Author: Lady Knight
E-mail: All characters that are involved in the television series; 'Angel' and 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer'are all property of Joss Whendon and Mutant Enemy.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Drabbles rich with imagery
Spoilers: Everything up to this point.
Notes: Part two in a random series of images. Damn plot mice and muses. Special thanks goes out to Dreamcatcher for betaing. (Is that even a word?) Anyways, this is just a little drabble babble... snicker... ahem... Enjoy.
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Just another simple image
A figure was spotted pacing, in front of a dark caramel coloured couch, its leather seating soft and smooth as melted butter. Under his feet, on the wooden floor of gleaming polished golden oak, was a and-woven rug in bold rust and cream coloured stripes.
The seemingly always in movement figure was dressed black leather Doc Martins, black jeans that had seen many washing, and a black leather belt with two rows of multiple silver rings, set in parallel lines. Also worn by the figure was a regular off-the shelve black tee-shirt; and a stolen long ago, black leather duster.
Eyes with flecks of ice blue and charcoal gray took in the city line that sparkled like shimmering fireflies at this time of night. The swirled pools of storm, gazed though the double glass pane window, framed with thin, shear cream curtain. Beside those were a set of thicker, heavy cranberry velvet curtains, that kept the sun out during the daytime hours. A pale hand ran along the edge of be-sparkled tan that trimmed wine softness, while the other ran though tousled peroxide blonde locks.
These hand were what identified the figure, not the chiseled cheekbones or scared eyebrow. They were smooth and worn; with wide wrist, cool palms, and blue bloodless veins, that were both thick and thin alike. The long, slender fingers were accentuated with nails that were closely cropped and not too long ago, were covered with chipped black nail polish.
They were the hands of an artist. Not those of a pianist, bloody hell no. That was the bit's bit. No they were the hands of a poet, a dreamer. They were also the hands of a sinner, a killer. They were a set of pale hands that could easily be pictured wrapping around a unfortunate victims throat; squeezing, pulling, severing, tearing, snapping, suffocating, and various other types of acts. An act that was not unfamiliar, but now a less used one, not truly for pleasure anymore.
No, now these hands, protected the innocent that they once terrified. They helped shape life instead of tearing it apart. This single set of hands have pushed and have pulled. They have loved and hated. They have created and destroyed. They have formed and dismantled. They have caressed and teased. They have stroked in pleasure and shredded in pain. These hands have held life within their grasp; vowing on different occasions to crush it and to preserve it.
These hands were the hands of a warrior. They were hands of a defender. They were hands of a protector. They were hands of a vampire. They were hands of a man. They were hands of a champion.
And now these hands were now tossing a set of car keys back and forth, that was 'borrowed' from the jacket pocket of a brooding poof.
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End...
AN: There will hopefully be another one...