Constantine takes a step towards the pair of John and Angela, hovering the cigarette down at his side and his other hand out towards the woman. The coin rests in his palm, portrait up. "This is for you, bonnie." Scooting it up into a cradle of thumb and index finger, pointing the flat edge upwards, then down to hold in her direction to be taken.

Angela's heart races like a rabbit's would. As John Jones approaches, she scoots behind him, green eyes peeking out from around his arm to peer at Constantine. The lack of fear on his face, that cold detachment further aggravates the situation, adds to the issues compounding in her mind. She shakes her head vigorously at the tall man's question, however, hands reaching out to clutch at the back of John Jones' jacket. The British accent is the nail in the coffin as it were, and Angela screams out, voice higher pitched than normal with its own aristocratic hint to her proper English lilt, "Stay away from me! You won't take me again!"

"Please back off, sir." Won't take her again? His jacket is clutched firmly, which the shapeshifter is *entirely* aware of. And he is offering her money. John is not thinking of 'john' as being the guy's first name, right now. Either the guy is somebody who did something bad to her. Or he just LOOKS like that person, or acts, or sounds. Either way...John isn't going to let anything happen to her on his watch. Hopefully he can achieve that without blowing his cover. Private detectives are allowed to protect confused girls, though.

As he weaves through the other pedestrians, Miguel slips his hands from his pockets to unfasten the cuffs. He doesn't roll up his sleeves all the way, instead folding the cuffs back once. Never hurts to prepare, and freed spinnerets might well make the difference. When he gets near enough, he says to Constantine, "Hey, friend, looks like you remind her of a guy who wasn't so friendly. Maybe we should let her have her breathing room." It's not really phrased as a request, though at least he's trying to be polite about it.

"Don't make this difficult." John says in a bored sort of tone that is about as nonthreatening as it is uncaring. Freaked out girl? Not his problem. Not even on the top ten list of things he gives the first shit about. In fact, that sits somewhere down near 'animal rights' and 'global warming'. The cigarette returns to his lips but lays limp between them, dangling dangerously close to falling right down onto his light brown trench coat. It is just an ornament, like the other John. His silver cord is linked, but it's dull... Constantine glances at it again, around the coin he's still holding out to Angela, since he's quite ignoring the private detective's 'request' to step back. "Back off yourself, mate. I've got super secret fate business that supersedes anything you might have needed with this woman today." No venom, just disinterest. At everyone thinking their opinions are more important than his... which he does not subscribe to. At all, apparently. "Take the bloody coin and I'll be right on my way... You'd think they'd fuckin' prepare these bits a little better, oy? Drop a hint or something, make all this business easier for us... But that's the rub..." The coin twirls in his fingers like a magician about to palm it and make it appear out of some kids ear at a birthday party.

The detective and the 'homeless guys?''s protection gives Angela some measure of calm, as she fights to control her mind, that desperate need to lash out at the minds nearby, to rake open their thoughts, dig for those dark nightmares, pull them to the surface for them to relive, and then to feast upon the sensation of their fright in order to mask her own deep seated fears. The want of it makes the features of her face flicker for a heartbeat, from frightened girl to night terror. She turns her face away quickly, seeking to control herself. Angela leans back over to peer at Constantine, green eyes flickering with panic as she eyes the coin. A small step, and she scoots between her two would-be protectors, slim pale hand reaching out slowly. ('Tonight. Tonight.') she seems to be chanting to herself silently with mantra-like fear. Tonight she'll feed. Tonight, when darkness hides her terrifying visage when her powers manifest, she'll slink out and satisfy her thirst.''

If his presence allows her to stay calm, then the detective will stay...very much present. He's almost glaring at Constantine. Pressuring the girl, and what's with the coin? Of course, John knows nothing about magic. He only knows that this is weird and bizarre behavior...he knows humans *that* well, at least. But it's clear that this guy WILL keep chasing her until she takes the blasted coin, so...perhaps the best thing to do is just to facilitate that.

Yeah, something about that just doesn't sit right with Miguel. Well, a whole lot about it doesn't sit right with him, really. His hand streaks out, to snatch the coin before the young woman can take it. "Hey, is that a genuine 'Fifty-Five misprint?" he quips with the most sarcastic and annoying tone he can muster. "These things are rare." Maybe he can get the focus of smoking boy on him for the moment and give the other guy apparently interested in keeping this from blowing up a chance to keep the woman calm.

The coin turns once more in Constantine's twisting fingers, then falls from them down into Ang-... No, Miguel's, quick hands... "That was pretty stupid, mate..." Glancing from one protector to the other, both get a derisive snort. It didn't specify who was suppose to get the coin, only that he had to give it to someone... Or maybe John just doesn't give a crap. This is just the sort of tom foolery they hate... And that sort of makes him happy. A grin, sarcastic and tight, crosses his face. "You want to play with fate, be my guest..." Motioning a finger between the coin holder and the intended coin recipient, "But you just bound yourself in business you probably don't want anything to do with... Don't say I didn't warn you..." Welcome to the land of magic, kids. Even his thoughts are of how precious very few shits he gives. Truly, this worked out okay, as far as Constantine is concerned. All that matters, all that even remotely strikes even a momentary hint of a cord, is that he's done what he came here to do. Cigarette returns to his lips, smoke curling out through either nostrils as he turns away from the trio and starts back down the sidewalk in the direction from which he came. The paper he'd been holding is absently tossed out into the street with so very much disinterest. "One less thing." He both says and reasons. Now he can get back to work. Until another debt is called in... He'll put it off, sure. But for how long? These things have a way of sorting themselves out. That's what he tells himself. Head down, smoke curling around the sides of his mouth as he walks. Completely forgetting the situation behind him. And the coin? It's Archangel Raphael: Protector against Nightmares on one face and Saint Dymphna: Patron Saint of sleepwalkers on the other.

