2012-07-22 A New Day Dawns

After the 'ritual' murder and Wolverine's path has led him to a very posh sort of apartment. Everything seems calm, but inside raised voices can be heard. "And I said no! It's not MY fault you didn't let me finish cleaning up your mess," says the female voice.

Middle of the night, the apartment dark, figures moving around inside the living room. The balcony door is open because Miguel just hadn't closed it. It's that simple. He had a little more on his mind. And right now, Angela isn't helping. He pinches the bridge of his nose with his right hand, sunglasses dangling from his left hand at his side. "/my/ mess," he mutters darkly. "/We/ are responsible, Angela. Together.  We /took/ a /life/ and fucked a kid's mind /for life/.  That is on us /both/.  If we don't leave, we'll be thrown into whatever sort of prison they have for--people like us.  You'll be alone, or surrounded by people trying to kill you, and we will /never/ have a chance to even try and redeem ourselves..." He's actually calm--ish. For him. His voice is strong, and has something of a "bite" to it, but he's not ranting, or yelling, so there's that.

Angela rolls her eyes at this, moving to drop on the sofa to knit, because she is NOT going anywhere. "Why are you so touchy about this? You said he deserved his punishment," Angela's the one with the raised voice, throwing a slightly childish sort of tantrum about this. "And yes, YOUR mess. I was just standing there."

Even in the dark, she can, surely, see the way Miguel /stares/ at her for a few beats. Oh, how he wishes he were a Q. Bamf her back there and make her watch Phobia at work, damn it. "No, you weren't," he says in his I Am Totally Serious calm voice. "You--the other you, you know what I mean--raped his mind like I /let/ you do to me. And yes, he deserved punishment, but what we did went beyond punishment.  We take a life, it's--we can't come back from that." he sounds like he has experience, there.

Angela grumps and puts her knitting needles back in her lap, looking over at Miguel with a frown. "What the bloody hell are you talking about? If you didn't want me to muck with his head, you shouldn't have offered," retorts the Brit angrily.

"Yes, I did that," says Miguel more quietly, massaging his brow with his thumb planted near the corner of his right eye, using the very tips of his index and middle fingers to rub his brow. "I--I thought you could control, or--or at least /aim/ her. I--thought we could help you, and help the child at the same time.  I was wrong, and for that, on top of losing control, myself--I'm not saying you're the only one who fucked up, Angela.  I'm saying that we both did.  And we'll have to pay for it, sooner or later." For him, destroying what minuscule reputation he'd started to earn is just the first spoonful from the big bag of shit he's sure is coming down on them both.

"Bloody Hell," Angela bursts out, tossing her newest project to the floor and rising to her feet. "You make no sense some times! And why are you just standing there? Planning to leave?"

"Not without you," Miguel says quietly, still massaging his brow. "I made you a promise. But you need to understand the--the depth of the hole we've /both/ dug.  If we're /lucky/, I mean if we are /god damned blessed/ we will only be separated forever and locked up alone in cells.  Once they find out just how far away from here I really come from, I'll be the subject--anyway.  If we're /unlucky/, we'll be outright killed.  And I'm pretty sure they have things that will stop even you..." He grunts to himself and hooks his sunglasses onto the neck of his T-shirt then puts his hands on his hips as he bows his head. What a world of shit they got themselves into--and he realizes all too well that, ultimately, it's his own fault.

That apartment /stank/ with blood and fear; picking out the two scents that didn't belong - the two people who were there while Adelbert died and left through a window when the deed was done - was tougher than it should have been for Wolverine. Too many bad memories; too many distractions. He was almost relieved when it was time to begin his hunt; the apartment's smell was overpowering, and anything - even Manhattan - was better than that. It's a slow process; it doesn't help that his quarry is more agile than he, seemingly able to dance effortlessly above the city while he's stuck trying to keep the scent while picking his way through a maze of streets and alleys. Mostly alleys; the last damn thing he needs is some kid with a cell phone putting him on the internet. Again. Hours of tracking finally brings him to the roof of the Dorilton; a few minutes of claw-assisted climbing brings him to Apartment 7A's balcony. And as Miguel trails off, a sharp, distinctive sound should bring him to their attention: "I can think of few things, bub," he rumbles, standing a step outside the balcony door. His fists are at his sides; a set of three sharp, slender claws extend from between the knuckles of both. "Two. Three." He tilts his chin up a little. "Six. You two got anything you wanna get off your chests?"
 * SNIKT!*

