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Blues Angel
by Pet
Email: katiemac3@hotmail.com
Pairing: None, really. A/L implied.
Rating: PG
Summary: Freedom's just another word for all that you've left behind.
Disclaimer: None of the characters or songs here are mine, unfortunately.
Distribution: If you're crazy enough to want it, I'm crazy enough to give
it to you. Ask.
Notes: This is drunkfic for Lar. I'm wasted. Please don't hold me
accountable.
SEP Improv: dust, blues, morality, regret (Lindsey)
*******
There's rain hammering down on the windowsill, and the sound is sharp and
immediate and Lindsey can pretend it's a girl with a tambourine, playing
along with his guitar. Low, slow rumble of thunder, and it's the bass drum,
singing with him now. Slow, raunchy G to A to C...oh god he'd missed this.
Downbeat into a twelve bar blues in A, because that's what he started with,
back when he was twelve with a five dollar guitar and the world at his feet.
That sweet familiar slide, and he's Blind Gary Davis, he's Mississippi
John Hurt, he's deep in the sound and the feel and the swing in his bones
that lets him dream for just a minute of cottonfields and summer and meeting
with that boy in the almost-harvested corn, that boy who'd never told him
his name.
Grind up to a painful G, and his throat is vibrating with the need to sing,
the need to pour it all out into the music, the need for someone to hear,
someone to know what's in his soul. He hums, deep down, and it's a
desperate needing sound, and he lets it fly with the notes from his fingers,
with the sound of the rain. All the world's regret, here in a song. Here
in the dust on his boots, the technicolor memories of Los Angeles that won't
let him sleep, the pain in his voice, the dreams in his eyes. The ache in
his heart. The blues.
Long, slow B minor, to A minor, to C, and it sounds like Angel Of Harlem,
and he lets his fingers sweep into it, because isn't U2 just a blues band
prettied up for the masses? Three, four, five hard chords, and thank you,
Edge, because the anger's coming out now, smothering the pain, reminding him
that this is not his fault. He slams a chord, listens to it echo. Not.
His. Fault. Only it is, and in the dying, ringing sound his head dips down,
and he sighs. And he's back to the blues, the singing blues, the blues that
speak of the country and the land that will remain long after he is gone,
the blues that know all about morality, all about pain and fear and love and
loss and redemption. Can he be redeemed?
E chord now, pure and perfect and waiting to be built upon. Like his life,
now, a knapsack and a guitar and this hotel room, sitting empty until he'd
filled it with music. E again, because when he plays it he thinks of
things, things like Darla, pale and slender and doomed, and Angel, dark and
solid. Things he'd wanted. Things he'd thought he'd be able to forget, and
thank you again, U2, for writing that fucking song on the last album,
because yes he knows there are many things that he can't leave behind.
Downstroke to A, and it's Bobbie McGee, and isn't he just about busted flat
in Baton Rouge? Pretty close. And yeah, Angel's just another word for
nothing left to lose.
Lindsey sits up. Lets himself look out the window at the rain, at the
endless flatness of the Panhandle. Hums again. Ya da da, da da da dum.
Hey, hey, hey. Freedom.
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