2012-07-06 Conversations in the Night

Two full days separated by a single quiet night pass since Miguel and Angela last met. Now, just past the witching hour of the very same hotel room, Angela is knocking. It starts normal enough, two small knuckle raps. A second passes. The tap-tap comes closer together and louder. And again, repeating until...

It doesn't take very long for Miguel to answer the door. He's wearing his usual attire, though his hair is still a little damp, indicating a recent shower. When he sees Angela, he smiles, stepping back to allow her ingress. "Hey," he says in a friendly tone, slipping his left hand into his hip pocket, keeping the right hand on the door to close it after she enters. "Sorry I've not been around; I couldn't find my friend, then there was a thing with some bastards holding up an armored car..."

"A regular super hero, you are," Angela quips in a sarcastic and slightly shaky tone as she steps past Miguel and into the hotel room. She drops her purse in the alcove by the bathroom and her travel pack of personal effects into the closet. Turning to the sleeping area, Angela sets herself on the bed and proceeds to begin removing the ballet style wedge sandals on her feet.

A slight tremor accompanies every motions she takes, and her eyes are slightly hallow.

Eyes narrow behind the sunglasses, brows furrowing above them, and Miguel studies her. "Hey, are--are you okay?" he asks as he goes to stand nearby, both hands in his pockets, head tilted a little to one side. He /really/ hopes she doesn't need another "dose" of his memory of Dana. He still hasn't gotten over the last one. "What happened?"

"Couldn't sleep," is all Angela replies for as long as it takes her to get off each sandal and fling them toward the bathroom. Her shoulders slump, her eyes close, and she forces herself to take an easy sigh. A touch of shadow creeps across her hair before she shakes her head and clears it away. "Hearing someone breathing helps." A hand comes to her temple, working to keep from being drawn by the adolescent fear calling from across the street. "Better than just my own."

"Hey, I'm a championship breather," replies Miguel with a small smile. "No one breathes like I do; I'm an oxygen-sucking machine." He's not used to making jokes that aren't barbed and sarcastic quips, but even though he well realizes how flat those racks likely fell--meh. He'll worry about that some other time. "So--do you want to talk about it? I--imagine there's a way to get food around here, somewhere, if that would help." Not that he's really sure /what/ would help; he's used to fixing problems with his fists, but he's trying.

Flat or not, they at at least draw a soft smile and a very faint chuckle. Angela looks up at him, regarding him while asking, "Have you called room service?"

"I--I don't--um." Miguel arches his brows and looks around, apparently not recognizing the phone for what it is. "I'm--really not from around here," he says with a small smile, hunching his shoulders a little in a display of confusion and embarrassment. "I--don't even know what 'room service' /is/."

And that gets a real laugh. It's not quite bright, not quite pleasant. In fact there's a definite cold and twisted undertone to it but, it's got the same sort of near reckless abandon as any normal person would have when laughing. Her hands fall the to bed on either side of her as she laughs.... at Miguel?

One eyebrow falls, leaving the other arched, as Miguel gives Angela something close to an amused look. Something close to it, but not quite. "Hey, when I said I wasn't from around here, you thought I just meant Brooklyn? I'm--yeah." A beat's pause, as he shakes his head then he says, "Glad to see my being ineffective is helping you." That's said with a bit of a wry tone to his voice.

Angela's laughter fades away to an indulgent sort of smile. "If you've not eaten, we can go out. There is an all night diner nearby, as the kitchen is closed due to the late hour. Or we could call for delivery, if you'd rather not deal with others," she offers, a bit of a smirk on her face.

"Hey, it's up to you. I'm fine here, I'm fine going out to this--diner, of yours," says Miguel easily, obviously not entirely sure what a "diner" is. Still, food is food, and food that didn't come from a soup kitchen is even better. "So, I leave it in your hands. You want me to try and figure out this 'room service' thing, or do you want to head out?"

Angela's lips cant to an odd side angle, half pursed half not. "There's a ToGo menu over on the nightstand," she states at last. Rising, Angela pulls off her overcoat. "Pick what you want."

"Alright," says Miguel, then steps to the nightstand to pick the mentioned menu up and look it over. "I--don't recognize most of this stuff," he mutters to no one in particular. Thankfully, he does recognize "sandwich"--if primarily because of the soup kitchens. This being "out of phase" or whatever is really annoying. "Umm. This 'subway' sandwich looks good," he says after a few more moments spent studying the menu. "Do you want to look it over?" He goes to offer the menu to her, should she want to take a look at it.

