2012-07-28 Steps in a New Direction

It's night time. Everything appears calm and peaceful in apartment 7A. The shower has just been turned off; a light steam drifting out of the open bathroom door. Angela, freshly washed, hair wrapped up in a towel, a fluffy bathrobe covering her slight frame, steps out into her bedroom and stretches. "I think I'm feeling human again," says the posh Brit aloud, green eyes seeming clear, lips almost smiling. In her left hand is the receiver end of a baby monitor; channel 1. On her night stand, another monitor, this one the transmitting end; channel 2.

"Yeah?" is the response through the monitor in her hand, given as Miguel sits on the couch, trying to understand a magazine. He really needs to overcome his lack of knowledge about this era, but--this "Teen Beat" thing he picked up at a newsstand is only making him more confused. He'd thought something aimed at teens would be /easier/ to understand, but--no. "I'm glad you're feeling better, Angela." While true, he's also not sure what else to say. He hasn't felt comfortable pressing her for details of--that night. The night he and that short guy found her. He'd been giving her time to collect herself, but maybe he should start asking.

Sensing that Phobia is not alone, J'onn touches down on the balcony slightly less than silently...then knocks on the open door. Not that she's the kind of not alone that humans (and Martians) prefer privacy for, but it is only polite. And this time, she is not about to give nightmares to the entire block.

Angela glances up at the knock. Is that Miguel's friend? The one that said he would visit now and again? Perhaps he and Miguel are alike, in that at night they prefer to come and go from tha balcony. Tossing the receiver on the bed, Angela moves to her vanity to sit and brush her short black hair. "Come in," she calls out, almost pleasantly. Because why would an insane psychic fear the Wolverine?

Looking up at the knock, Miguel's brows arch over the sunglasses. Well, that's not something one sees everyday, at least not unless there's been some news he doesn't know about. Though, with how inoften he's been able to just relax, much less bother with the news, that's not exactly unlikely. "Um. Hi," he says, for lack of much better. "Don't suppose you're friends with a short guy, knives coming out of his hands..." And he naturally thinks of Wolverine, the guy who he'd first seen standing on that very balcony. Maybe it's time to start closing and locking the doors.

Nope. Tall, bulky, green, no knives. "I am afraid I do not know that individual," J'onn says, stepping into the doorway. Not all the way in, in case she changes her mind and asks him to disappear once she realizes who it is. Knives coming out of his hands. Handy that...if you like to be lethal.

There's a soft clatter from the receiver near Miguel as Angela drops her hairbrush at the sound of the voice. She had written his off as a dream. One of her fear-illusions cutting back in on her when there were too few minds to fuel her fully and her own was too frazzled by lack of sleep to focus properly. Angela scrambles to her bedroom door and yanks it open. Her hair's half brushed and damp, her robe almost falling open in her haste to get to the door to see for herself. "Oh my god," she whispers from her door, eyes as wide as dinner plates.

Well then. This is--interesting. Miguel drops the magazine to the couch and gets to his feet, arching one brow as he looks between Angela and the green newcomer. "I'm--assuming you two know each other?" he asks, motioning between the two of them as he looks between them in turn. Judging from her reaction, he damned well hopes they know each other, or there's going to be even more explaining to do than there would anyway. He can't really help but tense up a bit--knowing his luck, this is another guy coming after them for the--incident--in that apartment. So much for a relaxing evening at home.

"Relax. I only came to see if you were okay." His voice is deep, richly masculine, and quite sincere. He carries no weapons, of course, but he is rather *large*. His eyes flick towards Miguel. Boyfriend, perhaps? Still, his stance is entirely relaxed, casual. As if he neither considers them a threat nor intends to be one himself.