At the word alone, Angela's eyes flare brightly, the green of her eyes inhuman as Phobia threatens. The sound sends a shiver up the girl's spine, bringing with it a cold inhuman illusion of fear wrapped about her. A green sort of skin seems to coat her, black spidery veins tracing up her body. Her face is all but featureless save for the two brightly glowing eyes and a jagged sort of slice for her mouth. "You will not take him from me," Phobia screams at the person behind Miguel, voice far from rational, far from sane, far from composed. It's laced by fear. Miguel knows the look, the sound... Phobia is readying to attack, lashing out in fear.

...oh fuck. In two seconds everything's going to hell. Miguel leaps to grab Phobia, hoping he's grabbing the right person. "WAIT," he says forcefully, turning half-away from the newcomer to do it in--not exactly a show of trust, but more like a show that he is /really/ and /honestly/ trying to not make this night go any worse for everyone. "He hasn't attacked us! Please, just WAIT." He won't bite her again, but he really hopes that for once, for /once/, Angela or this version of her listen to him. Please. Just this once?

"I'm of a mind to do a whole lot worse, darlin'." Wolverine was about to walk inside, but at Phobia's emergence, he settled for just settling into a more defensive posture on the balcony. His eyes slide between Miguel and Angela--particularly the former, when he begins trying to talk some sense into the latter. It might not help that 'defensive' means his claws are up, but they certainly make /him/ feel a little safer. "Might wanna listen to your man; you got no idea the kinda trouble you're about to step in, tonight."

Green eyes narrow. The inhuman appearance slides away, leaving just her eyes burning with an eerie green flame. "He even thinks about taking you from me, and he'll have no where to hide," Angela hisses in a horse whisper, stepping into Miguel's grasp as she glares at Wolverine. "What do you want?"

Out of all of it, Miguel's stupid brain focuses on "your man". He blinks and, yes, that same brain is so stupid as to want to correct him. Then his brain remembers that the man has /knives/ coming out of his /hands/ and more than enough attitude to back them up. Better drop that for now. "Look," he says to Phobia. "You wait a moment, please. Please." He's being nice. Turning to Wolverine, he holds out a hand placatingly, saying, "Okay, mister, look--there is no good explanation for what happened--and I can't imagine you'd be here for anything else. The short version is that she--" a glance to Phobia, "--is having a hard time controlling her--powers.  I knew that man was abusing his son, and I thought--two birds.  I thought she was getting to where she could control it--but I was wrong.  That's my fault.  And--his death was my fault.  I didn't--expect to--hate him so much.  I--lost control..." He really has nothing else to offer but the plain truth, though glosses over how much the man reminded him of his own father. His heart-rate spiked just thinking about him as it is.

The claws slide back into Wolverine's gloves once Angela powers down. They've served their purpose for the moment anyway: they'll be his last resort in this negotiation, a six-fold appeal to reason should things get too far out of hand. He begins to speak, and then Miguel just spills his guts out; his mouth presses into a thin line and he listens. His white eyes narrow on one or the other of them at various points in the story, though Miguel again ends up getting more of his attention as his heart races. The mutant sniffs the air a couple of times, frowns, then swipes his thumb across his nose. "So, lemme get this straight:" he mutters. He steps forward and drops his hand from his nose to the inside of the doorway. "This'un--" He points to Phobia with his free hand "--has powers she can't control, so you--" his finger glides towards Miguel "--lost control'a yourself and killed a guy." He looks between the two, then steps inside. "That about right?" He stares right at Angela, eyes narrowing further. "Anything you wanna add, darlin'? Now that we're all playin' nice, and all?"

