A/N: I don't know why, but I am obsessed with "La Vie Boheme B" because of her line, "Food of love, emotion, mathematics, isolation, rhythm, power, feeling harmony, and heavy competition." I think its away that they showed who she really is and why she does what she does so I decided to write about it. Enjoy!
Rhythm, Power, Feeling, Harmony
"Why drums?" Roger asked. He was tuning his guitar while Angel was on the couch, polishing her nails a beautiful shade of blue. Collins had to work late and had told her to meet him at the loft. He was running late and she was worried. Whenever she was worried, Angel would turn towards her little blue bottle of potion to calm her down. Something about polishing each nail to perfection was calming, peaceful.
"Hmm?" Angel asked, biting her lip, going over her thumb.
"Why the drums?" Roger repeated.
"Oh," Angel blinked for a moment, as if thinking over her answer, "Well…there was just something about them. I mean, I have always liked the idea of banging to no end on things without getting in trouble," she giggled, "And, it is a good stress-release."
Roger nodded, turning back to his guitar.
"Also, there's something about driving people nuts," Angel grinned, "But I guess what really got me, was the rhythm, power, feeling, and harmony of it all. When I was a kid, I never really was allowed to do much or be myself. I was trapped in this little mold. Heaven forbid I tried to show who I really was. I wanted to be me, but at the same time, I wasn't exactly a fan of bruises," she winced a bit, as if seeing a flashback of a memory, "The drums are just…powerful. You can do what you want with them, without anyone stopping you, you know?" She returned to her nails.
"It's fine," Angel smiled at her friend, "I mean, I'm fine now – right, honey? And besides, there's so much emotion to the drums. If you're angered or frustrated, you can beat the drums. Whenever someone says something to me, I don't hit them, I go get my drums and beat them instead. Don't get me wrong – I can kick ass…"
"Wouldn't doubt it," Roger grinned.
Angel smiled, "…but it's just easier to beat the drums. If you're excited, or worried, or upset, or happy, or hurt, just bang on them all you want and for that one little moment, you're in a separate place."
"That's how the guitar is for me," Roger admitted, "Who taught you the drums?"
"Me," Angel looked up and raised a playful eyebrow, as if challenging him to question or doubt her.
"Can't put it past you," Roger brought the guitar over to the couch and sat down next to Angel, "My grandfather taught me how. He bought me my first guitar when I was eight and taught me how. He said I had a gift and not to ever let it die, said that I had something special and I was given that gift for a reason, a glory. I dunno," Roger shrugged, "After he died, I made it my mission to find my one song, the one song that I was meant to write."
"You will," Angel patted his knee, encouragingly.
Mark rattled the door opened and pushed his bike in, camera balanced in one hand.
"Hey! Is Collins here yet? I'm starving!"
"No," Roger answered, "Film anything interesting?"
"Some lady puking on the sidewalk, a baby crying, a man dropping a penny into some homeless man's cup…other than that, no."
Angel sighed, and looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost seven – Collins said he would be there a little after six thirty. She returned to her polish, but not before Mark noticed.
"He'll be here soon," he tried to sound reassuring, "Trust me."
Angel attempted a weak smile, "Yeah, I hope."
Mark caught Roger's gaze and they both shrugged. Collins was late, there was nothing they could do about that, but they hated seeing Angel worry.
"How did you do today?" Mark asked her.
"Fifty bucks, a business card with 'faggot' written on it, and some little darling gave me a half-pack of gum before her mother shooed her away. The usual."
No one else really knew what to say. After her nails were through, Angel blew on them before marching over to the counter where she had placed the pickle tub. She grabbed it, and headed back towards the couch. Lifting her drumsticks, she began to bang away – loudly and ferociously.
Roger put the strap over his shoulder and began to play along with her. Mark jammed out in his usual, Mark-way. No one said anything, until the door finally squeaked open.
"Collins!" Angel threw her drumsticks to the floor and ran into his arms.
"Miss me much?" Collins asked, laughing.
"Not too much," Angel smirked, kissing him, "Don't make me worry like that again!"
"I'm sorry, baby."
"I was so scared something had happened," Angel admitted, her cheeks flushing red with embarrassment.
Collins pulled her against him and wrapped his arms around her frail waist, "I am so sorry I scared you, Angel. I will call next time."
"You better," she smirked, threateningly.
"Hey, let's go grab something to eat," Mark interrupted, "I'm starving."
"You're stomach is smaller than your…" Roger was cut off by a glare from Angel.
"Be nice," she insisted, "Come on. I'm starving too."
They headed out the loft and towards the Life Café. Angel walked a bit ahead of Collins and he knew that she was still upset. He grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her backwards to him.
"I am so sorry," he said again, "I really am."
"You don't know how worried I get," Angel sighed, "I mean, I was really, really…"
"I know," Collins kissed her hand, "I will never scare you like that again, ever. You have my word."
"I'll do anything."
"Anything?" Angel raised a teasing eyebrow.
"I'm you're slave."
"I like this idea," Angel said mischievously.
"Be nice," Collins reminded her.
"Never!" She giggled and grabbed his hand and they ran to catch up with Roger and Mark.