2012-07-19 It Seemed Like a Good Idea...

It had been an interesting afternoon; Miguel was still getting used to the idea of the baby monitors, once he explained the concept in a way that made sense to the store clerk. He can't help it that terms and technology change in a near-century. But they ended up with what he wanted, and he convinced Angela to go for it, and get two sets--turn-about is fair play, after all, so if she gets to listen to him, he should get to listen to her. For one thing--what if she needs him in the middle of the night? It'd be easier just to speak into the thing than get out of bed. Plus if she needed him without being able to /tell/ him, he can hear it. That night, he had an idea. She's getting better, she really is. She deserves another chance, another shot at working to get herself under control--and he has an idea. While in the store earlier, unbeknownst to her, he saw a child, a young boy about six. Sporting one hell of a shiner. Oh, his mother probably passed it off like he walked into a door or something, but--he's seen that kind of bruise before. He's made them before. He's /worn/ them before. So while his mother was paying, he'd surreptitiously tipped his sunglasses and "zoomed in" on the screen as she paid with a credit card--and got their address. A test run, he'd said. Find someone who was hurting an innocent, and save the innocent. What he didn't say was that he realized the bastard probably wouldn't live through it--which is why they are, now, in the middle of the night, across an alley from, and slightly above, an apartment complex. He's cradling her against him in one hand, the other bent back, palm twisted around so the fingers point up, so the talons can find purchase. "There," he says softly, nodding as a light comes on. "You'll have your chance to save--him." The boy running across the window, holding his face and bleeding noticeably. Behind him--stalks what must be his father. Carrying a belt--with the buckle dangling. "Ready?" he asks her, keeping his eyes on the apartment.

Angela wasn't at all clear what was happening, but she agreed and dressed in black pants and a dark green top; still very high end. Arms wrapped about Miguel's neck to help hold her body weight aloft, she turns her green gaze where he points. She frowns lightly as she sees the boy, but really the expression is not as sympathetic as one might hope for. No, it's the look of the man following the boy that brings a rise to Angela's eyes, and Phobia sneers. Miguel hardly needs to ask if she's ready for Phobia's mind is reaching out, spearing at the man's mind viciously.

There's a part of Miguel that thinks maybe, just maybe, Phobia can be steered. Maybe she can't be fully /controlled/, yet--but until she can, maybe she can be /aimed/. A part of him wonders what his predecessor would think. There wasn't much information left after the great cataclysm, but--what bits were left, the original Spider-Man never seemed like a guy who'd tolerate killing, for any reason. Must be nice to live in a world of black and white. Spider-Man 2099 lives in a world of grey, where good people can do horrid, evil things, for good reasons. Tonight is one of those nights, and as he watches the shift come over Angela--he realizes that even if he's right, he's probably paying the price by offering up his soul. Wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last. "Control it!" he hisses, then jumps from the wall. A somersault so she's completely protected as they shatter through the glass, his back taking the damage. Hurts some, but the suit can take the glass. The somersault is completed and they land gently--like stepping off a curb. He sets Phobia down, watching, seemingly placidly thanks to the mask, as the man writhes on the ground, grabbing his head. "Don't kill him," he whispers, hands clenching. Behind the mask, his eyes close. He believes she'll try, but--if any moment "allowed" her failure, this was it. If anyone /deserved/ her failure, he was it.

The child has hidden. And thankfully so, for Phobia is a nightmarish and hideous vision. Her eyes smoke green as she steps over the man, hisses, "Death would be too good for him, if it came to him too quickly." She licks her lips, burrowing into the man's, dredging up every dark fear he as. Moving slowly, she crouches to him, reaching out to brush hair from his face. ~You're not going to enjoy this, but I will. You've been a bad bad boy.~

Too many images flicker through the man's mind. His mother, standing over him with the yard stick. His brother taking the hits from their father. The funeral of his brother. He can barely feel the caress--and it's the swish of the yard stick narrowly missing his face. "P-p-p-please..." he whispers through a quivering and drooling jaw. Spider-Man 2099 turns his head to the side. He knows what the man is going through. He goes through it every week; maybe less, now that Angela is starting to get a handle on Phobia. It's not nice, it's not pretty--but he deserves it. A memory flash of his own father, George, standing over his five-year-old brother Gabriel, cowering and crying--and six-year-old Miguel just watched, unable to move. A low rumble comes from Spider-Man's chest as he tries to banish the memory.