Angela's hand halts as Miguel reaches out, snatching up the coin before she can. Her green eyes blink a few times, frame still shaking. ('I've got to get out of here. But I can't be alone. I don't want to be alone,') her mind cries to itself, as her right hand, the one still gripping the back of Mr. Jones' jacket, tightens. Her eyes drift up to him, then to Miguel. ('They seem so willing to protect me... would they let me stay close until the night? Until they sleep,') she ponders, then looks to Constantine. She bites her lower lip, clearly not wanting to consider that strange Brit for a mental meal.

"What an odd man," the other John notes. "Are you alright?" he inquires of Angela. The coin, sadly, is over his head. He would have no clue who Saint Dymphna is. Raphael he might be able to do. Maybe. He is a Martian, and Earth religion still rather mystifies him.

Well, then. Miguel glances at the coin, then looks to Constantine's retreating form. He's quite sure he's just gotten caught up in something that's going to leave him pissed off and cursing the mystic side of life even more than he already does. He arches that brow again and looks back to the young woman and looks between her and her apparent companion. "Sorry for butting in, guys, but people in trench coats handing out religious coins like candy--probably not a good thing." He recognizes one of the figures--the Archangel Raphael. He might be a very-lapsed Catholic, but he remembers some of it.

With the creepy man gone, and the two protectors remaining, Angela reaches out with her other hand to Miguel. "I can't be alone right now," she states, voice still unsteady even as her mind flickers about in its usual state of panic. ('Can't be alone. Too hungry.')

If...whatever she has in mind. "I think it would be unwise to be alone...but I think it would be *very* wise to get something to eat, right?" Either John's making an elemental mistake...or he's trying to very subtly protect Miguel from whatever she really means by hungry. Hard to tell which.

With an air of surprise, Miguel takes Angela's hand with his left, keeping the coin in his right. Mystical items are things he knows little about, beyond shoving them somewhere they can't hurt anyone until someone who knows such things can take a look. He also holds her hand somewhat awkwardly, to keep the backs of his folded talons from pressing against her hand. "Umm. Well. I'm--Miguel, and--I'll stay as long as you need, but I have to agree with the food idea. This place--" he nods back toward the soup kitchen, "--has something they're calling Mystery Meat tonight, and I think it's a mystery not worth solving." A lame joke made with a self-conscious and lame smile. The awkwardness just shoots straight through the roof. He's not used to people wanting him, specifically, to stay with them after such an--episode. Even in his costume, people tended to view him more as a messiah and wanted those kinds of things from him rather than just--him.

There's a startle from the girl as her hand is grabbed. Her heartbeat skips a bit, as she eyes Miguel briefly, then steps to him, almost clinging. She turns to green eyes to John, nodding with a weak, still frightened smile. ('Good. They'll both do. Better if they are willing. Wait for them to sleep... The mind's weaker when asleep,') her mind's a plotting even as her delicate English tones reply aloud. "I'll pay... As thanks to my rescuers," are her words. Her voice is tiny, almost unsure of itself.

"Alright." He has, of course, no intention of letting her have her way with either him (not likely) or Miguel. But John also figures that he needs time to work out a way to prevent that. He doesn't want to go rummaging in her mind to find out what 'food' she needs...unless there's no alternative. Which there might not be.

"Hey, you don't have to pay," says Miguel, brushing that idea off with a shrug. "I mean, come on, you shouldn't have to /pay/ people who help you." He tries for a more sincere smile, one meant to be comforting--not that he's entirely sure how to actually /be/ comforting. "But maybe we should get you walking around a little bit to hopefully start getting that guy out of your mind." He offers a light, hopefully-nice squeeze of her hand.

"It's... socially acceptable. I.... invited you to join me? So..." Angela's voice is peeping, that girlish sort of not altogether certain of anything. She looks to Miguel while the hand on John shifts off his back and to his elbow. Her panic is subsiding, calmed by the promise of the feel of anothers nightmares in the warm pair flaking her. She too tries to smile at Miguel. Did you ever see the Adam's Family? The movie with Christina Ricci as Wednesday? The scene where she smiles? Yes. Angela's smile is a little like that. "The walking is helping, and... I want to..." ('Feed.') "...buy you two gentleman... lunch?"

"I hope it is only lunch you have in mind," John says, lightly. Hey. She's far, far too young for him. (Well, technically, so are ALL Earth women. Including the easy ones.)

"Well, alright," says Miguel, tensing a little to help support her if she seems to require it. "I guess, as long as lunch really is the only thing you have in mind, it shouldn't be bad, eh?" Another joke! Another lame one, too, but hey, he's trying. The other guy seems like a decent sort, too, so what the heck. "I'm--kind of new to the area, so I'll let you two figure out the place." He offers another smile as he goes to walk with them.

Angela blinks a few times, and lies coolly, as her gaze settles on John fully. After all, he was the first one to mention that. "Of course. What could ever make you think any different?" Of course... but behind those eyes and within her mind the truth rests, and her hands - both of them - tighten slightly. Must.. not... lose... easy... meal.

"You had some interesting pauses. And I know just the place...just this way." Hrm. He could, of course, escape in seconds. At this moment, though, he is more concerned about working out what is going on with this girl. How to help her. She has a very interesting aura to the telepath.

