Title: Red Letter Day.
It was him who started it. Why he did it, he did not know. After all, didn't he move to LA for the main purpose of avoiding her? Yet here he was, once again bridging a connection between the two of them.
What did he expect out off it? It wasn't like the phone call; he wouldn't be able to hear her voice or anything of that sort. Nevertheless, he felt he had to, and mailed it to her.
It was a simple cream parchment paper. The kind he would usually fill with his flowing handwriting. But this time, he left it completely blank. He carefully creased the thick paper into three equal parts, slipped it into an envelope, and mailed it to her, making sure the address was printed in case she recognized his handwriting.
He half hoped that she would know it was from him, yet he was surprised when he received a reply. It was a pale-green wisp of scented paper, as meticulously folded as he's had been. Vanilla, he mused, a tiny half smile playing at the corners of his lips as he lifted it to his nostrils and inhaled.
He closed his eyes, momentarily reminded of the girl he had been blessed to love. How she loved her tea loaded with so much sugar, that he teased her, that she should just eat sugar out of the bowl. How she slept with his jacket on if she felt lonely, or scared.
Did his letter tell her as much as hers told him?
So it continued. The letters came back and forth, blank as an erased blackboard, and yet it served so much more. For him, it was a reassurance, that she was alive and well.
There was no fixed pattern. The letters came irregularly. Sometimes, it would come by the week. Other times, they would stop for a brief period of time, when recent issues made it to raw and painful for them to communicate. It took months, before he got a response out of her after the Faith incident, just like he couldn't bare to send her a letter weeks after The Forgotten Day.
Their letters ranged too, blank as they were. He noticed, as the days progressed, that her choice of colors had changed from bright, girlish colors, to more somber ones. He had noticed, because he so carefully filed each letter, with little colored Post-It stickers he had snagged from Cordelia, making sure to state the date they came in.
He wondered if she did the same for his letters.
It was during his downhill spiral that he actually enclosed some content in his letter. A sketch, of a burning angel. She recognized his plea, and responded a few days later, mailing a snowflake cut out.
That night, he remembered the miracle snowfall, and awoke, soul intact. He set about seeking forgiveness from his friends, and continued on his path of redemption.
Then her mother died.
He knew he had to be there for her. A letter would simply not be adequate; especially after all she had done for him. They made no mention of the letters, choosing instead to hold on to each other, and talk about her mother, about the new responsibilities now added to her burden.
The kiss affected him more then he would like to admit. Just being there with her, holding her in his arms, and the thought of staying there with her, it tempted him.
But he left, as always. With an understanding that he would always be there for her, just as she was for him.
The letters continued, as usual, fast and furious. She would pen her worries for the situation with Dawn, and he would reassure her, as well as fill her in with his own life.
When the letters ceased, he took it for granted that she was busy. It did not occur to him that she could be in trouble. He learned later from Willow, that she was in a coma. Had he checked on her, perhaps, just perhaps, she could have.
No. What was worse was that he left. Left the dimension to search for Cordelia, without as much as a call to her.
When he saw Willow, he knew. He had already started to feel the sorrow in his soul when he came back, knew that something wasn't right. Willow's appearance only proved what he feared so much.
He bolted, a strangled sob caught in his throat.
And he saw it.
Rip it. It isn't true. It can't be. Tear it.
A crimson envelope. And a blank letter, the very same color. Deep red, like the color of blood. Her blood.
The vampire threw his head back and howled.
It was him who started it. Why he did it, he did not know. After all, didn't he move to LA for the main purpose of avoiding her? Yet here he was, once again bridging a connection between the two of them.
What did he expect out off it? It wasn't like the phone call; he wouldn't be able to hear her voice or anything of that sort. Nevertheless, he felt he had to, and mailed it to her.
It was a simple cream parchment paper. The kind he would usually fill with his flowing handwriting. But this time, he left it completely blank. He carefully creased the thick paper into three equal parts, slipped it into an envelope, and mailed it to her, making sure the address was printed in case she recognized his handwriting.
He half hoped that she would know it was from him, yet he was surprised when he received a reply. It was a pale-green wisp of scented paper, as meticulously folded as he's had been. Vanilla, he mused, a tiny half smile playing at the corners of his lips as he lifted it to his nostrils and inhaled.
He closed his eyes, momentarily reminded of the girl he had been blessed to love. How she loved her tea loaded with so much sugar, that he teased her, that she should just eat sugar out of the bowl. How she slept with his jacket on if she felt lonely, or scared.
Did his letter tell her as much as hers told him?
So it continued. The letters came back and forth, blank as an erased blackboard, and yet it served so much more. For him, it was a reassurance, that she was alive and well.
There was no fixed pattern. The letters came irregularly. Sometimes, it would come by the week. Other times, they would stop for a brief period of time, when recent issues made it to raw and painful for them to communicate. It took months, before he got a response out of her after the Faith incident, just like he couldn't bare to send her a letter weeks after The Forgotten Day.
Their letters ranged too, blank as they were. He noticed, as the days progressed, that her choice of colors had changed from bright, girlish colors, to more somber ones. He had noticed, because he so carefully filed each letter, with little colored Post-It stickers he had snagged from Cordelia, making sure to state the date they came in.
He wondered if she did the same for his letters.
It was during his downhill spiral that he actually enclosed some content in his letter. A sketch, of a burning angel. She recognized his plea, and responded a few days later, mailing a snowflake cut out.
That night, he remembered the miracle snowfall, and awoke, soul intact. He set about seeking forgiveness from his friends, and continued on his path of redemption.
Then her mother died.
He knew he had to be there for her. A letter would simply not be adequate; especially after all she had done for him. They made no mention of the letters, choosing instead to hold on to each other, and talk about her mother, about the new responsibilities now added to her burden.
The kiss affected him more then he would like to admit. Just being there with her, holding her in his arms, and the thought of staying there with her, it tempted him.
But he left, as always. With an understanding that he would always be there for her, just as she was for him.
The letters continued, as usual, fast and furious. She would pen her worries for the situation with Dawn, and he would reassure her, as well as fill her in with his own life.
When the letters ceased, he took it for granted that she was busy. It did not occur to him that she could be in trouble. He learned later from Willow, that she was in a coma. Had he checked on her, perhaps, just perhaps, she could have.
No. What was worse was that he left. Left the dimension to search for Cordelia, without as much as a call to her.
When he saw Willow, he knew. He had already started to feel the sorrow in his soul when he came back, knew that something wasn't right. Willow's appearance only proved what he feared so much.
He bolted, a strangled sob caught in his throat.
And he saw it.
Rip it. It isn't true. It can't be. Tear it.
A crimson envelope. And a blank letter, the very same color. Deep red, like the color of blood. Her blood.
The vampire threw his head back and howled.