DISCLAIMER: "ANGEL"'s character, "Angel" and the setting are the exclusive property of Joss Whedon, David Greenwalt, the WB, 20th Century Fox Television, Mutant Enemy Inc, Greenwolf Co., Kuzui Enterprises, and Sandollar Television, as well as any other parties unintentionally unnamed. NO INFRINGEMENT IS INTENDED. so PLEASE DON'T SUE!
RATED: G
NOTE: Well, it was recently my birthday, and I felt inspired.
D.O.B.
by A Witness
He heard the "ping" of a finished oven and stood, enveloped by the darkness. No one else was there to hear it. He was alone, as he had always been. The matches were in his hands, but he placed them onto the counter as he pulled out the hot pan of cake, mittens protecting him from being scorched. Not that it would have mattered. He would have healed too quickly to care.
Gently, he placed the small-sized cake on the table, squeezing out some blood-red, specially made icing and topping it with whipped cream. He took out a wine glass and poured some blood so that it stained it, a deep red in what light there was. He pulled out the candles - delicate, green and white candles - and placed a single one in the center. It was really more of a muffin, he decided, than a cake.
He struck a match and held it to the candle, waiting for the long piece of thread to catch fire before he blew out the match flame, placing the scorched piece of wood beside him. There was a small orange glow cast by the single, futile candle light, flickering with the threat of going out. He leaned back in the chair and watched it, burning and melting the candle until the wax began to drip onto the muffin. He didn't mind. He couldn't eat it, anyway.
He just sat there, fingertips touching, as he watched the small flame growing smaller and smaller, the candle melting until it was nothing more than a small puddle of wax on top of a muffin. Which it was really was. A muffin. Not a cake. The flame finally went out on its own, a moment he had been waiting for because he could not blow it out himself.
Angel's eyes closed because they were being burned by memories. Or perhaps - but he would never admit this to himself - by tears. He sensed the smoke from the insignificant flame crawling upwards, fading into darkness. Another year gone by in his unnaturally long life, another year of events, faces, and another, burnt out candle. He began to sing "Happy birthday to you" so softly, he could hardly hear it.
Happy birthday, Angel, he thought bitterly to himself, standing. Happy birthday to you.
FIN.
RATED: G
NOTE: Well, it was recently my birthday, and I felt inspired.
D.O.B.
by A Witness
He heard the "ping" of a finished oven and stood, enveloped by the darkness. No one else was there to hear it. He was alone, as he had always been. The matches were in his hands, but he placed them onto the counter as he pulled out the hot pan of cake, mittens protecting him from being scorched. Not that it would have mattered. He would have healed too quickly to care.
Gently, he placed the small-sized cake on the table, squeezing out some blood-red, specially made icing and topping it with whipped cream. He took out a wine glass and poured some blood so that it stained it, a deep red in what light there was. He pulled out the candles - delicate, green and white candles - and placed a single one in the center. It was really more of a muffin, he decided, than a cake.
He struck a match and held it to the candle, waiting for the long piece of thread to catch fire before he blew out the match flame, placing the scorched piece of wood beside him. There was a small orange glow cast by the single, futile candle light, flickering with the threat of going out. He leaned back in the chair and watched it, burning and melting the candle until the wax began to drip onto the muffin. He didn't mind. He couldn't eat it, anyway.
He just sat there, fingertips touching, as he watched the small flame growing smaller and smaller, the candle melting until it was nothing more than a small puddle of wax on top of a muffin. Which it was really was. A muffin. Not a cake. The flame finally went out on its own, a moment he had been waiting for because he could not blow it out himself.
Angel's eyes closed because they were being burned by memories. Or perhaps - but he would never admit this to himself - by tears. He sensed the smoke from the insignificant flame crawling upwards, fading into darkness. Another year gone by in his unnaturally long life, another year of events, faces, and another, burnt out candle. He began to sing "Happy birthday to you" so softly, he could hardly hear it.
Happy birthday, Angel, he thought bitterly to himself, standing. Happy birthday to you.
FIN.