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The drapes are so heavy one can’t tell what it’s
like
outside. All the lights are off in the room, though,
and there’s a man on the bed. Angel is sleeping, bare chest visible and half-concealed with a blanket. Activity is apparent beneath his closed eyelids. Cordelia’s voice, //See, ‘cause what you do is you hang it on the wall, and then you go and put the light right on top of your head, you know? So that you see the light real good on it, right? But you’re all the way across on the other side though--// Jaw muscles twitch. A white room. There is a man in a chair, his hand resting on a knob at his right, a knob protruding from a wall. On the ceiling above him hangs a light fixture, angled such that the light hits directly on the painting, on the wall directly opposite. He is quiet, staring intently at the painting. The light hits soft on grass, and trees, background of a bridge off to the side. Soft green, a haze over the bridge, crumb-specks of light on the leaves of a particular tree left of center-- the leaves look like they pulse as the light grows stronger, brighter. The spots of white on green now glare yellow, bright, whiter still --how is it possible?--burst forth. A patch of sun on shadowed grass glimmers in response to the flood of light, drawing living depth. A spontaneous dawn of sorts, then it begins to darken a bit, honeyed ripeness gone to dusk, then dark.
Sunrise, sunset, Sunburst, sun gone. Footsteps, the figure stays at the doorway without a door, looks over the man in the dark suit. Watches the pattern repeat a couple of times. Never removing his eyes from Angel, Spike walks over, stands by chair, hand on hip. "Now what the hell do you think you’re doin old man?" Angel’s gaze does not waver. "Sshhh-look." Standing man glances. "What are you doing?" "Mustn’t." Blondie snorts. Bobs head derisively. "It’s a Kinkade." "Huh." Brows knit, pouty lips purse. "Hmm?" "Trying."
"Tryin!? What the hell for!!?" Silver Blond in Leather shakes head, tsks, glancing once more at the white light that seems to pour its shine like expanding sepals, bursting forth in bloom- or like a growing pregnant belly. Walks away, and for a second the spell is broken. Angel stops fiddling with the dimmer, looks at Spike in befuddlement, before turning back -unsure now- at the dim picture on the wall across the room. Pained expression breaks its way across his features. Slowly, ever so sloth-like, the light begins to gain strength, burns him almost, to glare its blinding stare... Zenith, then it sinks and the room is dark. Cordelia’s voice, //...but it’s not really real. I mean sure, it looks cool. (mumbles something unintelligible)...just damn costs too much...// The phone rings, and Angel wakes up. |