Frowning, Angela folds her arms over her chest, still glaring. Her heart's steady, standing behind Miguel. Meat shields are best in front, after all. "What more must I add," she snips unpleasantly to Wolverine. "There's only one person who's ever stopped to listen, and you won't take him away from me unscathed." Yeah, all of that, and Phobia's still worries about Miguel leaving her. Dependent much?

Putting a hand lightly on Angela's shoulder, Miguel says to Wolverine, "Actually, yeah, that's about right. I--don't know how else to put it.  I was worried about her, and he reminded me of--" a beat's pause, heart rate spiking again, "--someone else." Hands go out in a placating gesture again, and he adds, "I'm not--I'm not saying I should be /excused/. I just--wanted to /explain/--that ultimately, it's--more my fault than hers.  She--needs help.  I didn't have anyone for most of my life, and I saw--a chance to /help/ someone going through what I did.  I saw a chance to help her get the control over her powers that she needs--and ultimately, I fucked it up." He can't quite meet Logan's eyes, even in the dark. It doesn't even occur to him that Logan isn't acting like the darkness is a hindrance. His red-irised eyes won't go above the shorter man's chest. There's an anger there, in Miggy--but aimed at himself. Shame, too. Worry--he caused this. He should have been more careful with Angela. A soft exhalation, and he stands upright a bit more--but not in aggression. In acceptance. He can't think of anything else to offer that wouldn't be an excuse, so--this is it. Judgement.

Wolverine holds the illusionist's wrathful gaze while Miguel speaks, hearing him but listening, mostly, to her heartbeat. His nostrils flare as he searches for some missed sign of fear, remorse, anything but the indignation she's throwing his way; there's a rumbling deep in his throat once it's clear that there's none to find--at least not from her. Miguel seems sorry enough for both of them, but her? "You hear that?" he growls to her, canting his head towards Miguel. The corners of his mouth curl up in a thin, unpleasant smirk. "Are you listenin'? Your guy over there, /he/ sounds about ready to march himself down to a jail cell for this. For /your/ mess; what're you gonna do then?" He snorts derisively and folds his arms over his chest. "'Only person who ever listened to me' my ass; you're outta your goddamn mind, lady."

Fear? Sure. Fear of Miguel leaving or being drug away forcefully. Remorse? Not even a hint of it. It's as if the act, the murder, meant nothing to her. "I'm not sick, and he's not going anywhere. He promised," she hisses, eyes flickering again as her heartbeat does spike at the mere thought of Miguel not being at her side. She steps up to his back, a hand coming up to rest between his shoulder blades. "Because you won't fail me, leave me," she whispers faintly at Miguel, eyes narrowed.

"I already failed you," Miguel murmurs, turning to face her. "Look at this, Angela. God damn it--look at what we /did/.  If nothing else?  Ignore the man.  Fine.  You want to make a case for him deserving his death--fine.  But what about his son?  Hadn't he suffered enough?  And look at what we did to him.  Tell me--/tell me/--you can't think about what /we/ condemned that innocent boy to and not feel--shame.  Remorse.  /Something/." He looks into the woman's eyes imploringly. Not even the Phobia half of her can say the /child/ deserved what they made him witness. Not even Phobia. He's--afraid. Afraid that he couldn't help her--that Phobia /is/ so far gone as to not care--and Angela isn't strong enough to care.

"Listen," Wolverine interjects in sandpapery tones. Good cop/bad cop is something he's done more times than he can count, but this is easily the first time the good cop is also one of the bad guys. At least /his/ part never really changes much. "I don't care about you two stayin' together, not one damn bit; that ain't my problem," he continues, advancing on the pair. "You asked me what I wanted before, lady, and it ain't hard: get your shit together so that I don't gotta drag myself to this hole lookin' for you again." He reaches out, intent on grabbing Miguel's shoulder and nudging him aside so that he can look Angela directly in the eye as he adds, "You messed up. Badly; you need to /fix/ it." How much - if any - of that will actually come out remains to be seen, though...

