self indulgent fluff and now I will return to actual tags

[temptationaccomplished]

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

Comments

[serpentinthegarden]

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?"