Arching that eyebrow again, Miguel turns his head a little to indicate he's looking at both John and Angela. People tend to like that sort of thing, especially when one wears sunglasses like him. "I say he has the right idea," he says," nodding to John. And maybe you can talk about something to help get your mind back in-gear? Like, I don't know, how you came to be in this neck of the woods, say. Mindless natter might just help." Or so he seems to recall being told once upon a time. Hasn't worked for /him/, but then he's never claimed to be normal, either.

Angela frowns lightly, looking down and away as if embarrassed but the suggestion, she really seeks to hide the sneer that can be felt in her mind. "Sorry," she murmurs faintly. "Yes, please lead the way." She seems to follow, but her mind is alert, wary, and starting to grow frightened again. It's Miguel's comment about getting her mind back in-gear that pulls Angela's attention. "Hmm? You mean on this side of the pond?" She pauses, the fear growing again. She averts her gaze again. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Don't press her. She's obviously been through...something." Fearing a British accent? To John, it speaks of signs of abuse...but something else, her fragility and also her thought of feeding combined with that aura. The young woman might *well* be a psychic vampire.

Great going, Miggy. Inwardly, Miguel groans at apparently having made a really bad suggestion. "Ah, sorry. Just thought--never mind. Obviously I didn't think it through, so yeah, I'm sorry." He does look particularly contrite, and decides to stay pretty much silent until and unless he is sure he won't muck things up again.

John's words, it's clear, hit home, for at them she grows defensive. "I have not! I am... I haven't... That is... I ah..." Her cheeks pale again, eyes flicking about as her breath once more quickens. She shakes her head. Walking with the two, Angela bites the inside of her lower lip, brows knitting together. "No no. It's okay. I'm... a little... I'm just... I'm easily startled," she finally stammers after a moment, mind trying to calm again, inner voice reminding her that patience is a virtue. Their steps lead them ever closer to John's eatery of choice. Angela's fear: that they aren't going to an eatery at all, but some dark and seedy back alley!

Nope. It's a bit of a hole in the wall...a taco place...but no dark alleyway. John is, of course, speaking the truth...at least as he sees it. "If you don't like spice, ask for it mild, they're good for that here." The detective clearly knows the place. "I recommend the fish."

"Good idea. Fish sounds like a good idea, eh?" says Miguel, hoping that's as safe a comment as it seemed to be in his head. At this rate, he'd give almost anything for a super-mutated-something-or-another. Somehow, kicking peoples' heads in seems easier and safer.

Angela nods, smiling with more ease as their destination is reached. She was this close -> <- to bolting. "Yes, quite," she peeps again, biting her lower lip. She waits for someone else to open the door before she enters, never letting go of Miguel's hand or John's elbow; let the menfolk decide who goes through first. She's still wary of the place, mind flicking over the gathered crowd. Her eyes glimmer faintly at the psychic brush. No fears are easily found, and nothing seemingly more tasty feeling than the two in her grasp, so she remains between them, following where they lead.

"Counter service," John notes. He heads that way, ordering the fish. (A Martian? Who likes fish? Perhaps it's one of those things he picked up since coming to Earth. Of course, nobody here knows what he is. He's rather determined to keep it that way.) "So. My name is John Jones." What an ordinary name.

The other customers get a quick glancing-over from Miguel, which he tries to keep to himself by not turning his head as he does so. No one seems to be all /that/ interested in them, beyond the occasional curious look. While that won't make Miggy much more comfortable, it at least lets him be a bit more relaxed. "I'm Miguel, but you can call me Miggy if you like," he says before ordering the fish as well, repeating his name but realizing too well that, in Angela's case, she might still be too rattled to have remembered.

Yup. Clearly Angela didn't remember it, but as they are given now, and a stress free (by comparison!) environment, she glances to each and smiles. Her hand tightens slightly about each of them, and her mind longs to reach out to touch theirs, get a sense for them, ensure she has a lock on them, should they leave her, but Phobia bides her time. "Angela," is all she replies, looking up at John once, then asking for the same. Her hand leaves John's arm, reaching for her slightly over sized purse.

Fish tacos, thus, are consumed. Which, hopefully, will help ground Angela. Food always helps when emotions run high. Especially good food...and John knows enough about Earth food to know this *is* good to human taste buds.

Fish tacos consumed, though Miguel never really loses his ill-at-ease aspect. He tries to hide it, though is more worried about Angela at the moment. This John guy still seems like a decent sort, and Miggy's mainly worried about committing another stupid blunder. Sometime toward the end of the actual consumption, where the point of resting after a fine meal would come in, he says, "So, Angela, is there somewhere we can walk you to? Like a friend's place, maybe?" That seems a good thing to say; he can't see how that would muck things up again. Which--is usually his problem, he realizes.

As she had offered, Angela pays for the full meal, refusing to hear any comments to the contrary. When she eats, it's very little and taking with dainty bites and nibbles. She's no more than half done with her meal when the others are completely finished, and conversation resumes. ('YES!') Angela smiles, a little more certain of herself, as if that food really was the best medicine. "I have a hotel room not far away," she says, her tone drifting away delicately, a blush almost creeping to her face. She hides the lack of it by seeming to be trying to hide the flush; her hands cover her cheeks. "I'm sorry. How forward of me!"

"Afraid we might think you are flirting?" John smiles. "Given you are considerably too young for me...you are perfectly safe." He had a daughter her equivalent age. Once.

"And me, I'm--safe, too, for other reasons," says Miguel, trying to uphold the smile, though it might be clear that he really doesn't want to elucidate. Still, he does feel that he's genuinely "safe"--at least as much as such a thing can have any real meaning. "I don't think you have anything to worry about." That smile widens a touch as he sets his hands in his lap and leans back in the seat, affecting a relaxed posture to hopefully keep things nice and comfortable.

