Slings and Arrows snippet, seeing angels.
I am going to write porn in the laundry room. Ah, the fun!
This is written for ds_snippets, and it's Slings and Arrows, pre-first season.
Title: Seeing Angels
Rating: PG
Word Count: 270ish
Notes: Inspired by the Angels prompt. When Geoffrey is mad, he sees angels.
Soon, he was seeing angels everywhere he looked. His world was beautiful with the harsh shining beauty of stern-faced men with flaming swords and singed wings, all blood and glory, until he felt awe every time he turned the corner. There was solace in ignorance and unworthiness, one that he grabbed with both hands, staring into their eyes, asking them murmured questions he could never hope to understand the answers to.
He lay on his back and watched the play of the clouds over his head, tangled his fingers in the long grass of the meadow and felt his ribs expand with every breath. The angels danced with him in the field, all slow stately grace, sadness in movement and he wondered why they would sorrow when the world was so clean and new.
He sat in the corner of the room, arms clinging tightly to himself, wrapped around his knees with a knucklewhite grip. He was the only thing in the room he could rely on to be really there, to be fixed, and the angels watched, their faces still sad and still. He was too scared to reach out for them, lest he slipped from his own fingers and became nothing.
The days become brighter, the floor more solid under his feet and he stands in a dusty old theatre, tilting his head up so the weak sunlight falls on his face. The dust glitters in the shafts of gold, and he sees the angels dance. He cups his hands and raises them and the angels swirl around in his palms. They are elusive, and he holds them there and smiles at their impossibility.
This is written for ds_snippets, and it's Slings and Arrows, pre-first season.
Title: Seeing Angels
Rating: PG
Word Count: 270ish
Notes: Inspired by the Angels prompt. When Geoffrey is mad, he sees angels.
Soon, he was seeing angels everywhere he looked. His world was beautiful with the harsh shining beauty of stern-faced men with flaming swords and singed wings, all blood and glory, until he felt awe every time he turned the corner. There was solace in ignorance and unworthiness, one that he grabbed with both hands, staring into their eyes, asking them murmured questions he could never hope to understand the answers to.
He lay on his back and watched the play of the clouds over his head, tangled his fingers in the long grass of the meadow and felt his ribs expand with every breath. The angels danced with him in the field, all slow stately grace, sadness in movement and he wondered why they would sorrow when the world was so clean and new.
He sat in the corner of the room, arms clinging tightly to himself, wrapped around his knees with a knucklewhite grip. He was the only thing in the room he could rely on to be really there, to be fixed, and the angels watched, their faces still sad and still. He was too scared to reach out for them, lest he slipped from his own fingers and became nothing.
The days become brighter, the floor more solid under his feet and he stands in a dusty old theatre, tilting his head up so the weak sunlight falls on his face. The dust glitters in the shafts of gold, and he sees the angels dance. He cups his hands and raises them and the angels swirl around in his palms. They are elusive, and he holds them there and smiles at their impossibility.