~Please? Please what? End your torment? Why? Tell me why I should,~ Phobia hisses at the man, forearms resting lightly on her knees. She trails her fingernails across his face, enjoying the feel of pushing terror into him. ~You, who have no right to instill fear but do anyway...~ Phobia's illusions turn her fingernails into his mother's harsh grip of his jaw, parting his lips and teeth open. The rumble draws Phobia's gaze, a brow quirking at Miguel. Still forcing fear into the man's mind, Phobia stands gracefully and turns to look at Miguel, head tilted. The inhuman smile is evident on her face.

The man--whatever his name is; it doesn't really matter--he screams when he feels Phobia-Mother's hands on his face. In his mind, he's eight years old, the family whipping boy--in more ways than one. In his mind, his mother grabs him for something he'd done--or hadn't done. It didn't matter. As Phobia stands, he loses all control over his bowels and bladder. When she stands, it takes a moment for Spider-Man 2099 to notice. When he does, he turns his head slowly to look at her. "Let him go," he says, quietly but firmly. "You've punished him. He won't do it again--and if he does..." The tone of voice implies that next time, he won't call her off. A beat. "We're better than they are." The abused /must/ be better than the abusers, even--perhaps especially--when they have abusers at their feet, powerless.

~No,~ is Phobia's immediate response to Miguel's request. Her eyes are nearly demonic, vaguely Venom-like, as she continues to tear at the man's psyche. ~He'll never touch another again. He'll never have the power to make another feel fear,~ she hisses. ~There will be no 'next time'.~

Not right now. Spider-Man grabs her by the edge of her cloak over her chest and hauls her off her feet so their faces are only inches apart. Surely she can feel the building rage--the way he trembles a little, the way he's having to fight to control his voice. "Let. Him.  Go," he whispers, voice wavering with the barely-restrained rage. It's not her fault, it really isn't--which is the only thing keeping him from truly releasing his anger on her. Maybe she remembers the rage. The way it felt when she had him cowed, bowed in pain and terror--and how it twisted itself into a rage even more powerful, one that threatened to destroy everything. If she remembers--she'll sense it rising again.

Phobia lets go. She's actually quick to let go of the poor guy's mind. The moment that rage begins to build up in Miguel, the moment it's clear that it's focused on her, she's afraid. And when she's afraid... Phobia claws against Miguel's mind even as her hands reach up to grab his wrists. It's an act of self-defense! Honest! You believe me, right? Her eyes are wide, spooked, even as she thrust-twists that guilt/fear she knows is there while sliding the vision of his dear dead Dana over her body. Broken, battered... save me!