Carelessly tossing her jacket to the arm chair, Angela heads over to take the menu. "I adore the Thai Curry," she says, immediately flipping to the Asian Cuisine page. "Though the Pho Noodles are amazing," she's commenting aloud. Lord be praised! It's having a normal sounding conversation.

"Sounds good to me," Miguel says, as if he really has one clue what she's going on about. "So do you want to order it, or do you want to have another funny moment of me trying to work that thing?" He nods his head in the direction of the phone; and no, he doesn't know what to call it, which might be obvious. He really isn't from anywhere near here. Or anywhen, for that matter.

Angela blink-blinks, looking from Miguel to the phone and back. "Have you no tellies where you're from," she quips coldly as she moves toward the phone. Her hand reaches for the handset, lifting it to her ear.

"Not really, no," Miguel admits with a shrug. "You want me to repair a holo-vid or come up with a nano-injector using spare parts, I'm your guy. This--isn't my area of expertise." He chuckles and sits on the edge of the bed, thoughts drifting to Xina Kwan. She loved old Twen-Cen technology; she'd have /loved/ to be here, now. He exhales softly and rubs his face, only paying a bit of attention to Angela's conversation with whomever is on the other end. It might come in handy later.

"Holowha- ah, yes. This is room four oh six of the Holiday Inn on 141st. I'd like an order of chicken curry. ...double that, actually. mmmhmmm... rice, please. mmm, yes that sounds lovely. yes, to the room please. Alright, lovely thank you. goodbye," Angela places the order then hangs up and looks at Miguel. For a moment, there's silence, and then Angela chuckles and heads toward the lavatory. "You know, for an engineer, you're a little clueless," she quips as she kneels to her bag to get out her night gown. "It's rather a touch endearing. Have you a permanent residence that I am keeping you from?"

"Sort of," Miguel says as he shifts around to look at her--until he sees that she's getting out sleeping attire. Arching a brow he turns back to look at--the wall, really. "I--kind of crash-landed here a few days ago, and--sort of got taken in by someone. An interesting, if--strange--young woman. Though, I suppose I shouldn't exactly be calling people strange, considering..."

"Considering you sound like you came from outer space, and ramble almost as much as Arthur Dent." Night dress and robe secured, Angela stands to turn to the bathroom to change. Sure, she might not fall asleep tonight, but that doesn't mean she has to sit around in day clothes. "No, no you really oughtn't call a person strange. Then, neither shall I so.. Have I kept you from your young woman, then? Is there an agreement between you that I have disturbed?"

"Dunno. I left a message, but--that doesn't mean she got it. We were kind of crashing in as-yet vacant apartments, so she might have had to leave suddenly. I went looking for her earlier, but..." Another shrug, then Miguel reaches up to comb his fingers through his hair. "Actually, I was going to see about you two together--you've got your--problems--and it's not like I'm exactly fine, and I get a feeling she's got her own issues." He shrugs one shoulder.

In the bathroom, Angela's voice is a bit muffled by drywall and door. "Is she like yourself," asks the Brit in the water closet.

"Not--really, no, I don't think so," answers Miguel, then arches a brow in thought. "At least, not really. She's--got her--hmm--she's got her unique bits, I'd say." Which is a nice way of saying that she's got her own--powers, one could call them.

The door opens as Angela is tying her robe shut. "So, if she's not an engineer what does she do? It'd be nice to meet her, one would think. I often find that if I surround myself with intelligent people...." She shuts out the light and moves over to plop on the bed opposite Miguel. "I ask because you have some assisted me, and have seemed willing to continue to provide ...stability. I will be going to secure an apartment in the city, and would very much like to ensure I secure enough sleeping quarters for all." Which is the nice way of saying oh hey I know I just met you and this is crazy but live with me maybe?

A quiet moment of consideration, then Miguel says, "Well, I'd like to see what Tamir--that's her name--would have to say on it. I can't imagine she'd say no, but I--well, I just got here. In--many senses of the term, and both of you have actually been pretty interesting people, I think." 'Course, it's not /quite/ so simple as just telling Tamir what's going on, but, he'll swing over that bridge when he gets to it.

