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crack_van2004-12-21 01:02 pm
dodyskin.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2004-12-21 01:02 pm
Self-Portrait in a Coma Patient by Glossolalia (PG)
Fandom: ANGEL THE SERIES
Pairing: Gunn, Cordelia
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
glossing
Author Website: Glossings
Why this must be read:
I love Gunn far more than is reasonable or healthy and character studies are a big bag of wow with me too. So a character study in which a character studies himself through the mirror of another is a pile of wow with a helping of yay and a side of order of godilovesthisficsomuch. Everything works, the themes running through of a stage set, cinema, fake/real, imaginary/illusionary remembered/forgotten all build this picture of a man in search of himself. This isn't a fic about Gunn, this is Gunn writing himself.
In the words of Valeria Fate: I don't think God put me on this planet to judge other people's writing. I think he put me on this planet to gather specimens and take them back to my home planet. I'm taking this one back with me.
Takes some doing, some fast-talking, several skipped meetings and greased palms, but he finds out where they're keeping her.
Not like they need him in the Fortress of Evil. He just kind of wanders and hangs out with the big cat these days. Itchy, but he can't go back to the street, either.
The company's got a damn nice rest home. Full of demons and half-demons, but they're mostly old and fairly harmless. Couple seriously Orc-looking old vamps that put to the lie to Angel's whole "I'm never going to change" schtick.
Long as he keeps his eyes to himself, he's good.
Cordy's in a corner room, two big sets of windows, lots of light.
Her eyes are closed. She doesn't need the light.
Maybe the light's for the visitors. He's damn grateful, actually, both for the light and the fact that there's lots of space to move around in. He paces, pauses at the foot of the bed, paces some more.
Fresh flowers on the fake mantelpiece.
Gunn smells them all. Yellow ones spotted like tigers or alley cats. Daisies, but big and purple, pretty mutant-looking. Roses, he knows roses. Red ones, pink ones, a couple white ones.
Too quiet in here, quieter than a funeral home. Just the beepbeepclink of machines. Silent Cordy-shape on the bed.
Self Portrait in a Coma Patient
Pairing: Gunn, Cordelia
Author on LJ:
glossingAuthor Website: Glossings
Why this must be read:
I love Gunn far more than is reasonable or healthy and character studies are a big bag of wow with me too. So a character study in which a character studies himself through the mirror of another is a pile of wow with a helping of yay and a side of order of godilovesthisficsomuch. Everything works, the themes running through of a stage set, cinema, fake/real, imaginary/illusionary remembered/forgotten all build this picture of a man in search of himself. This isn't a fic about Gunn, this is Gunn writing himself.
In the words of Valeria Fate: I don't think God put me on this planet to judge other people's writing. I think he put me on this planet to gather specimens and take them back to my home planet. I'm taking this one back with me.
Takes some doing, some fast-talking, several skipped meetings and greased palms, but he finds out where they're keeping her.
Not like they need him in the Fortress of Evil. He just kind of wanders and hangs out with the big cat these days. Itchy, but he can't go back to the street, either.
The company's got a damn nice rest home. Full of demons and half-demons, but they're mostly old and fairly harmless. Couple seriously Orc-looking old vamps that put to the lie to Angel's whole "I'm never going to change" schtick.
Long as he keeps his eyes to himself, he's good.
Cordy's in a corner room, two big sets of windows, lots of light.
Her eyes are closed. She doesn't need the light.
Maybe the light's for the visitors. He's damn grateful, actually, both for the light and the fact that there's lots of space to move around in. He paces, pauses at the foot of the bed, paces some more.
Fresh flowers on the fake mantelpiece.
Gunn smells them all. Yellow ones spotted like tigers or alley cats. Daisies, but big and purple, pretty mutant-looking. Roses, he knows roses. Red ones, pink ones, a couple white ones.
Too quiet in here, quieter than a funeral home. Just the beepbeepclink of machines. Silent Cordy-shape on the bed.
Self Portrait in a Coma Patient