That was, quite likely, one of the worst things to do. Or one of the best, depending on one's point of view. On the one hand, it means he's not holding onto her any more. On the other--it's because he flings her down the hall. Maybe she'll see enough into his mind to see where the rage comes from--failure. Failure as a child to protect his brother, his mother. Failure to protect Dana, Kenny, the Thorites whose names he never knew. The kind of rage that comes from pain. The kind of rage that starts to shut off the higher processes of the mind. Starting with ration and segueing into self-control. The plus side, though--he's not angry /at her/. He never was. A loud, window-rattling roar is emitted as he does a quick half-turn so fast it's a blur--and brings that back right leg forward faster than a normal eye could see. The abuser gets kicked right in the stomach, and after a sickening SQUELCH of internal organs exploding and bones shattering, the man goes flying. He SPLATs into the far wall, next to a door, and gets half-buried within. But Spider-Man isn't done. What Phobia loosed will not be so easily dismissed--which should, if in a fashion, be familiar to her. Where her fear is the kind that oozes and slinks, devouring and covering--his is the rage that burns and swallows whole. Loosening another roar, he sweeps his arm out, causing a large-sized chunk of the wall to explode into the next room and sending cracks along what's left. If she's still peering into his mind, she'll see a torrent of images--Dana, George, Gabriel, Kenny, nameless Thorites. All dead by or cowering at the hands of bullies and tyrants, butchers and psychopaths. There's just enough ration left in the man to have one thought--he failed them all, but he won't fail again. And that's when the man twitches. Spider-Man's head snaps around, a low hiss emanating from him, and in a single leap covers the distance. The man barely opens one eye--to see Spider-Man holding his heart, blood dripping from his talons, running down his arm. The rage starts to twist into hate, and it is, now, probably a good thing that Phobia is /behind/ him, and thus out of immediate view--but then the door nearby opens. The kid peeks out, face scabby and bruised. He sees Spider-Man and--screams in terror. That's what makes the rage finally ebb--the sight of the child, terrified that he would be the next victim. That's what makes him drop the heart and start staggering and falling backward--suddenly so very, very tired.

Well.. that wasn't as clean as she would have liked, but at least the asshole is dead. There's no reason now to attack Miguel's mind. After all, Angela and her are completely safe now. She rises to her feet from the small heap she had fallen into on the floor. She's eyeing the bloody mess, the inhuman appearance coating her beginning to slip away, when the boy screams. It makes Angela's mind scream at itself, and the last of Phobia slithers away into the recesses of the Brit's mind. She too is terrified as her eyes slide over the carnage that she created. Granted, it wasn't with her own two hands, but that mental knife, that stab into the exposed nerve that is Miguel's fears, Angela knows that she's just as responsible for this as he is. More so, perhaps. How badly does she enjoy the control of causing another to feel the fear she had in her youth, especially causing it in grown men. The boy, the boy is innocent; so much like she was, once upon a time. "Go to your mother, boy," she tells him, not wanting him to be alone, not wanting to be alone herself. Fears assuaged by her victim's for the moment, Angela calmly moves to Miguel and reaches out to pull him to his feet. She pushes his hand down, seeking to pull him to his feet. "Don't leave me," she murmurs to him, begging him almost not to curl up in the Phobia induced mental fetal position of 'can't handle this crap no more'.

There are times, really, that Spider-Man would envy the Phobia/Angela dynamic. At least, the ability to just give up and take a back seat, let someone else do the piloting for a while. No matter what else--no matter /what/ else--that, at least would be nice. Unfortunately, he's the only tenant in his mental apartment, so when Angela comes knocking, he's the only one who can respond. He's fully aware of what she's trying to do, what she's saying--but he's just. So. Tired. He tries to remember the last time he let loose like that. Wait, yes he can. Aww, fuck. Sirens in the distance. That's what propels him to action. /Probably/ not meant for him and Angela--but only /probably/. While he doubts they're /that/ much more efficient this far back, he won't take the chance. He /can't/. He can't fail again. Emitting a low groan, he plants his left hand on the ground so he can push up and start getting to his feet. Right hand reaches for the wall--and pushes through, thanks to one of the cracks. "Shit..." he mutters, voice harsh and hoarse, then plants that hand on the ground as well, so he can--slowly, and with a good bit of grunting--stand up. Once he does, he takes Angela's hand. "I'm sorry..." he says. Sorry for everything. Sorry he thought this was a good idea. Sorry for not being in better control of /himself/. Who the fuck is /he/ to lecture anyone on self-control? What kind of conceited /asshole/ would do that. Oh, right, he /is/ an asshole, as everyone he's ever known liked to point out. "We've got to go," he says, then goes to take her in his arms, adjusting her so she can be cradled in his left arm. He steps back to the window they broke through--and for a moment, he remembers when he first got these stupid, god damned powers. Told everyone he fell. No--he jumped. Didn't want to live like a freak. Chickened out at the last minute. Sometimes he thinks he should have just let go. After a beat, he looks to her. "Ready?" he asks, knowing that the question is kind of loaded.