"Then it is settled," Angela says. "Tomorrow eve, I shall collect you. Have your personal effects gathered and ready." Is this really a good idea? Angela, back straight and proper, inclines her chin a centimeter as if to say: sure beats being alone all the time, alone is scary.

"Mmm--I have all of my personal effects already," says Miguel, looking down at himself briefly before looking back over to Angela. "Don't know what Tamir would have, for sure." That's quite possibly the only good thing so far about being in his position--not a lot of actual possessions to try and shuffle around. The clothes on his back and the costume underneath those makes up the entirety of the exhaustive list.

"Then you have the day to locate her and bring her to this room." Because everything in Angela's world is so simply done. Her hands take a moment to smooth the robe over her knee before she stands and collects her purse. This she brings to the bed with her where she sits Indian style in the center and begins shuffling through it. Bright shiny, almost hypodermic needles are with drawn. Nearly a foot long and pointed at both ends, Angela takes a moment to carefully untangle the few twists in the gossamer cobweb like white yarn that forms an eighteen inch wide now nearly two foot long length of lacy fabric.

That makes Miguel snort a laugh, and he simply has to smile at her as she gets her knitting paraphernalia out. "Y'know, the last time someone was so--adamant--they were giving me a time limit to get out before the place exploded." He chuckles again, thinking on President Doom while watching she fiddles with the yarn and needles.

Angela looks up at the laugh, head tilting. "I've no wish for you to leave my side, though if you need to...." she leaves the sentence unfinished as her mind ponders exactly how much fear she could induce and therefore feed from before Miguel's strong heart finally gave up. Her lips purse, eyes narrowing faintly before she shakes her head slightly. She's pretty sure she doesn't have enough rope or physical strength to hold if it came to that. She snickers to herself, half grinning. Distance would be her ally. Ten miles of it.

"We'll see," says Miguel with a tone of sarcasm mixed with humor as he gets to his feet and goes to the window. He slips his hands into his pockets--then his attention is caught by something on the sidewalk. His accelerated vision lets him "zoom in" on a woman being forced into an alley by three punks. He's about to just dash straight out--when he remembers Angela. She doesn't seem to remember the spidery half of him, so he'd better keep it that way. "I--need--to--go see about something," he says lamely as he turns around. "I thought I saw a vending machine, and--I wanted to try one of the drinks. I promise I'm not running away or something." He's already heading to the door, keeping a calm look on his face. "I promise, you won't be left alone."

Angela looks up, eyes narrowing. A long moment passes, then a nod. "Fine." She drops her gaze to her knitting, fingers beginning to tremble faintly.

Thirty seconds later, Spider-Man is leaping from a wall, somersaulting through the air to plant both feet in the back of the only bastard not close enough to the woman to risk hurting her. There's a sickening crunch as ribs are shattered--made worse as Spider-Man "rides" him to the ground, using the momentum to squish just a little more. The bastard will /live/, but it won't be living /well/. That bought him a half-second of stunned surprise, which he uses to snap a leg back, breaking the knee of one of the other thugs, then he quickly thrusts himself upward into the stomach of the last thug, slamming him into the wall of the alley and webbing his face to it.

Of course, the woman scampers off without so much as a "thanks for saving my life and my virtue". Bah. He grumbles to himself, then turns to start crawling up the wall rather speedily.

Less than three minutes after he first left, he's coming back into the room, out of breath. "Wouldn't you know it," he says, "I get all the way down there, realize I don't know how it works, start back here and find a coin--but I think the machine ate it. Small, bronze coin. Ah, well."

Phobia sits on the bed, the vision of a nightmare cloaking her entire body. Her face, flickering from terror to terror is all at once featureless and cold. Thin lines of smoking green must be where her eyes are closed. A long jagged knife-like slice is her smiling mouth. A tiny razor tongue runs over her upper lip, corner to corner and back again. What might have been Angela's night gown and robe are now a sleek and ghoulish gown. Green as festering ichor and lined with a network of black veins which pulse with an inhuman life. Angela's knitting lays forgotten in Phobia's claws and slender hands.

"...not this shit again," mutters Miguel, narrowing his eyes. "Hey, remember what we talked about with your self-control. You start flipping out and taking your trip to crazy-demon-land, things are going to get messy." Though, admittedly, he's not sure who would get out of it in the bigger mess.