('Excellent,') her mind rings. One could almost hear the Mr. Burns tone to it. Angela smiles, both hands dropping to set on top of the hands of her gallant knights! She looks between the two, brows pulling up in demure question: "Could you walk me? It's getting late and dark... I'm afraid of walking in the dark alone," she says, the words holding the heavy truth John's telepathy can almost taste in the air about her. The mere thought of going anywhere alone is terrifying.

And...at that point John's cellphone rings. He answers it. Crap. He doesn't need this. "I have to run...a friend has a major emergency." He flees for the door, looking as if the emergency has him really rather bothered. Neither of them will, of course, notice him duck into an alleyway and turn into somebody else.

Another time, another place, Miguel might have noticed the ducking into an alley. This is neither, really. So, he bids his goodbyes to John, then turns his attention back to Angela. "I don't have anywhere to be just yet, and I don't have a communications system to use to be called anywhere. I can walk you back to your hotel, if you like." That's said with another smile, and he pats her hand lightly. Not that he's sure that's the appropriate response, necessarily, but that's just more being unsure of what the appropriate response /is/.

Angela watches John depart quickly, lips parting, eyes fighting to keep from narrowing unhappily. Miguel's voice, however, reminds her that she still has one with her, one more than willing to walk into her net. The Brit turns her face back to Miguel, smiling as he pats her hand. She turns hers over, so their palms can touch, trying to get him to hold her hand again. "Thank you. You're very wonderful to me. So many people I meet... aren't as..." Her voice fades, one shoulder rolling, like she's not sure what word she should use to finish that sentence.

That's--awkward. Miguel lifts that eyebrow again, but obligingly holds her hand. He still tries to keep the backs of his folded talons from touching her, so it may be awkward in a physical sense, as well. "I--umm--well, I guess I haven't been here long enough to really become--yeah. Trust me," he says with a grin, "I'm not exactly a saint, but I guess I haven't yet become, eh, apathetic enough. Don't plan to be, either." That grin fades a touch to become another smile, though it's one of the more sincere ones--which might look odd on a face that's obviously unused to much but scowling.

Angela watches that face, and is unable to fight how she licks her lips. Realizing this, she drops her chin and moves to stand. "We should probably....?"

A sudden memory flicks through Miguel's mind--a few years ago, or a few decades from now depending on how one sees things. A hotel room in Mexico during the Day of the Dead festival. Ah, Dana... A sudden sorrow clouds his mind, though he keeps it from encroaching onto his features as much as possible. It's not like he hasn't had practice. "Yeah, I suppose," he says, keeping that smile on his face and getting to his feet, so he can help her out of her chair. "It's only getting darker, and we should get you back to your hotel."

Angela nods, keeping her face turned down in an attempt to hide her eyes. Yes.. darker... Please. Let night come! She rises with Miguel's help, then twists her hand to twinge her fingers in his. She leads the way to a rather nice hotel. Not the Wyatt, but not seedy by the hour motel number four either. As the night deepens, and her hotel draws near, Angela's frame begins to shake again. She bites her lower lip and seeks to hide her face in his arm.

At the face-burying, Miguel becomes rather uncertain once again. There's a part of him that hopes it's just residual psychological effects of the earlier--whatever that was. But he's not naïve enough to think it couldn't necessarily be--something else. "It'll be okay," he says, going to wrap his arm around her shoulder protectively. "Not that long ago, I--lost someone I cared about, so I can actually sympathize with how you might feel." Just in case it /is/ the something else, he slips that bit in, as a subtle way to say he's really not yet capable of that something else. He gives her shoulder a light squeeze, hopefully to keep that protective air. He knows all too well how dangerous the night can be.

"Really," Angela seems to squeak, frame shaking with the effort of holding back. The tension can be felt along her back and shoulder, and her head shifts from his arm to his chest as he wraps his arm about her. She's leading the way down the hall, toward the very far back of the hotel, where the lights are dimmest, and the halls uninhabited. For someone afraid of being alone, she sure can pick 'em!

When they get to her door, Miguel releases her, saying, "You want me to take a look around, make sure everything's okay?" He can't imagine why anything wouldn't be, but it shouldn't hurt to make the offer. And that offer is made with another, hopefully reassuring, smile, to keep from seeming like it's anything but a formality, and one that he really doesn't think is necessary for much but peace of mind, at that. Though, there's nothing wrong with trying for peace of mind.

Angela has to duck her head low, fumbling into her purse before offering the key card with shaking hands. She seeks to hide her face with her hair while nodding vigorously and without words.

After opening the door, Miguel gives the one-finger international sign for "wait here a minute", then slips into the apartment, leaving the door open. Pulling down his sunglasses a bit, he peers over them to look around. "No one's been here since house-keeping, looks like," he says. The carpet's been vacuumed, there's no one in the nook that serves as a closet, so on and so forth. Looks about as safe as it can be, really. After pushing his sunglasses back into place, he turns to smile at her. "Yeah, looks fine. I wish I could offer you someplace better to stay, but I'm kind of--crashing on a friend's couch as it is."

No sooner is Miguel out of sight than Angela takes a breath. Her eyes flare and an inhuman ripple coats her body before fading away again. ('Soon...') Phobia licks her lips, then creeps in, fearfully looking about as she does so. "Maybe you could... stay here? Just for tonight? I check out in the morning," comes the squeaky sort of request.