Angela feels good. Crack addict got her fix in a big way. It's just the hint that she might have to deal with this mess alone that makes her worry, that starts stirring that hint of fear in her mind. It's a hint of fear that Miguel soothes when he stands fully and moves to pull her into his chest. There's no hesitation in wrapping her arms about him, green eyes sliding down to the bloody mess on the floor. There's a look of smug satisfaction on her face at the sight. After a beat, she looks up at his question, eyes seeming innocent. Alright, not so much. Angela nods to the loaded question before she drops her forehead to his chest, closes her eyes, and sighs softly into him. She's not alone, and this time it's not just in the physically department.

Yeah, they just fucked up in a big way. She thinks she's smug now--wait for the aftermath. For right now, though, there's nothing to be done, so Spider-Man leaps out the window and spins a web-line, arcing downward and kicking his legs forward, then releasing at the top of the swing. A backward somersault he spreads his limbs, save for the left arm he holds her in. A bit of control, there, over the small bit of gliding afforded from the Lite-Byte cloth sprawling from his back like a cape. A tuck and a somersault, then he lands on the end of a flagpole, to leap off and start the process over. Leaps here, swings there, glides over there. Eventually, they'll make it home, and he'll set her on the balcony, to precede him into the apartment after he gives a quick look around to make sure no one's watching. Not that it really matters at this point, he damned well realizes, but still. It's part habit, and part to calm her. He'll save the panic-inducing for--about three minutes, really.

Angela walks into the apartment calmly, mind and fears numbed for the moment. It's in the light of the apartment that she realizes she's got blood on her and she frowns lightly, heading toward her room to change. "Bloody hell, we're filthy," she comments softly, as if they'd merely tromped through mud.

At first, Spider-Man says nothing. He closes the doors to the balcony, then grabs the top of his mask and pulls it off. "What we are is /fucked/," he says, the last word stressed--very clearly. "This--/right here/!--is why you /do not kill people/! If nothing else--if abso-/fucking/-lutely /nothing else/--it's because of this." He massages his brows with his right hand, thumb at the corner of his right eye, index and middle fingertips trying to massage away the headache that's only building. And he goes right on ahead, without giving her a chance to interject. He's in full Rant Mode. "One, your fingerprints. When I grabbed you, I felt your blouse, not /her/ cloak.  That means /your fingerprints/ are there!  Two, people /saw us/--they saw /me/.  You /really/ don't think that someone didn't fucking phone the Public E--the fucking police and say, 'Oh, hey, that mother fucker with the skull on his chest just /killed somebody/'?  Three!  I've been /damn/ careful coming in and out of here in the costume, but that /doesn't/ mean I wasn't seen!  At best?  I had started to earn /just enough/ of a reputation as a /good guy/, someone who /doesn't kill/, so whoever saw me looked the other way.  You really think that's gon'a last /now/?!  Also?  We are /murderers/.  We.  Took.  A life!  Two lives! We took /two lives/! You /really/ think that kid is going to be okay after what he saw?  /We fucked his head for life, Angela/.  He will have this image of his /father/ with his /heart ripped out/ in his head /forever/." His voice raises slowly but steadily, though most of the anger isn't directed at her. It's really mostly directed at himself. He should never have let things get out of hand. Speaking of, he realizes he's doing it again, so forcibly makes his voice calmer. "We just fucked ourselves, Angela. We have to run, and I have no idea where we're going to run /to/." He bites back a snarky comment about at least she'd be surrounded by people in whatever super-prison this place has for people like them, but--yeah. Not a good idea.

