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self indulgent fluff and now I will return to actual tags

A letter, hand written and hand delivered on October 20th (because we cannot be too meta) by Fell in the morning (before he suspects 2/3 of the residents will be awake, and as he himself heads off for work) to the mailbox of the building inhabited by the Crowleys.

Addressed on the outside of the envelope to "Anthony" in a pretty gold ink, and sealed.

One of the great joys of a life long lived is the accumulation of memories.

Many of those have significance even isolated, even in the eyes of an outsider (which I'm afraid is a bit of what I am, right now, to my own past). But many more have their significance in the context of our greater experiences together--

Context. Sadly, I feel that's what so many of these scattered memories are lacking. (Oh, I know logically I should not believe what is happening to us is real. But we've been over that and yet still, here we are.)

Even without understanding how or why or when… I love you. I feel that I should say that more. I love you, and I loved you then, I'm sure of it, now more than ever. You can view your memories of me through that lens, that come Hell or high water, your angel loves you. Even if he cannot say it.

It frightens me that I may never truly fully appreciate how valuable it is that I can put words to my love for you, now, here in this arc of our shared existence--or that I may never know how much you have meant to me, what you've done and how you've cared for me. Our life is so long and our memories so vast. Forgetting hasn't spared me from heartbreak or pining--I want to know the richness and depth of everything. I want to indulge in the good and the bad. We have been done a great disservice, losing that part of ourselves.

I regret that sometimes I've doubted that a demon could love an angel. (I don't know that I have ever truly doubted the reverse--naturally I would love you. You are kind and wickedly charming and good--and handsome, but you know that all too well, it hardly needs mentioning, but you are beautiful down to your core--and I loved you even when you weren't mine to love.)

If you saw what I saw--

Perhaps I am not the best angel, or even the best person. Perhaps some of the decisions I made were callous or selfish. But you-- with your brash swagger and your refusal to accept praise. You, who "happened to be in the neighborhood," who came to the rescue of an angel despite the trouble it might get you into, all to spare me the indignity of "paperwork"--

I may not understand why the books were so significant, but you saved them. You loved me enough to save them. You risked punishment because you loved me. I have no doubt you loved me and I wonder if I knew then. I hope I did.

I hope I cherished every moment with you. I fear I didn't--how can an undying being properly appreciate the fragile ephemerality of their existence?

It is a bit ridiculous of me to mourn things I cannot remember, but the more I see of our past together, the more I know I am missing so much, big and small. I suspect we'll learn the big things in time, but can anything really replace the little moments? The little things that we don't catalogue, that we take for granted because they are not Earth shatteringly momentous: the smell of your cologne, your hair under a particular lighting, the touch of a demonic miracle.

We have so much history. We must, through all those years. I want it. To hoard it all, covet it-- So few of these memories feel like mine and mine alone. These are ours, Anthony, yours and mine together, and I am both so profoundly moved by that we once shared these, and so utterly devastated at the thought that it is all gone, recovered at the whims of… whatever entity or power is controlling all this. What if we never recover it all? What if it vanishes from our memories again?

This seemed like such a sensible, romantic idea at half-past-one this morning, but now I think it's become something of a rambling mess. The point is, if you've reached the end of all this rubbish, I love you, Anthony. I love you dearly.

With Love,
Your Angel

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At first he had thought the sealed letter left sitting alone on the counter was some sort of bill, abandoned for him to find while all the more interesting magazines and catalogs had been stolen away. The lack of a return address and the elegant lettering scrawled in Fell's handwriting hinted that it was something else. Dear John.

Anthony had been anticipating it for some time as if he could sense the coming storm before even the black lines of cloud darkened the sky or the air grew thick with the weight of rain. Expecting the worst of people was becoming the new norm. He said nothing about his worries but instead tucked the letter into a jacket pocket and quietly retired back to his room without even snagging a bite of breakfast.

Behind a bolted lock in the curtain shaded gloom of a darkened bedroom he settled on his bed and gently fondled the pristine white paper as he tried to ready himself for the worst. The letter was like an old timey book with the predominant golden 'O' and the epic opening line which left him with a glimmer of hope that at least Fell had still thought enough of him to part in grand style. By the third paragraph that glimmer had grown into a sunburst, eclipsing all else and blinding his eyes with it's brightness. It had to be that for he would never own up to calling what drew his eyes back to the start of the letter to read it all again from the beginning before he had even finished it once anything like tears. The rest of the letter drew him in deeper with its loving confessions and glimpses of remembrances Fell must have had that were still a total mystery to him. He didn't know why he had "been in the area" but if it had spared Aziraphale some torment he was glad that he had been and the books were important as they were likely Fell's, there was no great mystery there. He wiggled his fingers while glancing at them as he had never before thought to call what he could do a 'demonic miracle' and felt the regret as deeply as Fell must have for how could he ever have been so foolish to doubt an angel's love even if he now often felt himself unworthy of it. He had read through the letter several dozen times before it occurred to him that a reply was needed.