Well, this is just getting more and more awkward, Miguel thinks to himself. "I--suppose I could," he says tentatively with a small lift of his shoulders. "I actually only woke up a few hours before we, ah--met--earlier today, so I can stay up and guard you, if you really feel--unsafe." Hopefully that's enough of a clue that he's not really capable of certain--other things--that would be served by his staying. "I actually don't need much rest, so I could stand by the window all night, if you need." There's a sense of embarrassment he tries to hide, there, but hopefully he's made his position clear.

Doesn't SLEEP!? Dammit! Angela smiles to that, turning to close the door to hide that sneer. "Yes, yes of course. Thank you. Umm..." Her voice seems to falter, and she turns to face Miguel again, flicking upward glances at him through her lashes. And awkward silence...

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Miguel says, "Ah, Miguel. Miggy, if you like." There's no real reproach, there; he can imagine how unsettled she still is from the earlier--episode. His right hand touches that coin he snatched earlier, and thinks about asking Angela about it--but then again, as unsettled as she likely still is, it probably wouldn't help. "Umm. Wow, small place. Guess it could be worse, eh? I mean, some places, you have to share the bathroom with the cockroaches." Another stupid joke, but it really is all he can think of at the moment.

"Cockroaches," Angela squeaks, eyes actually widening in real concern, bordering on fear. That prickly emotion again. She shakes from it, eyes casting about, looking for the vile little creatures. ('I can't... take this anymore. The cigarettes, the accent, the bugs!') A quiver shudders through her body, eyes closing, mind snaking out. ~Tell me fears,~ a low contralto voice whispers coldly, a sound that could rise goosebumps on one's flesh. The sound springs from Angela's lips, as the terror image that coats her whenever her mind reaches to touch another's, oozes over her frame like a slick oily shadow. It makes her trench coat appear as a sinister cape. The colors of her shirt and pants blend together in a sick and hollow take on every child's bogeyman under the bed. Her face grows featureless, eyes elongated and reflective. Ever seen those gray-skin aliens from Independence Day? Those eyes, only with a green glint to them. Psychic claws reach out to tear threw Miguel's mind, seeking to conjure up his worst nightmare, and then to allow her power to fuel them back into his mind as a living, breathing, fully immersive hallucination, that only he can sense.

A creature made of pure evil--and no, that's not what Miguel thinks of her. That's what haunts the back of his mind. What purports itself to be a man but is more a mockery thereof--black, a white spider curling around the torso, and inhuman face, a long tongue dripping green ichor--Miggy's worst fear is in fact a memory. The memory of a failure worse than all others; worse, even, than his failure of Kenny. The /thing/ crouched on a reception desk, holding two women by the throats. "Choose," it had said. "Choose who dies..." He couldn't help it--watching his lover, his fiancée, his everything--he couldn't help but say her name, wanting to help her, hold her, give her hope--but that one shouted word was her doom. That /monster/ had killed her, and he held her in his arms as she died. He's not even aware of kneeling on the floor, clutching his head and howling in rage and anguish both--for, yes, the undercurrent of fear and pain that memory always brings up runs threads of mindless rage. It's a rage that grows more powerful and all-consuming the more he's forced to relieve the moment when he failed, the more he's reminded that he will fail again in the future and someone else will lose their life. Every moment, that fear is his companion--which makes it very strong, indeed.

Phobia actually moans aloud at the feel of it, her tongue running over her lips. ~This will do nicely,~ she whispers, stepping forward as she revels in the feel of his fear, his anguish, his pain. Her footsteps are a faint swoosh against the carpet as she draws near. So engrossed in the darkness, she fails to notice the gleaming coin in Miguel's pocket. Shhh... there is no nightmare.... ~Losss... what you fear the most.... creature of black and green.... teeth sharp.... You should have said the other name....~ And thus Phobia laughs darkly, the sound of her voice taking on the grotesque feel of a Nightmare Venom. How long until she realizes that coin has begin to shield Miguel?

The memory has taken on a life of its own. It always does. The look on that monster's "face" as he closed his fist around Dana's throat, then tossed her aside like a rag doll. The feel of her sagging weight in his arms, the confusion in her eyes as she looked up at him. The feel of his tears, trapped by his eyes thanks to the form-fitting mask he was wearing. The pain that has been with him ever since. His howl becomes a roar, the rage surging within him to become stronger--almost as strong as the fear itself. The rage that's lashed out at everything and everyone, itself threaded with the hate he feels for himself for having failed someone who needed him. Snarling and baring his fangs, he suddenly lunges forward, hands reaching forward to rake his talons through this demon, to destroy it and vent some of the rage that will never truly go away. To, for just a little while, gain some peace through release.

Fear turns to hate. Hate leads to suffering. Or some junk like that. As she's charged, Phobia screams, her hold on his mind faltering with her need to protect herself. She staggers backwards, away from Miguel, her scream an inhuman sound. Why didn't he stay crumbled in fear? Why can she no longer taste it on his frame? Phobia, shaking, tries to dodge.

He won't fail anyone again. Not like that. He will never give up, never stop, no matter what. The rage he's felt for so long may be the only thing really keeping him going--at least, as far as he's concerned. Especially at a moment like this, he's certainly not really even aware of the coin anymore, much less really thinking it's helping him any. Certainly not as he lands against the wall, crouching against it and using the claws in his hand to give him purchase--and might possibly remind one of a certain other wall-crawler. Either way, he pushes off again, firing two splorches of webbing from the backs of his forearms as he flies toward her again--good thing he never got around to rolling down those sleeves. If they hit, they'll wrap around her and maybe trip her up just long enough for him to put those talons of his to good use.

If they hit. As Angela, she's taken enough self-defense classes to protect herself. As Phobia, she's absorbed enough terrors to just let her body move and not be frightened of the results. Phobia flings herself to the floor, mind lancing out against, but finding no purchase. It causes her own fears to rear their heads, and she brings a hand to her head, as if pained, an anguished scream drifting forth.

