Disclaimer: I don't own anything or anyone in this ficlet, Marvel owns it all. Duh, otherwise I wouldn't be writing fanfiction.

Warning: Spoilers for Uncanny X-Men: She Lies with Angels.

Falling to the Depths

Dreaming of the way it used to be, can you hear me?
- Falling Inside the Black by Skillet

He clenches his fist around the pen in his hand and leans back against the thick tree trunk supporting his weight. He stares up at the patches of sky between the green leaves, squinting now and then when the sun slips through the leaves and branches. He sighs heavily, grip on the piece of paper tighter than he would like it to be. He would hate to wrinkle the fourth and, what he hoped to be, the final draft.

This letter is for a pretty girl. His pretty girl. This letter has his deepest thoughts and darkest desires scrawled across faint blue lines on white parchment with black ink. It says he loves her, that he has always loved her. It goes on to say she needn't worry over making him wait because she was worth waiting for and he would do all that waiting again if it meant they could be together for one more day.

Then he apologizes, says he's sorry over and over again, because now it's his turn to leave. He's leaving in a few days, going away to a fancy school for children gifted with curses and he doesn't know when he'll be coming back. He says he hopes she can wait, wait just for a little while, until he can come back and be with her again.

He babbles a little, telling her he doesn't want to leave but he doesn't have a choice. His mother thinks this will be good for him; he adds in that Mother doesn't have a clue what's good for him otherwise she wouldn't be sending him away to that costly freak show. He then says that, in a way, he can't blame his mother for wanting to send him away with to a place no reminders of things that could have been. Things that he can't bring himself to mention in the letter to his pretty lady, so he left that bit open to the imagination. He knows she will know what he's talking about.

The letter stops there, ending with another apology for almost mentioning something he doesn't want to remember, something he doesn't want to remind her of.

He looks down at the letter resting on a thick hardcover book on his lap, playing the pen between his fingers again. He decides to end his letter there and signs it "love always, Josh." He pushes himself up and puts the pen into his back pocket, tucking the book he used as a makeshift desk and the letter under his arm as he walks to a special place not too far from his own backyard.

Reaching his destination, he sits down beside the placid water. Too close for comfort but he's a big boy, he's survived much, much worse. He watches the water, watching the ripples the gentle summer breeze creates. The ripples never quite make it to the other side of the pond, he notices, always disappearing a foot or so away from the opposite shore.

He sets the book down beside him and takes the letter in his hand, simply staring at it for a few seconds. His handwritten words aren't enough to ever convey what he feels; no words can capture what he feels for her, even now. He knows it's not enough, no matter how many "I'm sorries" are written on the page, no matter how many "I love yous" accompany them. It won't ever be enough but if it's all he can do then it's all he can do and he knows she won't be disappointed.

She won't be disappointed because, in reality, he know she will never read the letter. Perhaps, through some means, she will understand his intent and the meaning behind this silly thing he's about to do.

He gets on his knees and leans over the water. His stomach churns as he stares into the depths; he will never be able to look at water the same again, so he has learned the hard way. He takes the letter and places it gently on the surface, watching as the liquid seeps through to the other side slowly. He takes his hand and pushes down with little force, starting a rhythmic motion with his hand. He hums as the ink starts to run into the water, humming a song he can never bring himself to sing again.

The paper starts to sink into the water on its own accord and he pulls his hand from the water, humming a little louder as he sits back on the ground with his legs bent at the knee and his arms locked around them. He watches until the ink has run off the paper completely, leaving a faint murky trail in the water and a wretched black smear on the paper. And then the paper folds in on itself, sinking down into the depths of the pond. It sinks down to a special place where two lovers embraced in the arms of death for a short time before forever was shattered and he was forced from what should have been, left to dream of what could never truly be.

-End