"Is that what you're worried about? Loose ends," Angela asks, eyes narrowing. "Fine. I'll clean your mess up. That child and his mother will scatter. You'll be nothing but a nightmare-angel that saved them from the horrors that man would have inflicted. As for the rest...?" Angela's eyes narrow, and Phobia hisses, "Surely the next door neighbor would have liked to have choice words with the man, got into a fight, and out of fear sought to cover his tracks." Green smoke drifts from her eyes as her mind seeks out for the boy's the mother's, then a nearby neighbor. Because Phobia doesn't care who gets hurt.

"No..." That's growled out, fangs bared. This is the line. This. "We will /not/ escape what we earned just because we /can/. We /did this/, and we will pay.  This is the line, Angela.  Right here.  We fucked up, and we have to deal with that.  I won't /allow/ anyone else to be hurt, used, or made to be a scape goat." And yes, he said he wouldn't allow it. There's always a price to pay for failure. Miguel pays his every day--every night. He won't let her get out of her debt.

"And why not," Phobia hisses in reply, glaring at Miguel while her mind starts to work on the mother first. Not much is needed to get her up and going. "We were given these powers to protect ourselves, to make us stand up to all that would frighten us, all that would take our lives from us. Killing him was the best thing to do. He would have continued to beat that boy, that woman," she's saying, mind flicking to that neighbor that called 911. It's so simple to start him toward the 'OMG I did this! I have to clean the area', just a small illusion for his mind while the mother and the boy frantically hide themselves in a closet.

"To do that, you're not better than he was--you're a monster, an /abuser/, a selfish wreck of an individual. And that is /not/ the person I saw who wants to be better.  That's not /protection/.  That's /abuse/." Miguel is about to say more--when he realizes what she's doing. Distracting him. Fine. Fuck this. Arm dashes out, to fire a web-line at her and yank her to him--fangs bared. Remember sleepy time? He remembers sleepy time. He's going to try and make her go sleepy time again.

NO! She knows this move. She brings her hands up, getting them tangled to her chest. Leaning back into the webbing, fully trusting that they'll hold her, she brings her feet to his chest. Must.. not... loose... hold... Almost.. dome...

In the blink of an eye, he sees so many options: Slash the tendons. Yank hard enough to break the legs. Bite the legs. Slash the hip. So many more options. He picks the one that should be least injurious to her, though he's already god damned sure that's not going to count for shit. He releases the web-line just enough to let her fall about an eighth of an inch--long enough for her instincts to kick in and hopefully try and get her legs down--then he'll yank the web-line again, so he can plunge his fangs into her shoulder. Or neck, or arm, or chest. He's not picky, but the closer to the heart and brain, the better.

Almost... The quick drop has her gasping in fright. One leg does drop, but the other stays up, impacting against Miguel's chest. She grunts, seeking to push him away. Her eyes flickering as she manipulates the fear illusion from a distance.

He tried to be nice. He really did. Miguel tried to be nice and non-lethal and everything. Just--a nice comatose state, that's all. Almost a nap! Well, there's the whole "still awake" part, but still. He gives an extra tug, to make sure she's pushing nice and hard--then spins around to let her fly past him so he can dash his hand out and grab her by the arm--with talons. Let the pain be the distraction that he was /trying/ to give with venom. Though, because there's no such thing as over-kill, he'll yank her up and bite whatever part he can get that's below the jaw.

Phobia cries out in pain as Miguel's claws tear into her arm. Her mind struggles to finish its work even as the first drop of venom slides into her system from the bite just under her jawline, near her chin. She gasps, physically struggling weaker now as the full weight of her attention rests on ensuring the neighbor would- Angel slumps into Miguel's arms.

He cradles her as she slumps, and he looks down into her eyes, his own tearing a little as his brows knit together. "I'm sorry," Miguel whispers softly, cradling her against his knee, hand supporting the back of her neck. "We're not gods. We weren't 'given' anything by anyone who cares.  We are what we are.  I--know you probably hate me for this, and--I want you to know I don't blame you.  But I can't let you hurt anyone just because you can.  You do that, you /are/ the abuser.  You /are/ the monster--and there's no way back from that.  I know." He tucks her hair behind her ears and picks her up, to take her to her bedroom to lay her down. And try to not think of Tamir's prophetic warning.

