Spencer rubbed his face with his hands, said, "I'm not pissed. I'm not. I just. I want to get out of here and I'm taking it out on you, so, whatever." He drew in a breath and kicked back, floating above the clouds (the handy thing about being trapped in a magical painting of angels was that his dress-robe-thing seemed to instinctively fall around him in a way that kept him from flashing anyone, as well as appearing dignified enough to suit an angel. At this point, Spencer was grateful for small mercies).
"Sorry," he said, working to make his voice earnest. He wasn't, really, but he'd gotten himself into a really awkward situation, and he was quite aware of how unreasonable he was being just now.
"So, I think we should try and find another -- cupboard sort of thing," Spencer said lightly. "Or a hole. Or something."