When Miguel turns to face her, Angela looks up into his red eyes. His speech has her pondering slightly. Her eyes soften a touch, brows pulling together, before they narrow sharply. It was a heartbeat of remorse, perhaps, before she shoves away the associative memories with a sneer. As Wolverine advances, Angela steps to keep herself hidden behind her meat-shield. She reaches out to catch Miguel's elbow to keep the safety of physical contact between them. Fear begins to creep forward as Wolverine does. "I did nothing," she restates, that sickly scent beginning to coat her. It makes the green of her eyes more intense, more inhuman.

When he's grabbed, Miguel moves a bit, enough to let the shorter man through. Maybe, just maybe, he can get through to Angela where he himself couldn't. He doubts it, though, just because so far this entire idea of his hasn't worked out one damn bit so far, so why should this? Still, when Angela turns to him, he says, "Think about the child, Angela. Think about the boy.  Think about what /we/ did to him." If thinking about scarring an innocent child /for life/ doesn't mean anything, nothing will. He'd never asked, but he guesses she's had a few childhood issues of her own. He takes her hand off his elbow and holds it, almost trying to /will/ her to understand the situation.

Wolverine's grip loosens considerably when Miguel actually moves aside; he lets go entirely once he's nose to nose with Angela. "You got a screwed up definition'a 'nothing', darlin'," he snarls. "Nothin' to stop your boy" he cants his head towards Miguel "from killin' that man, maybe." His nose twitches; he fights the urge to lean in any closer and grimaces. "Nothin' for the kid you made watch, maybe." He sniffs a few times, then tilts his gaze away and swipes the back of one glove over his nose with a growl. "I ain't here to drag you to jail, you realize," he lowly notes once his hand drops. "If you got that idea from the suit, yer wrong; you wanna make the world a better place, that's fine. You wanna crash into people's lives and ruin 'em 'cause you're too soft or stupid to control yourselves, though--" Gritting his teeth lightly, he meets her eyes once more. "--that ain't happenin' again."

Angela starts shaky as Wolverine gets in her face, knees threatening to buckle if she doesn't take a half step away. But she refuses to back up, refuses to give in, refuses to give in to that fear. Instead, as she always does, she uses it. Her eyes flare and the vision of Phobia slides into place. "Would it make you feel better if the child had another nightmare instead," she hisses. "After all, such terror can grant strength," she adds. Now that she has her bravado, Phobia's eyes narrow sharply as she dips her chin and mirrors Wolverine's aggression.

A rush of blood goes through Miguel when Wolverine references him, and he grits his teeth. What's another sin added to the collection? Fuck, he really should have just jumped. Then the change comes over Angela--and for the first time, he realizes that maybe he can't save anyone, after all. If the child wouldn't make Angela realize the depth of their sin--maybe nothing would. "Not this, Angela," he tells her softly. Another time, he'd be ranting, maybe even raving, possibly even grabbing her--but now there's only sadness. Sadness from the realization maybe--she truly is lost. He keeps her hand in his, squeezing it and saying, "You have to stop this. This isn't you--or it doesn't have to be."

If it were just Angela and Wolverine, the former's transformation would be provocation enough by now. Then again, if it really had been just the two of them, they probably would have wound up here a whole lot sooner; Miguel's attempts at reason may not be having all of their intended effect on Angela, but they're doing a fair job of keeping the mutant's claws at his sides. Judging from his bared teeth and tense muscles, though, that may not last; he seems ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble. "Sick, twisted--" he spits back at her; whatever else he had to say to her disappears into another growl. He slides a step or two to one side, trying to put a little bit of distance between himself and Miguel. "Kid," he hisses to the desperate arachnid without taking his eyes off of Phobia, "you need to learn how to pick 'em better; this one's--" Backed into a corner. Out of control. Scared out of her mind. Lost. "--rrr--" He leans right in; his nostrils flare, he breathes her scent in deeply, and then-- --the claws retract and he steps back from the pair of them. "You need /help/," he snarls, eyes darting between them. "Both'a you--whatever this is--y' need /help/."
 * SNIKT!*

