The black was everywhere. It was so thick he could swim in it.
"Hey Dad! Get your lazy ass over here!"
'Who was that?' he wondered. 'Was the voice speaking to me?'
He realized that, yes, the voice was speaking to him and wept with joy. His son wanted him. He turned in the blackness and was blinded by the light.
Angel squinted in the afternoon sun. He brought his hand up to shield his eyes.
"Dad! Dad! Over here! You gonna play or what?" It was Conner. He was on rollerblades and wearing a hockey jersey. Conner lifted his goalie mask and stared at his father in bewilderment. "What's up with you? Sheesh. You're staring at me like you've never seen me before." He slammed his hockey stick down. "Quit it! It's creeping me out. C'mon, let's play!" Conner replaced his mask and stood ready to defend his net with all the skills he possessed.
Angel looked down. He, too, was dressed in a hockey jersey and rollerblades. In his hands, a hockey stick. Before him, a puck.
The father watched the son. He smirked. If the kid wanted it, he'd get it. Angel raised the stick. Tension filled the air as the two opposing sides faced each other. Sweat beaded down Angels forehead, incongruously cold.
Suddenly, with the force of a hurricane, Angel launched the puck, transforming it into a lethal projectile! His son would have no chance. Angel grinned evilly as he pictured it. Conner jumping out of the way then, prostrating before him, beg to be taught the Art of the Puck. Angel, being a benevolent man, would consider it. After all, isn't that the way of all fathers to teach their sons? And if that meant getting them to mow the lawn and clean the bathrooms first? So be it.
Angel was brought from his reverie by a loud THWAP! and joyous cheering. He stared in astonishment as Conner danced and crowed. He'd caught the damn thing! Angel smiled ruefully as he watched his son. Now he'd have to do all the chores himself.
He noticed a teenaged girl out of the corner of his eye. He tried to get a better look at her, but for some reason, it was difficult. It felt like trying to watch water move up. He opened his mouth to ask his son if she was a friend, but Conner wasn't there. Angel whirled around, trying to find him.
"Conner," he called out before shouting again, louder. "Conner!"
The girl walked up to him. She was holding a balloon shaped like a ... shoe? No. It was a shoe! Or was it a hippopotamus? Actually, now it looked like a sherbet ice-cream cone.
"Hi," she greeted in a happy, familiar, voice. "wHAt r u doiNG?" Angel stared at the floating shoe/hippo/sherbet ice-cream cone for a bit, then shook his head.
"I'm, uh, I'm looking for my son," he told the girl, taking notice of her strange attire. She was wearing a single bowling shoe on her left foot, with no sock, and a flippy-floppy sandal, that displayed her multicolored pretty toenails, on her right. Her hair was in such a rainbowtastic tangle, that his wife would go into absolute conniptions!
"whaT's a conniptions?" she asked. "is it Like WheN U GO to the Park. and drink iCE t and wAtCH all thepeople. Um, eat?" Angel shook his head dumbly. "Oh". Well OK,. I thin"k We'd better Go nOW ."
"Go? No, I need to find my son. I can't go."
The girl smiled. "OkAy. You CAn stAY If u want 2." Then she vanished in a flash of blinding light.
The light faded and he saw his son, waiting to defend his net with all the skills he possessed.
At the bottom of the ocean, trapped in his metal coffin, Angel smiled deliriously.
Angel is the property of Joss Whedon. Delirium is the property of Neil Gaiman.