Trapped, a prisoner in her own mind and body, Angela screams and screams and screams, but nothing comes out. There's perhaps a flicker in her eyes but little else. Don't leave, she's praying at him, terrified that he's going to dump her and leave her. His words to her, she hears, but they don't make sense. Aren't nobles SUPPOSED to beat on peasants? Isn't she a better type of person that all the rest?

Laying her on the bed, Miguel looks around with a quirked brow. "Don't go anywhere," he says with all the seriousness that can only be a joke. "I'll be right back." And with that he disappears--but in a moment she'll hear him from the baby monitor He went into his room to change clothes, as can be heard by the way the closet opens, a single shirt taken out, a single pair of khakis. After a moment, spent obviously dressing, he returns, gloves and mask in hand. He pulls a chair over and sits down, propping it back so he can rest his feet on the night stand. He doesn't give a shit about propriety right now. "I really kind of wish I knew where you got this sense of--being a god or whatever it is. Neither of us are any better than anyone else.  The sooner you realize that, the sooner you accept it--the better off you'll be.  We fight for the people because we /are/ them.  We fight against those stronger than we are--and trust me, there are plenty of those around--because they need us to help them." His beat's pause. "Just--think on that. I'm going to start thinking about what our next move will be."

Paralyzed, Phobia can do nothing at the rising panic as she's left alone, helpless, on a bed. But with the neurotoxin in her system, there's little she can do to express the fear, or rush after to follow Miguel to stay near him. Though he's only gone a few moments, her mind's all but thrashing against itself, locked in its prison. She doesn't even notice his return, the terror continuing. His voice is heard, but the meanings are lost. A tear clings to her lashes then slides down her temple and into her ear.

"...aw, shit," mutters Miguel, moving to the bed and easing onto it. And it does strike him as being a little uncomfortable, sitting on her bed, with her in it, all but unconscious. "Hey, hey, I'm here," he says, leaning over to be centered in her field of view. "I didn't go anywhere, and I'm still not going anywhere." It occurs to him that he has no idea how long the venom lasts. It's seriously never come up before; whenever he's had to resort to it, he always left his attacker. This is the first time he's stuck around. He really laments never being able to study the stuff, but the only place he could do it was Alchemax--which would just have been a bad idea all around. "I'm here, Angela," he tells her, trying to get through to her. Not that he can really be sure he /is/. That little outing had to be the dumbest idea he's come up with--which is actually saying something.

Her eyes can't focus, her pupils refusing to contract or dilate or anything. Seems that only the tear ducts work, seeking to keep her eyes moist as they remain open and unblinking. Instead, her thoughts are racing, cursing at him, shouting at him, fuming and wanting to rend his mind nightmare from nightmare for leaving her like this, chained and alone.

There's really nothing else to do. Emitting a grunt, Miguel goes to swivel on the bed and lie back, feeling much more than merely a little uncomfortable at the whole thing. "I'm here, Angela," he says, reaching out to take her hand. Probably won't help, but whatever. Nothing has, yet. He focuses on the ceiling, giving her hand a squeeze now and then. Though, if it won't work once, it won't work later. Still, it's the only thing he can think to do, other than lie there and wait for the venom to wear off. And wonder how he's going to keep the situation from blowing all straight to hell when it does.

The seconds turn to minutes and the minutes into an hour, until finally there is a hint of improvement: Angela's eyes flicker, her breath quivers, her fingers twitch, a squeaky sort of groan escapes her slightly parted lips, and her heart beat spikes.

He'd actually started to doze off. An afternoon of an emotional roller coaster will do that, though. He'd closed his eyes and /just/ started to drift off when he heard the groan. Blinking rapidly to clear the dregs of tiredness, he sits up and leans over her, releasing her hand to cup her cheek, pressing the very tips of his fingers into her neck, just enough to get her strengthening pulse. "I'm here, Angela," he tells her as he pulls off his sunglasses, squinting quite a bit against the waning light.