Angela's hand tenses in Miguel's, the vision trying to fade when Wolverine's claws restrengthen her fears. Her eyes narrow at Wolverine, mind ready to lance into his, find his fears, and turn them in on him. As he slides, so does she, seeking to once more put Miguel between herself and Logan. Good meat-shield. The feral growl has Phobia hisses in response; her jagged lips parting to allow the sound to drift free. She's completely afraid, and yet instead of that fear causing what is in most people the flight response, it triggers the fight. Phobia, the quintessential victim, refuses to feel that helpless again. Her scent is thick and heavy with fear, hate, anger, aggression; there is no remorse, there is only that feeling of having been that child, having lived those nightmares, and now enjoying the power and control it gives her to create the same terror in others. "No doctors," she hisses, voice rattling with nightmarish undulations.

"Yeah," says Miguel, not looking to Wolverine though a slight turn of his head is acknowledgement of the mutant. "I know." Subtle to the point of being unnoticed by normal ears, to the enhanced his tone rings of sadness and, frankly, resignation. It took one of the worst acts imaginable to make him realize that he's in further over his head than he realized. That he probably won't be able to help. That there isn't any redemption to be had--not for the one who so desperately needs it, nor for the one who shuns the very idea. To Phobia, he says, quietly and gently, "That's no longer an option, I don't think. This is the choice--get the help you need, or the next guy who comes after us won't be so nice.  Look at this guy, Angela.  He doesn't know us.  He could have killed us, just on premise, and--looking at him, there's not much I could do to stop him.  But he didn't.  He's giving us both a /chance/.  The last chance we will /ever/ get.  You have to know that..." Yes, he's advocating the one thing she fears above almost all else--professional help. But he can't see anything else. This time, they got lucky. Next time, they'll get bullets. Or worse--and they'll deserve it.

"No," Wolverine lowly agrees. This is not a problem for doctors; what therapist outside of Gotham City is going to want to touch this situation anyway? His attention flickers between Phobia and Miguel, and his nose twitches when the Spider reminds her how close they came to having to fight for their lives tonight. "I found you tonight, and if somethin' like this happens again, I'll find you then, too; no. No doctors; no point." Turning away from the two of them, he takes a second to vigorously rub his nose. His voice is heavy with fatigue--guilt, too. "Far as I'm concerned, yer my responsibility now." He looks over his shoulder to Miguel; if the wall-crawler won't meet his eye, he'll gladly glare at him all the same. "Whether that means I gotta hunt you down or help you through this, that's your call."

Angela eyes Miguel, the vision of Phobia sliding away as his gentle, quiet tones start to soothe and calm. She blinks slowly, listening to all he says, head tilting at the hint of what he doesn't. Wolverine's soft agreement of no doctors earns a slight and warm hint of a smile, the darkness fading further from her body. She can hear the fatigue, the guilt in his voice, and the barest hint of a grin slides over her features as Wolverine turns away. The inhuman appearance of Phobia shatters, Angela smiles hugely, childishly, and she tries to all but bodily charge Wolverine and drop her arms about him and bury her face into his chest/back/arm/whatever. Cue waterworks: Angela's eyes fill with tears of relief and joy. Another one to feed her nightmares and fears. See? Everything works out for the best.

And Miguel doesn't buy it. Not anymore. Not after seeing the complete lack of regard for an innocent life. "Stop it, Angela," he says, letting her hand go as she all but charges the mutant. "I--don't believe you, not anymore. No one who would care so little about hurting a /child/ can really cry..." It hurts to say it. It does. A part of him even believes it. The rest doesn't /want/ to. He crosses his arms over his chest loosely, looking defeated. He'd been wrong, so many times. About so many people. He'd just hoped that, finally, he was right--and it looks like he wasn't.

