| An Artist and His Muse |
[28 Feb 2008|07:45pm] |
It had come to him in a burst of inspiration, the kind of thing he only got when he hadn't slept in a couple of days and was smoking too many cigarettes. He supposed that it was different from magic, since he likely couldn't summon Hannah at will, but perhaps...perhaps if he thought of her loudly enough, she'd recieve the message through some sort of sonar. Oliver tucked his hands into his pockets and stared out the window, feeling as if he could run a marathon.
Hope. What a curious feeling to have.
He'd filled three sketchbooks so far, working from memory, drawing the blonde in every way he could think of. He supposed he was obsessed, but what of it? He loved her.
He'd been uncertain about offering possible creature comforts, not knowing if the dead appreciated them, but he'd had lunch sent up just in case. If she didn't want it, maybe he'd eat it. The skyline was bright and clear today, the buildings of Las Vegas standing out in sharp relief against the achingly blue shell of the sky. Would she hear him?
The spellcaster rubbed at his chest, scratching lightly at the skin through the fabric of his shirt. He felt something rumbling around in the confines of his torso, something so strange that it almost felt like it was happening to someone else and he was only catching the echoes of it. His other hand flattened against the cool glass of the plate glass window, obscuring part of his view.
He was...
He was...
Fuck. He was happy.
Whereas Oliver had always found that emotion elusive, fleeting at best, happiness had been an integral part of Hannah's life. No matter where she was or what her situation, joy radiated from her, and she gravitated toward people who made her feel it the most. In life, they were her friends-- cheerful people, wacky people, even mischievous people, as long as they kept the good times rolling. Not even the ornery dispositions of the customers in the diner could take the sunshine out of her. The blonde's temper fits resembled the tiny, temporary growls of an aggravated puppy tugging on a sock.
Since her death and passing into the spirit realm, Hannah had gained a kind of peace that was absent before. She accepted death easier than most. Being sick when she was younger had prepared her for the possibility that her life might be short. But there was regret, too. A feeling of loss, of never getting to do certain things. Because there was no choice and it didn't do any good to dwell, she made the best of it. She reached out to people. With Oliver, she got more than she bargained for.
He was someone Hannah never would've approached alive; he probably would've scared the bejesus out of her. But now, her role allowed her to straddle the line between good and evil. To see balance, the necessity for both. To see Oliver as beautiful instead of frightening.
Oh, he was so beautiful. Truly her opposite, but she craved him. What's more, she could sense him.
Slipping into the air, it took her a moment to settle into human form. The moment Hannah did, she came up behind the spellcaster and put her hands on his shoulders. "You have loud thoughts," she said, standing on tiptoe to reach his ear. She scooped up Oliver's hair and tucked it behind his lobe.
( Loud on the Inside )
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| Sentimental Journey |
[28 Feb 2008|11:58pm] |
Gonna take a Sentimental Journey,
Gonna set my heart at ease.
Gonna make a Sentimental Journey,
to renew old memories.
Got my bags, got my reservations,
Spent each dime I could afford.
Like a child in wild anticipation,
I Long to hear that, "All aboard!"
There was something about the old '45s that Whistler enjoyed. The crackle through the speaker, the scratch from wear and tear. It gave the music gravitas, meaning. It wasn't pristine, but it was timeless. And no one could croon that song like Doris Day.
Since coming down from the roof at the Rock 'n Bowl, the Agent had restrung the patio lanterns outside his double-wide, and replaced the folding, rickety slats of death with proper wooden deck chairs. Even Gerald was feeling the mood, surrounded as he was with Hannah's knick-knacks that were appropriated after the blonde began her new life as a Higher Being.
If he closed his eyes, Whistler could imagine he was on a secluded lake, a slight breeze caressing his face.
Seven...that's the time we leave at seven.
I'll be waitin' up at heaven,
Countin' every mile of railroad
track, that takes me back.
Never thought my heart could be so yearny.
Why did I decide to roam?
Gotta take that Sentimental Journey,
Sentimental Journey home.
Sentimental Journey.
"That's a pretty song," said the ghost of Hannah, called there by him thinking of her. Perhaps there was a greater purpose behind it, some reason the Powers would send her, but at times the blonde found herself simply arriving places without instructions. Her surroundings would come into focus like a signal on an old television, and it would be her task to adapt quickly and make herself useful. With Whistler, at least there was no reason to pretend anything. He had known she'd be an Agent longer than Hannah had.
The girl's slight weight settled onto the second chair. She gazed into the yard at Gerald, her chin resting in her palm. The music lulled her into nostalgia. The desert scents came back to her, as did all the soft night sounds of her old neighborhood. Instead of a dress, Hannah wore a uniform. The waitress apron was a dreaded accessory in life, but now it was a long lost friend. "Women used to be a whole other thing, didn't they?" she asked, letting old Doris caress her ears.
( The Old Mystique )
( Soul-Baring Deep Dish )
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