Blood pressure rising, the fear still taking hold, its her eyes that hint at the lack of control. Miguel isn't fully in her sight yet, and still he can see the faint glow creeping into her irises. As he gets into her field of vision there's a flicker across her face, a heartbeat between a grimace, a sneer, and relief. Mind completely twisted in on itself, Phobia claws at herself in an attempt to keep the fears at bay. Her eyelids flutter again, two thick drops roll down into her ears.

Sometimes, he really wishes he'd've just jumped, way back when. Would have saved a lot of people a lot of headache. "I'm here, Angela," he says again, staying in her field of view. There's really nothing else he can think to do. He's never had to deal with this sort of situation before. There's nothing he can do about any of this. That realization is, perhaps, what hurts the most out of everything--and it's not exactly a small list.

The neurotoxin in her system remains, ebbing away slowly. Her breath is shaky, fingers twitching at her sides. And then, suddenly, with a violent spasm, Angela's whole body seeks to contract into as tight of a tiny ball as possible. A strangled sort of scream tears its way from her unresponsive throat. Her eyes are wild and flickering with an inhuman glint as her powers turn in on her. It's a full quarter hour before Phobia manifests fully. Green eyes smoking, the villainess lashes out at just about anyone and everyone in her now much more limited range. The poor upstairs and downstairs neighbors. She moves to scurry away, and falls to the floor, knocking the wind out of herself and jarring her mind silent. She lays curled up on the floor, gasping audibly and painfully for air.

There is really nothing he can do. That's the thought that reverberates through his mind over and over again. It's his fault, and there's nothing he can do about it. About any of it. Dana, Kenny, the Thorites, and now Angela. And that's when the lashing-out catches him, making him fall back and clutch his head.. For one of those moments that last an eternity, he's surrounded by the bodies of the people he's failed. It's not a short list. It's dizzying, how painful the episode is. It's made worse by the knowledge that he wasn't even getting her full strength--and he /does/ know what /that/ feels like. Head pounding so hard one can actually see veins near his temples beating in rhythm with his increased heart rate, he grits his teeth and crawls to the edge of the bed, to slide from it to the floor and scurry closer to her. Hand darts out to take her arm--then stops, hovering a few inches above. Maybe that's not a good idea. "Angela, I'm here, he tells her, trying to keep his voice calm for her.

Gasping, almost mewling, Angela turns at the sound of the familiar voice, painfully forcing her body to move to find that touch that calms. Her eyes are wide, unfocused, unseeing. She crawls toward Miguel, not really caring if the motion hauls him down to her or her up to him. She seeks only to get into his arms where she can cry, release the emotions.

That's certainly a better reaction than what he'd /feared/, so. Miguel had been somewhat afraid of another fight--one he'd likely not live through, at least not in any appreciable sense of the word. As Angela moves into his arms, he draws her up as he shifts to sit cross-legged so he can cradle her in his lap and wrap his arms around her. "I'm sorry, Angela," he murmurs softly, closing his eyes and resting his cheek against her head. There's a slow burn of anger in the back of his mind--aimed solely at himself. He should have known better, damn it.

She's like a child, a very very small child; the way she curls up, one hand in her hair, the other near her mouth. Huge racking sobs shake her frame for a solid ten minutes before they hiccup to a close, and Angela's body begins to shift into a dead weight.

When she falls asleep, Miguel carefully, and slowly, goes to slide both arms under her. He'll pick her up and keep her against him, then rock forward onto his knees and get to his feet. He looks at her, looks at the bed, and looks back to her. God damn it all to hell. Whenever she awakens, she'll be tucked into bed, dressed in her night clothes, with Miguel snoring softly on the chair next to the bed. He's slumped in the chair, right arm across his chest, left arm on the bed, hand palm-up where he'd been holding her hand until either he flexed his hand in his sleep, or she moved. His legs are crossed at the ankle, legs stretched out before him to the floor; he's in one of those positions that only the exhausted can get comfortable in.