Anthony had a decent grasp of language and how to craft words together but his writing skills had lapsed over the years away from school and now largely consisted of the remedial typing skills one employs when sending a text or email. Though he considered grabbing up some paper to craft a... what, thank you note? He felt his skills lagged far behind those of Fell's. He could never put his feelings into words as smoothly as his bookworm angel had. Mulling this over he picked up his phone, punched up Aziraphale's saved number which read on his Contact list as 'Angel', and typed up a short but heartfelt reply.

"Dinner later?"

"Of course, darling. Shall I stop by yours after work?"

"Actually its a bit crowded at my place."

And not nearly letter special enough.

"The Balthazar? If you are feeling up to French Cuisine?"

He'd argue that Ellie and Alec are family and therefore it's not "crowded" and that Anthony's home is big enough that they can all go to their separate corners and not bother each other like good siblings (er, cousins...he thought of them as all siblings, honestly)--but he also will always be quite happy with a nice night out with Anthony.

"The Balthazar? My goodness.
Any special occasion?"

There were still a few occasions where one didn't want to have a bunch of spying cousins about meddling and peeking through keyholes.

"Got your letter."

He was in fact still laying there reading through it. Just once more he would tell himself before reading through it again.

"Thought we should talk."

Edited 2020-10-20 00:57 (UTC)

They're...sweet. Ellie was enchanting anyway, and Alec was so earnest in wanting them to be happy together, but yes. There was something to be said for having an extended moment without prying eyes.

"Good things, I hope?"

Oh dear, had he been too sentimental?

He had been so incredibly sentimental it was difficult to finally fold the note back up and tuck it back inside it's envelope.

"Would I suggest a fancy place like this if it weren't good?"

"Well, I don't know. I'm sure I've seen some very elaborate breakups happen. Exquisite dinners, flash mobs, those sorts of things."

"What time should I expect you?"

That had for a time, stupidly, been what he had thought the letter was and honestly he hadn't really had the best track record of managing breakups given that he had first asked Grace to marry him before backing out and calling the whole thing off.

"Fair enough. It's not a breakup."

I want to see you... talk about how special I think you are... tell you half as many flattering things as were in your letter to me...

"It's a date. Seven is the best time for a candlelit."

"Glad to hear it."

"I can't resist you by candlelight. See you at seven."

"I love you, my dear."

He glanced right, then left, as if looking for peering eyes before typing.

"Love you too, Angel."

Complete with a sappy heart emote. The letter found itself a new home in the wall safe. The first really important piece of dear to his heart memorabilia to be housed in there next to his passport.
He would get through the rest of the day, some how, by fidgeting and glancing at the clock every two minutes or so. Anthony only regained his cool when he was seated at some secluded table at the back of the romantically darkened restaurant waiting for his angel to join him.

Aziraphale looked about as dapper as his imagination was capable of, which meant a nice light-colored suit and a pale blue shirt and perky floral bow tie (someday he would notice the tartan on his own tie in the memories; someday was not today). The outfit, because he had been practicing all day (well, once he had been invited on a date), was about 50% magicked or glamoured or whatever, a mimicry of the quick-change he had seen himself perform in the Bastille. He felt very fancy. Perhaps not as fancy as the Bastille, but that outfit would seem out of place today, and besides, it had gotten him into a rather lot of trouble.

Out of place though it was, he had a deep red, nearly black rose pinned into his lapel. Silly, perhaps, but he thought it a touch romantic.

"Hello, Darling," he said greeting Anthony with a chaste kiss. "Hope you weren't waiting long."

"Not long. Just a few centuries."

He stood to accept the kiss and then as he could and no one was going to stop him a hug as well, but being mindful not to crush any attractively dark roses. Snuggled up close he even took the opportunity to speak a few teasing yet truthful words next to his angel's ear.

"I'd wait longer."

Eventually Anthony had to draw away to retake his seat but he watched Aziraphale as he did so.

"You are looking sharp! This related to that love letter?"

Edited 2020-10-20 07:09 (UTC)

The rose--oh! blast the rose. He could miracle another rose, but he could never miracle the tenderness of holding and loving Anthony and being able to express that, freely and openly. Not just publicly, but to Anthony himself.