"I thought I made you up," Angela says to J'onn, stepping from her room fully now. She is clearly too mesmerized by the green man to realize the state of her bathrobe. Miguel gets a glance, her eyes faintly wide and a blush on her cheeks. She hadn't ever brought it up. It was one of those nights he simply had to get out for a few hours. She was sleeping. There wasn't any harm in it, until she had a nightmare. Miguel came home after Angela had calmed, all thanks to J'onn here. Her cheeks flush crimson in an instant, gaze shifting from Miguel to J'onn when he latter speaks. She seems to realize what she's wearing, and her hands move to close her rob more fully. "Ah, yes. Thank you. I'm ...better, tonight," she says with a faint stumble to her words, her cheeks still burning.

"Yeah, so--I'm lost," says Miguel, shifting his weight to his left leg in a relaxed pose, sticking his left hand in his pocket. "Don't suppose anyone wants to throw me a clue, here..." He's anything but relaxed, though--instead of Angela's apparent familiarity calming him, that kind of "I thought I made you up" sort of reaction really usually doesn't lead anywhere good, in his experience. What's meant to look relaxed is actually him keeping the ball of his right foot ready to plant down and let him shift his weight if he needs to.

Martian Manhunter can't help but laugh slightly. "No. I assure you, I am quite real. My name is J'onn." Not John...it's not pronounced the same way. Almost more like the French Jean, but not quite that either. If Phobia's robe is falling open? He doesn't seem to even notice. Or he's being very polite. Of course, with those eyes, it might be hard to tell exactly where he's looking...but it doesn't seem to be at her breasts. "You were quite...upset that night." He hasn't sensed any major explosions from her since, so presumably whatever triggered it hasn't happened again.

Hasn't happened or was a contained as possible. Angela, still blushing, brings her hands to her hair now, finger combing the damp dark locks. "Jun," she repeats, pronouncing it closer to the French 'jean' than the american 'john'. She takes a breath and looks at Miguel. There's a guilty sort of look, and she swallows with a slight bit of difficulty as J'onn comments about... that night. "I had a nightmare. You didn't show up. I.... panicked. He showed up," Angela says, voice tense. Her eyes glitter an eerie green as a tendril of fear snakes into her emotions, fear of Miguel's wrath that she lost control, and she quickly adds, "It was weeks ago."

"Yeah-huh..." says Miguel, keeping that brow arched as he looks between the two. "I've got a feeling there's more we need to talk about than even I'd previously thought. So--yeah.  Someone start explaining, 'cause I really don't want to be kept in the dark." Slipping his right hand into his pocket, he looks between the two expectantly. At least he's being nice and actually asking. After certain other recent events, he's feeling much more inclined to be this--polite. Still, it's not like he's going to beat around the bush.

At this point, J'onn will say, silently, to Phobia, << Does he know what you can do? >> "May I come the rest of the way in, first? I assure you...I mean no harm to either of you.

Angela nods to J'onn, answering both questions even if her eyes widen at the mental touch, "Yes. Yes of course." She looks at Miguel, not at all sure what to say or even how to start to say it. She presses her lips together, licks lips nervously, and moves to the sofa to sit. "Umm... He aah..." Angela looks over at J'onn, questions in her eyes. "I don't know how you... do that," she admits to him. The voice in her head... it's soothing, almost.

Slipping his hands from his pockets, Miguel just looks between the two of them expectantly as he crosses his arms. He's trying to be patient, but when a guy he's never seen before randomly appears, and knows Angela, and he hasn't the first clue what's going on--his patience is starting to wear a bit thin. Even with the sunglasses, she can surely feel his stare when it settles on her, and it's not like the sunglasses would be an impediment to the telepath, so it's not like no one can tell he's growing more impatient by the second.

"My apologies. I wished to make sure that I would not be revealing things the young lady would rather not be revealed." He turns to Angela. "You were empathically broadcasting your nightmare across several city blocks. I sensed that and came to assist." Actually to telepathically hold her down, but...