Wolverine and Angela are about the same height; she'd have to make do with his shoulder if she were going to be there against him for any amount of time. 'If'; as soon as he feels her arms going around him, he pivots towards her and thrusts his palm into her sternum to shove her away. His hand closes into a fist as he draws it back; even after he unclenches it, the rest of his body doesn't really relax. "You /killed/ a man," he hisses. He turns in her direction but he doesn't - can't - quite meet her eye. "You murdered 'im; you might as well've killed his kid; this ain't the time for all that." He slowly sighs, shoots Miguel a look, then turns his eyes to the ground for the moment. "'least one of you almost has a good head on their shoulders," he mutters.

And Angela goes tumbling heels over head to end up in a sprawled heap on the floor. Shoved away physically, shoved away mentally, Phobia looks up at Miguel, hurt and fear in her eyes. The scent ripples up from her in an instant. The man's death doesn't bother her, it's clear. The child... The mention of it elicits a pain-filled sort of sneer half way between fear and loathing. "Yes, God-damn you! I killed him! I forced Miguel's hand! I used him to kill that sadistic son of a bitch! And it felt good; I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the power, the control of finally, for once in my life, being able to fight back. That bastard won't ever harm another child again. He won't ever make me feel helpless, defenseless, alone. No one will," she shouts at them, voice hisses with a phobic sort of reverberation.

...that wasn't what he expected. Miguel is obviously surprised at that outburst, that--taking responsibility, if of a sort. He realizes that he should have done a long time ago what this newcomer had done. Maybe there's hope for her after all. He's tempted to help her to her feet--that's obvious in the tension, the way his hands flex as if wanting to take her own hands to pull her up--but no. Maybe--maybe that wouldn't actually help. He looks at her, brows lifted in surprise, curiosity, and--a little bit of realization dawning. "And that's why it has to stop. That--enjoyment is why--"  He cuts himself off for just a beat, then continues with, "We do that--we kill and we /enjoy it/--we become the very thing /you/ fear.  We /become/ the monsters that we both fear." He can't think of any better way to put it, shown in the furrow of brow, the tension in his face.

Wolverine keeps his head down. allowing Angela's fearful rage and Miguel's uncertainty to wash over him. The whole thing - the small, teary-eyed girl shouting at him from the ground and Miguel's desperate attempts to bring them both to reason - is dizzying; painful. Worlds away from where he'd expected to end up after investigating a heartless man in his blood-drenched apartment. Why couldn't it have just been Sabretooth on the prowl again? That would have been /much/ simpler. He grunts and winces as Miguel warns Angela against the dangers of losing herself, and then crosses over to her. "That's a start," he rumbles. He slowly offers a hand down to her, eyes narrowing. "You heard his argument; you've seen mine. What's it gonna be? Where do we go from here, girl?" He looks over at Miguel and gives him a small nod. "Your man's on the right track; I was you, I'd listen."

The tremble is visible along her shoulders, the tears sliding down her cheeks. She eyes the hand, looks at Miguel, then the hand again. Shaking, Angela reaches up to take it. Still afraid, the young psychic has trouble pulling herself up to her feet, the scent about her waiting nothing more than the end of her fears, the end of the terror. Her admission was new even to her, for while she knew she felt that way, she hadn't ever given it voice. She looks at Miguel, shaking violently. "Miguel," she calls out, voice a tiny little mewl of a sound.

"No," says Miguel, less firmly than before but because it gains a touch of pleading. "He's right, Angela. Where /do/ we go from here?  I mean, i'm proud of you for admitting that, I am, but, shit--we're getting more and more people sucked into this.  How many more will it take...?" He rubs his jaw as he emits a soft sigh. How much reinforcement is enough? Too much? Not enough? All he knows is that he's suddenly tired. So very, very tired, and not just physically. It's draining to look at her, shaking like a lost child--but she's not a child. No more than he is. She understood what she did, just like he did. That thought isn't easy to keep in mind, but he's trying. In the long run, it should help her.