Narrowly missing her, Miguel lands on the floor behind her in a crouch, then slowly stands up. He looks down at her, upper lip quivering, and some part of him realizes that, to an extent, she's no worse than he is. Something not quite human, trying to survive--but he really couldn't give a shit less. He can't allow this thing to hurt anyone else. He brings his hand back--then swiftly goes to bring it down, to plunge his claws through the demon's head and rip whatever passes for a brain to shreds.

It's in that moment, Phobia's mind no longer able to sustain her powers without the feel of another's fear, that the horrific gossamer shreds from her... Angela looks up as those claws descend toward her and she flings herself out of the way, her coat getting torn in the process. "Miguel," she calls out with her tiny frightened voice. She's defense against him, cornered... and currently, there are no other minds to rip open and force to come to her aid. She backs away, crab-scuttle crawling along the floor to bump into the single queen bed.

The claws plunge into the floor, buried straight to the fingers. Miguel yanks them out, sending a small shower of carpet- and wood-bits around. There's a struggle to control himself, the moment taken by her backing away. His breathing slowly becomes more even, narrows his eyes behind the sunglasses. "Give me one reason I don't rip your fucking head off right this god-damned second..." he snarls softly, brows furrowing in anger. The rage has started to subside--at least as much as it ever really does, which is the only thing keeping him standing there as opposed to flying across the room in another attempt to rip her to shreds.

The only thing she has... and this time... it's complete honesty: "You're scaring me." Which normally she loves... only... she's not getting any sustenance from it.... and she's still frightened... and she's probably STILL going to have nightmares. What the HELL is going on?!

"...scaring you," repeats Miguel, somewhere between a tirade and a snort of derisive laughter. "Scaring /you/. What I /did/ was come here, because I thought you needed protection. What I /did/ was try to /be nice/. And what did /you/ do? /You/ went rummaging around /my fucking head/. Why, I don't know, and I'm all out of fucks to give about it, too. So /tell me/ who should really be the one who's scared, here." He cocks an eyebrow as he looks at her, though at least he's not stalking toward her or trying to rip her face apart. So there's that.

Yes. There's that. Until she opens her mouth. "You should be. -You- should be the frightened one. Your nightmares! They should have... masked my own but... you went from frightened to... " She shivered, trying to push herself up to her feet or the bed... it's not clear which.

"No, you can stay right the fuck there until I'm convinced I shouldn't paint the walls with your fucking guts," says Miguel, pointing a warning finger at Angela. "And the word you're looking for is--well, two words: 'pissed' and 'off'. Do you really not understand people? Can you really not understand why someone can go from afraid to pissed?" He's rather dubious about this, made obvious by his tone. "Can you really not understand that someone can /fail/, so very badly, and feel angry because of it?"

Her answer is simple: "No." Angela crawls up on the foot of the bed, and kneels there, unmoving save for the full body tremor racing through her, causing her voice to crack when she speaks. "I only know fear."

"They're connected," Miguel says a bit more quietly. "I don't think you can really have fear without anger, at least not a rational fear. You can't face something real that terrifies you without anger--whether you're angry with yourself for something or someone else." He sighs softly and rubs his face with his right hand. "I can't let you go. You know that, unless you /literally/ know nothing but fear. I can't let you hurt anyone else." Not that he has the first clue what the hell he's going to /do/ with her. He's lost enough of that rage to make outright killing her--well, he'd prefer not to.

"I don't want to be alone," Angela repeats, like a broken record from before. "I'll dream again. I need to quench it... keep from feeling it... from being alone. Yes, stay. That's fine." She looks toward the window.... The child across the street... still awake? Afraid of the dark... Her head tilts, the tremors slow. Her eyes start to gleam again.

"Ah! None of that!" says Miguel, holding up that finger of warning again. "Hold it together and I think I can offer a compromise--but I need to know I can trust you. And that means that you stop that shit right the fuck now." He watches her carefully, tensing himself up in case she goes bug-fuck loony again. He really does think he can offer something--but he's not going to let her try and screw over someone else. He can't.

The warning voice spooks Angela, and her eyes snap back toward Miguel. There's a moment where she lashes out at him, that ripple of nightmarish fiend sliding over her body, but when her mind finds no fear to purchase upon, her powers drop and fizzle. The shaking returns, brows pulled together in fright. "What do you want?" she asks, speaking like a deer in headlights.

"What I want," says Miguel slowly, going over to ease down onto the bed next to her, "is to know you deserve the chance I can give you. What I want is to know you're not a monster. I can help--I really think I can--but I can't allow you to hurt anyone else. That means you need to trust me, and you need me to trust you. /That/ means no more terrorizing people. If that's a by-product of who and what you are, we can work on that. If you just do it because you do it--I can't allow it." A beat. "Do you understand me?"

Angela eyes him, scooting a fraction of an inch away as he settles himself near her. Her eyes are wide, mind trying to comprehend it all. "Help? Why? No one helps me. No one wants me around. They all try to keep me away, keep me alone. I don't like being alone. I'm afraid when I'm alone. I don't want to be alone. You're not leaving me alone, are you?" All asked while shaking as violently as a chilled chihuahua.

"Because people helped /me/," says Miguel softly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Because everyone deserves a chance. Because no one should have to suffer." A wan, mirthless smile comes to his lips. "Take your pick, really." He removes his sunglasses with his left hand, using his right forefinger and thumb to rub the inner corners of his eyes. Red irises might well be glimpsed in the scant time it takes to put the sunglasses back on. "Remind me to tell you about Dana sometime. I think you would have liked her; I know she would have liked you." What passes for a smile fades again, and he turns his head to look at Angela directly. "Look--I can--I can let you, uh, 'feed' or whatever--on /me/, if you need to. I can do that. But--I need to know I'm doing this because you deserve it, and that you won't just use me as a snack bar on the way to the next meal."