Angela can feel Miguel glaring at her, and she drops to the sofa unceremoniously. "You didn't come when I called for you. I had that nightmare again. Your mind was tired, I didn't want to bother you again, so I feel asleep without..." Pause, Angela motions at her forehead with a hand. "...you know.. and, well." She looks up at Miguel, begging for him to understand, shoulders trembling. "He helped?" Long pause. "Please don't be mad."

Exhaling softly, Miguel lifts a hand to his brow, planting his thumb near the outer corner of his eye, using the very tips of his index and middle fingers to rub his forehead just over his eyebrows. At least he's not tempted to yell, so there's that. A long lecture, maybe, but not yell. Instead, he settles on, "Yeah. We've /really/ got to work on your communication skills, Angela," instead, said quietly. "Well. I'm glad you helped." That's directed at the Martian, and it has the benefit of being true. He knows all too well how--forceful--Angie's mind can get, so anything that helps, that's a good thing in his book.

Martian Manhunter nods. "And I may be able to help more...it is fairly obvious to me that Angela has never had any training or help with her empathy. Think about it."

"To be trained, I'd have to use my powers, now wouldn't I," Angela asks, voice slithering cold as she slides her eyes sidewise at Miguel. "And I don't think /you/ could handle more than the weekly sessions we already do." But the semi harshness slides away just as quickly, and Angela looks away. "I just... I've never met another psychic so... How exactly do you think you could possibly help me so that Miguel here stops getting hurt?"

One eye narrowing, the other brow arching, Miguel just looks at Angela for a moment. That's actually a good question--mostly, anyway--so he doesn't interject, letting the Martian answer. While obviously paying attention, he goes to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. There's a mild near-wish for something a good bit stronger, but meh.

"Okay...first, talk to me. Tell me what you know about your abilities, what you have experienced." He moves to sit down, so he's not, well, LOOMING quite so much.

Talk?! Angela gulps faintly, shifting on the sofa to tuck her feet beneath her demurely. She licks her lips, eyes shifting side to side. "I... don't know, I-I guess. I just... When I get scared or... haven't slept in a while... when I have nightmares... I can ..." She moves with her hands, like that explains everything. To the telepath it might, if he's trying to 'read' her. It reads a little something like bullshit. To her now long-time victim, the man that she admitted to having used as a weapon, twisting his fears around to force his hand...

Martian Manhunter shakes his head. "I can't help you if I don't know. I realize it is hard for you to trust a stranger, but I am not going to tell anyone."

"Not just during a nightmare," Miguel points out as he returns from the kitchen. "When angry, when upset, when afraid... Pretty much whenever, really.  I wish I could adequately explain what it's like being on the receiving end of it, but." A shrug of one shoulder as he pauses in the living room, sticking his left hand in his pocket.

Martian Manhunter nods. "So, we are dealing with a projection effect. And it is often a lot easier to project the darker emotions...if an empath or telepath does lose control, it's usually anger, or fear, or the like that get shared around."

Angela shoots Miguel a bit of a glare. "I'm getting better," she retorts. With her British accent, the words could come off a little Monty Python... She sighs then, green eyes shifting to J'onn. "And it's far easier for me to show, than to tell," she adds, then glances about. "Miguel, where did I leave my knit bag?" He knows that sound. She's got a pattern in her head, which means another macabre, nightmare induced dollie.

"Like I keep track," murmurs Miguel, though somewhat good-naturedly. Somewhat. "Probably your bedroom." A swig of water taken, then the glass left on the counter so he can go retrieve her knit bag. He's gone just a moment, returning from her room with the bag in hand, and he goes to hand it to her. "This is one of the few times I'd almost be willing to let you do it to me without, um, needing to, really, just because I'm not sure what else would really make it--eh--clear," he says to her, trying to be congenial about the whole thing and not sound like he's needling her. It might be more difficult than it seems, since he's used to poking people's buttons.

"It often is. And I saw something during your nightmare." The needling? He ignores it. That kind of banter is not at all uncommon amongst humans who are emotionally close, J'onn has noticed.