A voice? Phobia's eyes open. Angela blinks. A shiver passes, then a relieved smile. She sighs, mind having let go of her victim the moment she blinked. "You're back," she states, mistress of the obvious she is. She looks to the door, then the window, then the clock, then Miguel. "You didn't see the curry delivery while you were at the soda machine, did you," she asks with an odd sort of calm innocence. I wasn't scaring anyone. Honest.

"No, I didn't," says Miguel, taking a few steps closer to the bed. "But--are you okay? What caused you to--almost flip out?" There's no blood, or terribly frightened delivery person on the floor, so he has to assume that she didn't actually /do/ anything. Well, he has to hope that, anyway.

Angela dips her head, looking down to her knitting. She bites her lip, seeming unwilling to answer and yet... "I don't like being alone," is what she says.

"I noticed," says Miguel, eyeing her cautiously. "But you're not going to have someone in the room with you every moment of every day. What happens when someone has to use the bathroom, or when someone gets tied up in traffic? What happens then?"

Angela frowns, eyes on her knitting. "Then, I go out," she states as if that makes it better. "I've been going out like that for months now, so... I managed before you. I'll manage after you, I just... " She starts to work on her knitting again, "...don't like being alone."

A soft exhalation, and Miguel goes to ease onto the corner of the bed, continuing to face her. "So--tell me about this. Tell me about how it started, what the--what the process is, I guess, when you--change." He offers her a small smile. "Maybe we can figure out a way to /help/ you manage."

A dark frown slides over her face, eyes taking on a hint of that eerie green hue. Her lower jaw works, as if her molars are grinding together, and her lips and features flicker with the want of a sneer. Her knitting slows a moment, before resuming. The needles make a whisper hush of scraping in the silence before and between her words. "No. I don't want to talk about how it ....began. I don't want to talk about... what happens. Isn't it enough that it is something I live with, and that you've come to be near me?" She looks up, fingers still working those long shiny knitting needles without peering at them. "Isn't it enough to be a hero," she asks, tone edging toward cold and dark once more.

Lifting his hands in a placating gesture, Miguel says, "Hey, we don't have to talk about it now. That's fine." A beat's pause, then, more quietly, he adds, "We just--we do have to talk about it sooner or later, though. If you seriously want help--if I'm seriously going to help you protect yourself and others, we need to figure out what this is and how it works..." He keeps his hands out, palms facing her with fingers loosely curled. It's a pose designed to look non-threatening, to help keep her from flipping out again.

Angela's eyes close, a breath is drawn in, held a beat, then released through her nose. She looks back to her knitting. "It helps with my nightmares, so I can get through a day without... " She pauses, pondering then shakes her head and sighs. "Well, an hour at least, without breaking down into a blubbering mess. Let's me forget... some things... now and again," she adds, trying to sound nonchalant, as if it were no big deal. The attempt is more than a little heavy handed.

"Well, let's--let's worry about it in the morning, okay?" says Miguel, lowering his hands to set them in his lap. "Just--tonight, it still might be a bit--raw. That's fine. I--I understand, Angela, at least I understand as best as I can. We can deal with it first thing in the morning, okay?" Give them both a night's rest to get back to whatever passes for normal, with them. He knows that he could use some actual rest, that's for sure.

Angela stops at that, her hands pausing. She lifts her gaze to him, seeming confused. "I'm not going to have nightmares tonight...." she offers, as if it were some sort of consolidation. And then it seems to strike her. Oh! He's going to sleep! She blinks, looks at the bed, then him, then chuckles lightly. "I'll move," she quips lightly as she proceeds to shove her knitting back into her purse.

"I don't mind taking the floor again," says Miguel, a small smile teasing one corner of his mouth. It's hopefully enough to lighten the mood a little; he really can't manage much more. "Trust me, I've slept in far more uncomfortable places. Remind me to tell you some time about passing out in a buggy on the way to the Docs in a Box, though that was /after/ falling a good mile and barely surviving the landing." That smile widens, if only a touch, as he goes to start relieving the bed of a pillow and the blanket again.

Angela stands, hands clutching the bag and her knitting stuff. He's offer to sleep on the floor, brings a faint smile to her lips, mind set to find one of those apartments with a room into a room, or at least a large walk in closet she can use for a room. Human shields are wonderful things. She's nodding, though seems a little concerned... or is that morbidly curious given what comes out of her mouth as she retakes the bed that is now short a blanket and a pillow: "Were you scared?"