His candor takes her aback, and her green eyes narrow. "I... The weight of... your terror.. before the anger struck... would sustain me... for a handful of days... perhaps..." She's licking her lips at each pause, tremors nearly shaking the bed upon which she sits. "...if uninterrupted... allowed to run its full course... I've... I've stopped hearts before," she admits voice unsteady. Whether it's from her trembling or guilt is hard to say.

"I didn't say it'd be /easy/ for you," replies Miguel, one corner of his mouth curling upward in a brief smile. "I said it would help you--but that's if you really want that help. I also can't promise to not get pissed off again. I mean--that was--god, that was fucked up. Part of the fear I will always carry with me is that I will fail again. And that's where the anger comes from, too--I /shouldn't/ have failed her. She--she deserved better than that." A soft exhalation, and he rubs his jaw, trying to not let himself think about that day again. After just having gone through it--that's surprisingly easy to do, right now.

Angela blinks, peering at how easily this seems to come to him. It's frightening and yet... It's the crack addict looking at someone offering a hit. It's right there. You just have to take it. "You're no longer afraid," she fires back, shaking still. She licks her lips, then bites at the lower one. "I haven't slept in days." Her eyes close. "I need to sate myself." Her eyes open again, flickering toward the window once, then back to Miguel. "If you sleep... fall into dreams... it is easier....?

"Easier--how?" asks Miguel, arching a brow in curiosity. "Easier to--what, get over it? If that's the case, no, I'l never really 'get over' Dana, and what--happened. If you mean easier to get into those parts of my head--then yeah, probably. Haven't had a good night's sleep since, so it'd probably be easier for you that way. Now that said--I'm not trying to offer you all the Rapture you can swallow, here. We're going to be working on finding another solution--though I admit I haven't the first damned clue what it is. And for another thing, you /have to work on self-control/. Tonight? Where you flipped the fuck out? Can't happen again. I /can't/ allow you to hurt someone." 'Course, he understands all too well how much patience that would require on his part, but he's not about to /say/ that. She needs to try her very best, and sometimes, realizing that there's a safety net means one doesn't.

Angela listens, the shaking growing nearly violent until her eyes flash over green, her mind claws out at him, and she snarls in his face. ~Let me in!~ Her voice is that stretched thin hiss, and she leans forward on hands and knees, all but putting her face into his. The cloak of her nightmare ripple is torn where his claws caught her trench. Of course, the backlash of nothing, causes Phobia to flinch, yelp in pain, bring a hand to her temple, and fall back two inches.

Well, shit. "Hey, hey, none of that," says Miguel sharply as he grabs her upper arms and holds her there. "Remember what I /just/ said about self-control? You need to show me you have that." When she sags back, he lets her go, though is still quite--wary. So far, he's not entirely convinced she /has/ the self-control she needs if she seriously wants help getting over--whatever this is. At least he's not overly afraid of her right now. Quite simply, he's just too tired for it. Having such an emotional reaction as he was forced to, earlier, made him rather drained. That doesn't, however, mean he can't get /angry/, and there's a small undercurrent of just that. "You /need/ to /control yourself/," he says firmly, still watching her carefully.

Angela's eyes nearly flew out of her skull as she was grabbed, and she pales dangerously. Her body tenses, all but ready to roll flip throw when lets her go. She retreats a bit more, eyeing him a bit before she finally stands up and moves to face a wall. A full ten seconds pass until she asks, "Are you asleep yet?"

"...am I /asleep/ yet? Really? You're going to come close to flipping the hell out after I /just/ said you needed more self-control, and you're going to ask me to be your entrée at the buffet bar? /Really/?" Miguel sounds somewhere between surprised and rather irritated, affixing her with a rather skeptical look on his features--and one doesn't need to see the eyes behind the sunglasses to see this.

Angela hangs her head. For a moment, nothing, and then she starts for the bathroom, then stops. She looks over. "You.... you won't run off will you? If I ...go and shower?" Her form is shaking again. The mere thought of being that alone again seeming to be enough to start her toward another psychic panic attack.

After letting out a soft breath, Miguel cocks his eyebrow again, then says, "No, I'm not going to run off. You have my word. I'm going to trust that you aren't going to fly out of the bathroom with a chainsaw or something, and you'll trust that I'll still be here." He gives her a small smile, there, hopefully a reassuring one at that. When she's in the bathroom, he leans back to rest on his elbows. "Am I asleep yet, shit," he mutters under his breath.

Angela nods to Miguel before making her way to the bathroom. It's a stammering sort of shuffle, with Angela occasionally peeking back into the sleeping area until she's in the shower. She even peeks as she was undressing, pressing her nose against the wall and leaning WAY over until just the top of her head was exposed, eyes peeking at Miguel before she ducks back into that alcove again. When is she going to realize that there's a mirror on that wall?

The first few times she peeks, she'll see Miguel leaning back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The last time, though, she peeks--she can see him staring at her in the mirror. "Still here," he says, with a mildly-amused tone. "I haven't disappeared, just like you haven't leaped out of there with a vibra-wire." After that last time, he smiles to himself and shakes his head. By the time she's ready to come out--or peek again, for that matter--he's standing well within view by the window, hands in his pockets, looking out over the street.