Angela drops her chest, head tilting back in the time honored 'ugh' of mock exasperation as Miguel quips about not keeping track of her precious knitting. But as he moves away, the psychic smiles, a little half giggle drifting forth and she turns on the sofa to watch him go. Because there's no co-dependency there at all! When Miguel returns, Angela ahs aloud and greedily takes her bag, hands starting to dip in. That is, until Miguel comments that he'd be willing. The telepath would note the change. It's similar to a drug addict over hearing there's a hit near by, and trying to play it casual. "Well, if you think it's best...." her voice is trying to sound like it's no big deal. The thought of being able to run rampant in someone's mind, starts that feel the want again.

"Hey, I'm not the expert on this crap," replies Miguel, shrugging both shoulders highly as he goes to retrieve his glass. "I'm just the guy who still doesn't know exactly what the hell is going on. I think I'm easily as curious as you are as to how you can control this whole--thing." He arches his brow as he looks between the woman and the green man, and he retrieves his glass of water from the counter.

"Control starts with acceptance and understanding. Which can come hard when you think all you can do is hurt people." Sounds like he does get it, at least a little bit, anyway. J'onn remains where he is while things are being retrieved.

Angela glances at J'onn, lips pressing together. "well... you stopped me once, right? So... if things... start to get out of hand...?" She's trying to be cool about it, not trying to seem like she's pressing to be allowed to, and yet, she glances up at Miguel, and looks away again. "But, on second thought, umm... maybe just... Ah... "

Martian Manhunter nods. "I should be able to restrain you again, if needed. I have...rather a lot of experience on you." He certainly doesn't sound...young.

There's a part of Miguel that wonders why he opened his fat mouth. On the other hand, it's not like Angela really hasn't been trying or anything, and if this green guy can keep her from going particularly--well--intense... He takes another sip of his water as he looks between the others. "If--it'll help, then that's what's important, right?" he says, arching a brow.

There's this odd sort of joy-tension in Angela as Miguel agrees. The addict in her fights with something else. This odd sense of something she hasn't felt in far longer than she knows. But the sensation of having someone that cares for her, is far too new a thing, and the addict wins out. She turns her gaze to Miguel. In her eyes, there's a faint flicker of almost remorse, before the vision of her real eyes is coated over by Phobia's sickly green. Let the nightmares begin. She's far more gentle than before, no great ripping into Miguel's mind for his fears. She knows them, is almost intimately familiar with them. She knows which vision paralyze the most, and which cause the berserk. Fear is what she is after, soothing away the teach of her nightmares in his fears. Phobia hisses out a breath.

A bright, sunny day. The floating city Valhalla had been stolen by Doom, but--lives had been saved. That's what mattered. Miggy and Dana were walking in the middle of a thick crowd, Miggy for once actually--happy. First time in decades. Then people started gasping and pointing. Standing at the top of a building--was Kenny. Miguel knew him only too well. The Thorite-turned-Spiderite, the one who saw in Miguel something Miguel could never understand--hope. Kenny stood, arms stretched out, a look of peace on his face--then he pitched himself forward. Miggy couldn't do anything--he was trapped in the throng of people. He'd shoved and pushed but couldn't get /free/--then the god-awful, sickening THUD. Once again, he'd failed. Someone who counted on him, depended on him--/needed/ him. And he couldn't help them. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. Even then, in that moment, he knew it wouldn't be the last. In the apartment, Miguel had fallen back against the refrigerator, grabbing his head and trembling violently as he slowly slides toward to the floor. Over and over the fall and the SPLAT is played out, the crowd becoming dark, shadowy figures--accusing him with their blank stares. No. No. Someone else dead because of him... And that's when he snaps--something Phobia is well used to. The change when fear becomes rage, when the sickening, simpering fear becomes rage--directed at himself. The rage threaded with hate aimed right at himself for all the times he wasn't quick enough, wasn't strong enough--wasn't /enough/ to keep someone from paying for his sins. Talons suddenly dig into the refrigerator, and he's about a half-tic away from standing and lifting the thing over his head, to hurl it--wherever. He's not conscious of his surroundings anymore.