He didn't have a reply to Anthony except to embrace him tighter, a silent promise to not make him wait if it could be helped and to wonder if they ever found each other like this, two people comfortably sharing dinner, or if they had to always continue to play a masquerade of dangerous gestures of affection.

(He wouldn't consider the other possibility, that they'd gotten careless, reckless.)

"Oh, this old thing?" he began, straightening the coat as he settled into his seat, relishing the attention even as he tried to blink away tears. "Well, I suppose it is. Seems like the proper courtship attire."

Courtship attire. Was there anyone in the entire world who still called what they were doing a courtship?

"It suits you."

Anthony chuckled at how wonderfully out of step with modern sensibilities Aziraphale could be as he snagged the nearby open wine bottle and poured them both a glass.

"That letter..."

He set the wine bottle back into it's chilled bucket and waited until Aziraphale sat down to join him before he said anymore. This was for their ears only... not that it wasn't tempting to shout it from the rooftops.

"I feel like I have been waiting to hear something like that. Can't say how long... In the beginning I just thought you would be interesting to talk to."

That wasn't quite true so it was amended.

"I liked your wings. You had cute ankles..."

He didn't even wince as he used the word cute.

"And giving away that sword! Anyway I can't say I was in love with you then, maybe I was, maybe it happened later in some memory I don't have yet but I know I am in love with you now. I'm glad you can write about your feelings. I'm glad I can talk about them. We could go out into the middle of New York and shout 'I love you' at the top of our lungs and the worst thing that would happen is that we ended up hailing a taxi."

He reached out to take Aziraphale's hand, gently rubbing those talented fingers between his own.

"Everything you wrote in that letter I feel the same way."

He laughed, a gentle little snort of air that wrinkled his nose at the 'cute ankles.'

"Oh, I think someone might yell at you and make a crude gesture. This IS New York." But he shared the sentiment. And though his British sensibilities tended towards more understated public shows of affection, he was entertained and swept up by the idea of the two of them, men in their fifties and probably drunk off love and wine, standing in the middle of Manhattan and shouting to the top of the Chrysler Building, to the whole of Time Square, like teenagers or romantic movie stars, that they were In Love. It was elating to feel this freedom even if he and Anthony, as they were now, had never truly experienced being denied it in the first place.

His cheeks were rosy and those five words, I feel the same way made him feel warm and sweet, a little drunk on Anthony's love for him.

"Cute ankles, though," he tutted playfully after a moment. He took a sip of wine without taking his hand from Anthony's. "Anthony. Really. That's positively Victorian of you."

Fell had a point about the rude gesture... and the ankles, his head tilted in acknowledgement of that but none of it would be taken back.

"It's what I could see from where I was. Just white wing tips and ankles... until I slithered past and took on human form."

His eyes drifted to his wine, just watching the red liquid swirl lightly around in his glass when ever the table vibrated slightly.

"We might have done that you know. Had some sort of Victorian rendezvous. A mask in some grand ballroom, I'd like to remember that if we did."

As would I. I'd like to remember it all.

"Sounds positively scandalous. Lots of dark corners and presumed anonymity." He grinned, tickled by the thought of the kind of trouble one could get into--might have gotten into--if one's hereditary enemy happened to be at the same place. Such ideas made one wonder what he and Anthony were even doing on Earth all those years. A whole lot of nothing, by the sound of it: opening bookshops, trying to steal Holy Water from a church; the Reign of Terror hadn't required demonic instigation.

"I picture it along the lines of a Venetian carnival, I think, just because I like the decadence. All those feathers and sparkly bits."
He wiggled happily. "Lots of ...plausible deniability."

"Carnival?"

At the mention of the word Anthony's ears perked up and his eyes fixed on Aziraphale's face like he had just come up with the most brilliant scheme.

"Now that we could do. Instead of sitting around waiting for memories we could go out and make a few. How do you feel about Venice? It'd be around February I think, that's when they hold it. We would just need to keep our passports up to date and find a few interesting costumes."

He smirked, full of wicked vigor as he collected his wine glass and held it out like a challenge or...

"Tempted to give your plausible deniability an assessment?"

He knew there was a wicked scheme brewing in that pretty head, and should probably do what he could to discourage it, but...

It was so very tempting, the thought that they could whisk off to Venice for a raucous celebration, enjoy a little wine and the culture, the music and the moonlight, and of course the food, all the food~! He'd never been to a real carnival before, only the more local versions. Anthony would be treating him to his first.

He tipped his own glass to clink against Anthony's. February felt so very far away and his imagination was already running wild with escapades. "To plausible deniability."

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