"You're not asleep," Angela notes, voice far more even keeled. Of course, she couldn't help but poke the 'neighbors' in 4C three blocks over. The asshole had it coming. Thinking he was all big and bad, and beating on his poor girlfriend. He's afraid of spiders. It was quaint. Hair wet, in a silk nightgown and fluffy bed robe, Angela stands barefoot, peering at Miguel.

And something about her demeanor makes Miguel's eyes narrow, made evident by the furrowing of his brow above the sunglasses. Still, he can't quite put a finger on it, and it's not like he can't give her a little bit of trust, so he decides to drop it. A half-hour in a warm shower really could have been enough to let her calm down. "Hey, I need to get a shower, myself, unless you think I'm going to somehow escape while in the bathroom," he retorts, tilting his head a little to one side.

"There's no fear in me of that. I can block the route to the door," Angela replies, her tone ALMOST light, almost airy. Really. She's just trying to be helpful. ...as helpful as the spider was for the fly. What... who's the spider in the room again?

"...yuh-huh," says Miguel, thoroughly unimpressed, though smiling. "I'll let you think that. Meantime, I really need to grab a shower." With that, he goes to enter the bathroom, himself. He doesn't need the light, as the small night-light-like-thing the motel provided is more than enough. He also uses a small splorch of webbing to keep the door shut. It's not so much that he's afraid of her coming in after him as much as wanting to keep his costume to himself. There's a good chance she might not remember the webbing he fired at her, earlier, and besides--if this is as far back in the relative past as he thinks it is, Unstable Molecule Fabric might not even have been invented yet, much less be as common as it is where and when he comes from--and then there's the Lite-Byte cloth. About ten minutes later, he emerges from the shower wearing only his boxer shorts. Scars fresh and old alike can be seen on him as he puts his clothes--with his costume neatly hidden within--in a corner.

Angela had stood with her back to the door, waiting. Much calmer, she's patient, hair drying until Miguel emerges. She watches him without a smile, seemingly clinical about the affair. She waits until he's past her, seeming not to recall much of anything save the promise of a good night's sleep. Or meal... whatever. She follows up, not at all carrying about the folded clothes or the scars or the like. Like a queen she moves to sit upon the arm chair that resides near by. She folds her legs over themselves at the knees, hands on the arm rests. Her eyes peer at him, waiting.

Yeah, like that's totally not creepy in the slightest. "One of these days, we're going to have to discuss a little thing called 'creepiness' and why it will prevent people from being at ease around you," Miguel says, cocking an eyebrow, then he turns toward the bed. "I don't care if you sleep," he says as he starts stripping the bed, "but you can at least pretend. I'm going to take a pillow and the blanket, and I'll sleep on the floor. You can have the bed. Again, I don't care if you actually sleep, but sitting there like that--eesh."

"Would not the bed be more condusive to your sleep?" And therefore mine. She watches him work in the bedding, head tilting this way and that, the way a raptor might a mouse. Given her earlier panic attacks, this utter calm and show of patience is quite the 180. Silent, Angela stands after he settles to the floor with his pillow and blanket. It's actually a little familiar... The guards she had as a child would do the same. The prickly touch of fear threatens again, for it was a guard that... "Sleep quickly," she entones as she turns to turn out lights. And in the darkness, she pulls off her robe and drops it to the floor before sliding into bed and sitting up, waiting, mind listening... a silent stalker of nightmares. She licks her lips once as Miguel drifts off. She reaches out, 'listening' to his mind, tongue flicking over lips again until she find what she's looking for. From his dreaming mind, with care and skill and the time to savor each detail she crafts for him, the lack of protection for his thoughts granting her the resources to continually shift and reshape his dream so that the terror rarely fades. This is what clears her thoughts. Into his mind, twisting into his fears, Phobia releases her own inner demons until his first nightmare, a full thirty minutes of heart pounding nightmare, possibly leaving him to wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air, or if not sleeping fitfully until he can rouse enough to shake it off and return to sleep, is over. With a sigh, content and for once at ease, Angela sinks back into the pillows behind her. Her eyes drift shut, a soft relaxed smile on her lips, and remains for a full eight hours of sleep - until the sun dances across her eyes. It is then that the noble rubs her eyes and looks around. She spots Miguel, smiling softly at him. A moment later, and she stands, dresses for another day, and writes a note for him before heading to the front desk and purchasing for him a full week's stay in that very same room, full breakfast and dinner included. What's a few thousand? ....alright, it'll put her a little tight until the next interest ping to her account but really... after a restful night like that... it's worth it. She'll find another hotel to stay in. Her note reads: 'Stay the week. Breakfast and dinner on me. Not buffet, but still filling. Sounds like someone I just met. Don't hide too well, in case I want - need to find you again.' Thank you. (Tiny letters)

It's always the same, and that might be odd for the invader of the dreams. It's something his mind has--well, one can't say it's gotten /used to/ the nightmares, but it's definitely not unexpected. That's not to say her little "help" goes unnoticed or anything; far from it. The difference is in strength, really, rather than content. It's an old dream, just one of countless minute variations he's slept through over the year since Dana's murder. In the morning, he awakes drastically restless, almost like he hadn't gotten any sleep at all. He sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face with the heels of his hands. "Yeah, this shit is /so/ not happening nightly," he sleepily mumbles to no one in particular. It takes him a few minutes to even realize she isn't there, and after a moment spent looking around, he finds her note. Well. He needs to find Tamir. He also realizes that this time period is /surprisingly/ nice. Kind of makes him afraid of his home time, really. That said, the most he had to deal with was Doom, not--whatever Angela was. Eventually he gathers his things and heads out, leaving word with the front desk that he'll be back later that day, so to hold messages, that kind of thing.