And...J'onn moves pretty quickly. Green hands reach to wrap around Miguel's arms, gently but firmly...and if Miguel has any coherent thought left then he might notice the controlled strength. This being is...far more than human, if equally far less than some of the entities that move through the wider universe. Firm. Gentle. Restraining without hurting...just as he did with Phobia on the mental front. Now he understands. Now he understands much more of what Phobia's problem is. The addiction, the need...this may not be something he can handle alone. She is going to have to do so much of the work herself. And as with any other junkie, she has to want to be clean. Not always easy. None of this, though, shows on his face. He projects an absolute calm confidence, the ability to handle the situation with ease.

Phobia's eyes are indeed that of a junkie's, as is the jagged tear of a smile on her otherwise featureless face. She rises to her feet, a rattle-hiss following her. Her mind seems to be reveling in the feel of it, in the knowledge that she is in complete control of his fears, right until the moment when she's not. When the rage hits. She backs away a half step, the hiss more pronounced. She is addicted, addicted to the control which brings a release to the near constant fear she feels, that fear she's found only being lessened by Miguel's proximity. It's that thought that strikes the psychic the moment she starts losing control of Miguel's nightmares, when things start to go red for him, so that unlike the murder in the apartment, where she rode the rage, forced an illusion of that which created the horrors for him and whispered that he could end it by ending him, Phobia yanks her gifts away from his mind. Oh, what telepath can't feel the sudden backlash of nightmares that lance her own mind as her powers turn in on themselves with the sudden wrenching lack of a victim. Phobia tears at her mind a moment before lancing at the next nearest unfamiliar mind. Their poor poor neighbor.

For the brief moment when his mind is still controlled and played with, Miguel is completely uncomprehending. Eyes dilated, lips pulled back in a snarl, he struggles to get free of the iron grip. Bits of webbing splurt out from the backs of his forearms; there's no actual plan, no actually thought-out reasoning--just random struggling. Then Phobia recedes, and he fights to regain control of himself, the wild gleam to his eyes slowly fading--very slowly. It won't be for a good few moments that he's himself enough to stop fighting and just--slide back to the floor, slumped and trying to get the chaos in his head under control. Or at least some semblance thereof. He /really/ hopes Angela can be helped through this. He knows, though will never admit to her, that he can't take much more of this. He's getting close to the breaking point--but keeps letting her push him closer to it. He /will/ help her, even if it costs him what's left of his sanity.

As soon as Miguel starts to slump, J'onn releases him to concentrate on Phobia, moving his own shields to protect the neighbor. "No. You pulled away from him. You *can* control it." Calm confidence. Belief. Of course, she probably has precious little in herself...it tends to be shredded by this level of lack of control, this level of pain and fear.

Control it? Of course Phobia can control it. The same way the meth-addict can control the high. Phobia hisses as her victim is blocked from her, and her face turns to J'onn. **You will know fear,** her mind lances out at his, seeking to spear into his mind, find that which he fears the most, rip it free, and cloak the entire room in visions of it. Her illusions are complete, for her victims see, hear, feel, taste, smell every sensation. One thing is clear, that she enjoys being in control of the fear. Those moments where she loses control of it, makes her lash out to regain it, wherever she can -- except a certain Temporally Displaced Spider.

"Stop it," comes Miguel's voice, soft and hoarse. He /will/ fight through the fugue that's still encompassing his mind. Too few spots of clarity, the after-effects of her--power--too strong. Getting worse each time, but he's not exactly experienced enough to know what that means. Though he can probably guess. "Stop it, Angela..." A grunt, then he starts to pick himself up, using the refrigerator for support. "You know you can be better than this..." A grimace as he tries to think clearly--or at least clearer. He may not "see" her illusion--but he's not stupid. Even half-dazed, he can see what she's trying to do. And it goes against everything he's been trying to teach her.

