She looked fabulous. She always did, really, but now her perfect features were suffused with a sublime glow, as she floated in front of him.
"I've been called upstairs," she said, with characteristic casualness, despite the magnitude of her request. "But I can't just abandon him. This has been my life, my purpose, for so long. I need someone to take on the visions for me. And, aside from the 'not good for humans' thing, I asked myself, who do I trust? Who can, and more importantly will, do this very important, very hard job?"
A moment to think. Only a moment. "Yeah," he agreed with her assessment of her position. "Yeah," he agreed, again, this time with her decision to choose him. "I'll do it," he needed to say, needed to consent in a way that could not be misinterpreted. She smiled, with some affection, but more relief, and stroked her intangible fingers across his forehead.
Instantly, he doubled over in pain, his hand coming up to cradle his forehead; images of Angel in a waterlogged coffin assaulted him, along with a vague impression of where, and why.
When he recovered, she was still looking at him, sadder now, though still relieved. "Thank you. I'm sorry. Thank you." He managed to smile back, and mutter that she was welcome, and then she was gone.
He put his guitar back into the van, and climbed into the driver's seat. He had to get to LA.