That question makes him pause for just a beat, and he lifts a brow in thought. As he starts making up his little nest on the floor, he says, "Yeah. I was--still new at a lot of things. I'd--recently had my perspective shifted, I suppose you could say." A wry expression comes to his face, there. "I--had been forced to see my life from a different perspective, and I still wasn't used to it. Ended up pissing some people off--who took offense and tried to shove my head up my ass. Long story short, I ended up taking a dive. Sometimes I'm still not sure how the hell I survived, but I did. Was terrified for every minute of it--at least every minute that didn't piss me off." So, knowing him, it was likely fifty/fifty.

Reclaiming her perch, Angela sets her bag off to the side, rolling to her tummy to plop her chin to her hands to peer at Miguel. The admission of his fear brings a faint smile to her lips. "Are you afraid of heights," she asks. Is it weird that her voice seems to perk up and sound almost girlishly normal when asking such things? It's like she enjoys it or something.

"No," says Miguel as he finishes making his little nest. "I've gotten to the point where there's only one thing that I'm afraid of anymore, really." The grimness mixing so oddly with the softness in his tone might spark the memory of just what fears of his she fed with. The only thing he really fears anymore is failure, failing so much that someone loses their life because of him. That's the fear that sits with him--and the memory that comes to him each night.

Angela can't suppress the urge to lick her lips at his tone, her mind clearly recalling the sensation of his failure. She reaches out and down to try to brush her fingertips along a shoulder, his hair, his back, anything. "The more you share that with me, the less you'll fail me," she offers as if it's supposed to be comforting.

Arching a brow, Miguel looks at Angela for a moment, then goes to the window to look out at the ground without really seeing it. A few moments of silence, then, "Her name was Dana," he says softly. "She loved me before I knew I should have deserved it. She--stood by me through things no one should have to." He can't help but think of her looking at him, part of her face swollen because--of him. Fists clench tightly, and he murmurs, "She was always afraid I'd leave her for--someone else. Who I'd left for /her/. She--didn't deserve what happened to her..." Then, in a soft whisper, "Neither did Kenny, or the Spiderites... None of them did..."

Angela watches Migel get up and leave the bedside, eyes tracking over as he moves. She rolls to a side, one hand falling to her hip the other propping her head up. Her head files away the details, giving a name to that face she saw so clearly last night. The failure of a wrong choice that makes each choice a frightening prospect. Her eyes close. Her tongue dips out. Angela's phobia licks her lips without conscious notice of the motion. The new names makes Angela open her eyes and regard Miguel. She licks her lips again, but stays her mind; there is time enough to find the sensation of those names, to craft the perfect nightmare scenarios.

"Mmmm... I'm sure...," she murmurs a whisper to herself, voice carrying through the small room.

Turning, Miguel looks at Angela with an eyebrow arched in curiosity and studiousness. Lips pressing together, he realizes he should be keeping some details to himself. While he wants to trust her--he remembers all too vividly how out-of-control that one nightmare was. "It's--something I learn to live with," he says, looking back out the window. "A little bit, each day." The memory of Kenny's wife at the grave barren save for a Spider-Man mask--a symbol of /him/. Watching Venture slaughter innocent Thorites--because of him. Maybe it's a lie that he's learning to live with it, he thinks as he clenches his fist again. But it's a lie he desperately needs to believe.

A flutter of eyelashes as Miguel peers at her. Her smile is almost too sweet, too innocent. Especially for those eyes. After all, that nightmare was in perfect control. Not HIS granted, but controlled none the less, and crafted for him to boot! Isn't Phobia nice?

There she waits, watching him as he peers out the window, only to find herself giving a big yawn. She's gotten her nightmare fix, like two or three times today (but let's not tell Miguel that), and she really didn't sleep at all last night. And while she can totally go with out sleep for several days, being calm and composed enough to actually drift off into sleep. It's silent, and very kitten like. The big yawn, soundless, a few slow blinks, and then her head slips off her hand and drops to the soft bed. ...with visions of absolutely nothing dancing in her head. She gives a soft sigh in her sleep, face smooth and relaxed for once, and a light smile curling at one corner of her mouth. The phrase "an angel when she's asleep" could totally apply right about now.