And...there's a chink in his armor. Which means that Phobia...is about to learn the one way to take down the Martian. Hopefully she won't abuse it later. "Aieee!" he shrieks, leaping back towards the window, away from the flames that, to his senses, just encased the apartment...even behind him. It's all he can do in this moment not to literally turn into a quivering puddle of Martian...and he manages that only because he knows, rationally, that it's not real...but so does the arachnophobe who just found a rubber spider in his drink.

She's lost to the high, the control, and so rises to her feet, stalking toward the Martian. To his eyes, she's a living being of flame, a demon creature of dancing flames. All around, the place is burning. As she nears, so do the flames. There's that sickness in her, that need to dictate the nightmare. Does she even hear Miguel's voice past the flickering flames? Somewhere she does. For J'onn, there's a sudden cooling breeze amid the flames. A frightened little girl sitting, bound, at Phobia's feet.

It's so hard to think straight. Miggy grunts quietly to himself and narrows his eyes, trying to focus on walking. It's more of a shuffling, but whatever. He'll take it. Lips pressing together, he slowly makes his way to Angela--slowly so he doesn't topple over. Each step brings with it a little more clarity, thanks to her not focusing on him anymore. He takes off his sunglasses and tosses them to the couch, the apartment's lights brilliantly bright for him--but he doesn't care. The spots swimming before him are ignored. Angela needs to see his eyes. When he gets close enough, he'll grab her by her upper arms, moving her so he can look directly into her eyes--or, rather, so she can look into his. About all he can see is haziness and spots right now. "Angela," he whispers, firmly yet pleading. "Stop it. Now..."

Not real. Not real. Neither is the tied up child, but the metaphor? That he understands...but he's also stepped back into the wall at this point. Trying to keep his own integrity, to get his shields *back up*. It's not real. He has to keep reminding himself of that, but the girl's good. Damn good. She might well achieve great things if she can get true control. J'onn, though, can't actually do anything until he frees himself of the illusion. Which is...far, far from easy.

Pulled from her glare at J'onn, Phobia's eyes lock on to Miguel's and for a heartbeat J'onn's illusion is shared; little girl and all. There's a sudden side shift of things, a break in the heat for J'onn. The girl and Phobia seem to suddenly trade places, and the illusion shatters. A whisper of thought, barely sensed by the telepath: ~No. Don't leave me.~ The room is as if the fire never was. The air in the apartment is cool and fresh. Angela is standing in her bathrobe, peering into Miguel's red eyes. A quiver starts, before Angela moves to try to shove Miguel away and scuttle backwards at the same time. "Lemme go," she breaths at him, face averting.

The beat of the fire and the little girl is almost enough to make Miguel let go of Angela. Almost. But--no. He'd given his word. "No," he says softly. "I promised you I'd help you--even when you don't want it." So he doesn't let her go, but draws her in, so he can wrap his arms around her. That's all he can really offer, which means a good bit more since it's the first time he's actually initiated a hug. He's not anywhere near the sort of touchy-feely type of person, but he does know that she is. He also knows that he's about as much out of his depth here as he ever was. If nothing else, if absolutely nothing else--maybe this will help the green man break out of her mental grip. He'd take that, too.

Martian Manhunter is pulling himself together. It COULD have been worse. If she had surprised him, she could have done him real damage. "You *can* control it. You have the ability to do so....trust me. These things always take time, though." There's still a bit of a shake to his voice, though.

Pulled into the hug, Angela buries her face in Miguel's chest, trying to hide. Her mind's that of a child, just wanting to be held, having lived through a nightmare and needing the feel of someone real to dispel things. She's shaking, working to regain her footing, as J'onn speaks to her. She peeks out at him.