Once Angela is steady, Wolverine gives her one more look - one more delicate sniff - before backing away. "Like I said: it's a start," he lowly repeats as he massages his neck. "Better'n nothin', but only just." He looks up at the woman for a moment and rumbles a little when he drops his gaze. "All that anger--it's /toxic/," he murmurs. "'s a /disease/; you let it fester in there, and the bodies are gonna keep pilin' up." He begins to say something further, but stops himself; after clenching his jaw, he looks up at Miguel and rattles off a phone number. "Next time she--or you--either'a you is on the edge, you call." He glances to Angela again, then turns towards the balcony. "If you can't call, you count to five and let the moment pass; you don't wanna do that, you think about me comin' back for you; can you handle that?"

Miguel's refusal is a knife to the gut. Angela takes a half step away, shaking not going away. The scent regains that bit of fear, which grows sharper as Wolverine begins to turn away to go. She looks over to him, brow kitted, lips pouting, and she nods to the wolf's promise. If she can't call, if the moment doesn't pass, he'll come back for her. That sick, twisted glint to her eyes is evident even as she nods her 'understanding'. Toxic, like crack to an addict. Angela's fully addicted, and the neighborhood probably won't survive her withdrawal.

Once more, Miguel brings up his right hand, planting his thumb near the corner of his eye, using the very tips of his first two fingers to massage his brow. "I have a feeling I'll be calling very soon," he mutters, keeping his eyes on Angela. "You can do it, Angela--/we/ can do it." The latter said to hopefully imply that he's not going to cast her aside--even if he isn't sure how to stay with her. He also just needs to figure out how to get a phone on him at all times. He'd almost give anything to go back to dealing with his Goblin, really. Or, hell, even the cannibalistic nut-case Vulture. That'd be so much easier than all this shit. The tension only grows in him as he watches Angela; she's going to snap, sooner or later, and he doesn't know how he can stop it. He's never dealt with something like this before, not really.

Wolverine doesn't catch her nod, nor the wicked look in her eye; he just has a fresh hit of her fear to tell him that he's gotten his message across, and that's enough for him as he heads for the balcony. The sooner he's out of here tonight, the better. Now he just has to hope that when he /does/, it'll be because he was called; he does not want to hunt them down again. "One day at a time; that's all you gotta worry about," he flatly adds to Miguel's encouragement. He braces against the railing for a moment, causing it to creak. "Be seein' you." He hauls himself over the edge with that; several seconds later, he crashes to the street below and drags himself away. For now.

The mere hint that Miguel's not up and leaving is enough to ease those fears. After all, an autophobe's worst nightmare is to left alone. She looks over to him after Wolverine drops out of sight, not really worrying about the long drop. (maybe he flies or something) She waits then, silent, eyes troubled, and frame quivering slightly. What can she say to him? What can she offer to make him stay, make him once more willing to feed her addiction?

All he can offer the short mutant is a grunt and a nod, Miguel watching him depart. What's there to say? He looks at Angela--but just can't find any words. He's not leaving, that much if obvious. He can only imagine what hell and havoc she'd wreak--and he won't be responsible for that. He could lie to himself, say that because it's not his hand, it doesn't count. But it /would/ be a lie, and he knows it. He won't leave--but he's not sure staying is the best idea, either.

The silence is a weight. Her gaze falls to the floor, tears misting her gaze. For long heartbeats she doesn't move, the tension clear on her shoulders. She turns then, heading to her room, with her knitting laying forgotten on the floor: a shawl covered in snakes.

After a moment, she'll hear, over that baby monitor, Miguel entering his room and closing the door behind him. She won't hear it lock, however. Soft footsteps passing the monitor, the soft squeaks of bedsprings, once, then again, as if he sat on the bed, then laid on it. He doesn't sleep, but he lays there, staring at the ceiling. She can guess that much by the fact that his breathing never even comes close to the rhythmic nature of sleep.

Not alone. Not alone. Not alone. Phobia paces, then ends up curled up in the corner knees pulled into her chest, arms about her knees, face buried. She struggles to keep things in, to keep from clawing into his mind. No. If she wants to keep him, she has to let him go for now, has to wait for him to return to her. The pain, the fear, is near unbearable, and yet Phobia endures it, sinks into it, lets herself fall into her own nightmares.