When she starts to peek out, Miguel turns a little to let her have a clear view, but not even seem like he's going to let go, push her away, or whatever else. That would be the last thing she needs right now. He even rubs her back a little, to try and help her get back under control. "Listen to him, Angela," he tells her quietly. "You know he's right."

"Emotion is a very tricky thing...I know all about it. Mastering it and using it is the key. Right now, your fear is controlling you, not the other way around." And he suspects he knows why. Addict, possible abuse victim...the poor girl really needs even more hugs than Miguel is giving her.

"Of course he's right," Angela hisses, upset that the Martian didn't give her the fast cure she wants. Soothed by the heartbeat so near, Angela turns her face once more to Miguel's chest, hiding in the feel of someone actually protecting her for a change. Her eyes slip closed as Miguel pats her back, shoulders starting to relax. "No. I control fear. I've already learned how. Every few days, one little nightmare. That's all I need," she's saying in response to J'onn. Her eyes open again.

"But it's more than that, and you know it," says Miguel quietly. "What happens when you lose control--and how easy it is to lose control. Those are--too serious to just--to just let go." He exhales softly, looking down at the ground--or at least in the ground's direction. It's the least painful place to look, really. He's got his own ideas on some of Angela's past, and they aren't too dissimilar from the Martian's. Makes him think of his own, which is partly where the idea came from in the first place.

"You know that is not true," J'onn says, gently. "The fear *is* ruling you...and until you face it, your life will never be your own."

Against Miguel's chest, Angela makes little fists, fingers curling into his shirt. Her head turns to him, eyes lifting up to his face. Something's different about his face. A note of confusion sets about her as J'onn speaks. Once more her eyes go to the Martian. "This is the best I've been," she admits finally, eyes going back to Miguel. Her brows knit. A tiny frown forms, and then. "What's wrong with your face?" It's that subconscious realization that something's changed about someone you know, but you know them so well that you can't put your finger on what.

For a moment, Miguel doesn't answer the question, instead focusing on what certainly seems to be rather more important. "This might be the best you've been--but it's not the best you can be," he says. "You know that. Just as you know how much better your life would be if it weren't for--this." He knows he doesn't have to detail everything encompassed by "this". Or, at the least, he hopes he doesn't have to. And then he quirks a small smile at her, saying, "And my face? I--tossed my sunglasses aside for now." At least she noticed and asked about it. Which is another step in the right direction, really.

Martian Manhunter hesitates a moment. Then he sends to Miguel alone, << She needs you...but make sure that she does not become unable to live without you. >> He suspects the man will know what he means.

"Why would you do that," Angela asks of Miguel, moving to step away to look for his glasses. Not because she /cares/ about his eyes... no, honest. It's cause he looks weird with out them on his face. No, really. Scout's honor.

...that's just odd. Miguel's brows lift and he looks around for a moment, before his eyes settle back on the Martian. He realizes that, while no one's actually said the man was a telepath, there /were/ a few clues that he really should have picked up on. When Angela steps away, he arches a brow at her, answers her quietly with, "Because it was necessary." He points at the couch, where his sunglasses sit on one of the cushions. He really doesn't know the finer points of telepathic communication, but he tries to focus on the Martian. << I just hope she can pull herself out of this before that may become a necessity... >> If that was the last choice, if it was making himself her sole focus or risking her going bat-shit crazy again, he knows what he'd do. It would be worth it. And then he realizes that the Martian can probably sense all of that, too. Well--fuck it. It's his own head, damn it.

"I guess," Angela replies to the necessary bit, grabbing his glasses and bringing them over. She's still a touch unsettled, mind still aching at the backlash. She holds the glasses out to Miguel, using it to try to mask that wait to lean against him again. For now, she's able to keep it at bay.

"I suggest you eat something," J'onn notes. "It might help you ground yourself a little." He's actually sat back down, clearly recovering from being the victim of Angela's illusions.

Taking the sunglasses, Miguel thankfully slips them on, blinking quickly and trying to actually get his vision back. "Umm, yeah, food is a good idea," he says, going to take her hand and pat it lightly. "Go--sit down. I'll see what I can find for everyone that doesn't require me to use any of the appliances, eh?" A small bit of humor, there, since he still hasn't even gotten the toaster figured out, much less anything more complex like the microwave or the oven. He gives her a small, admittedly semi-forced, smile and starts to head to the kitchen.

Angela's about to say that she's not hungry. It's a stock answer, should the telepath be listening in, but as Miguel pats her hand and moves away, the posh little noble smiles lightly, nods, and moves to sit down on the sofa. Her hands once more take up her knitting project. She glances at J'onn briefly, a bit embarrassed and not at all sure of what to say, so she says nothing, and instead lifts her project and considers it. Angela's mind is sorting through the various nightmare visions she's given over the past few days, her mind turning the images into a single composite still, and from there into a knitting pattern. Her fingers set to work, knitting a delicate lacy pattern from a collect of nightmares ripped from her most recent victims. Not all of the images come from Miguel's mind.

Martian Manhunter studies the project. Perhaps a catharsis. "Perhaps I could help you..." Yes, the Martian does know how to use twentieth-century kitchen appliances, although likely not very *well*.

"If you like," says Miguel, giving the Martian another of his small smiles. "I think we have--I don't know, actually. I'm sure we have something to eat around here.  Probably cold cuts, or something.  Can probably make something more substantial, like soup or something, if you know how to work the oven..." They do have plenty of options, especially when one can use the actual appliances around the kitchen.

Angela glances between the two, fingers moving on their own now. A half-smile is given, though she makes no offer to help. In fact, doing so does not even seem to cross her mind. No, her mind is mostly passive, just half-listening to the conversations around her, giving them enough attention that if she's spoken to she'll know and be able to response semi-sensibly. Knitting is most definitely a catharsis, a way to process the illusions and visions she saw, for she sees all that she creates in some fashion.

"Soup would be good...let's see." Aha. Yes. Ready to eat soup. Not chicken, which would be ideal, but tomato basil works too. Well, he's *told* chicken soup makes American humans feel better, that it's a tradition.

"Hey, you know what you're doing, so I'll keep out of your way," says Miguel, holding up his hands and stepping back. It's actually kind of nice, if weird, to be able to stand back and let someone else deal with the issue of food. While he hasn't actually destroyed anything--yet--the worry alone is enough to make meal time--interesting. One reason why they usually get something delivered. He backs off to let the Martian deal with making soup; everything's easily findable, after all. So, he goes to sit near Angela while she knits.

With no conversation coming at her, Angela's mind is free to drift into the nightmare visions she's collected, free to sort them into a single macabre pattern. Today's project: Another panel for the curtain. She's already looking to try to fit the flames of J'onn's nightmares into the panel that she has already begun, just because from an aesthetic stand point, the two flaming lace curtains would balance each other. She seems quite content, mind no longer stressed.

Which is good. And there is soup being made...an easy enough task that even a Martian can handle it. He's keeping a mental eye on both of them, but not saying anything for right now.

Which leaves Miguel in one of those uncomfortable silences. He sits on the couch, hands patting his knees a bit as he watches Angela work. "That's, umm, interesting," he says, for lack of anything better to say. It might be a bit--lame, and he'd admit to that, but he's not really one for uncomfortable silences. Too many memories of his family for that.

There's a soft smile, and a light nod to Miguel as he compliments her work. (Because if it's interesting, that must be a compliment.) Really, he's hte only one that does! She holds it up, stretching the fabric so the macabre and frightening images are visible. "Do you think so? I'm getting ever so much better at faces. They've always been so tricky for me when they're screaming," she says in a complete conversational tone, as if she were actually describing the knitting of flowers. As if suddenly realizing this, Angela averts her face and focuses on her knitting again.

((Fade Out on this Odd yet Homely Scene))