La Petite Fleur

Lettre

AN: not the usual point of view, but hopefully not confusing. Italics is the actual letter.
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On the evening of December 30th, Antoinette devoted some time to the stack of mail on her little apartment desk. Holding an envelope cutter in her teeth, she released her hair from its tight bun and shook it out. "Better," she mumbled to herself. Her ribs began to ache after the first shuffled filtering of junk mail. This would be a long night, she decided after sorting and laying aside the letters from fans, friends, and dance companies.

While she brewed peppermint tea, she allowed her eyes to scan over the first letter. She set it aside in a pile she would promise to reply to the next day. Two cups of tea later, she reached the last envelope in the stack. Too many stamps to be from France, not the kind she would see from Canada or Russia, and not enough to be from England. America then.

Who in America would want to speak to her via letter? Someone old-fashioned, or inept at technology...or both. Steve. Checking the return address, she became certain of it. The neat script read 'Stark Tower'... Manhattan, New York City, New York.

For a moment, she debated opening the letter. Was it even worth reading? She had forgotten about much of those disastrous few months and had recently wondered if Steve had forgotten too. Maybe it was worth it to read, maybe she could just read it and ignore it. Of their own accord, her hands tore open the envelope and revealed the neatly folded pages.

What was she doing? By the time her eyes had begun to read, her hands had gripped the margins and started to shake. He'd almost gotten her killed. Steve had allowed those men to drag her from the catacombs to the streets, allowed them to haul her off and kill her. And they had almost succeeded.

She'd trusted him with her life! She'd trusted him to keep her safe and to protect her....to keep her close. She'd felt unnaturally fond of Steve, and it broke her heart to know that everything she'd thought was real and meaningful- it was all a lie. Everything he'd told her was a lie or a broken promise. Could she believe anything he had to say even in this letter?

Dear Antoinette,

Please hear me out. I know you don't want to, but I'm begging you to listen. After you've read this letter, then feel free to crumple it, shred it, burn it, do whatever. But at that point, you'll know the whole truth.

She had already begun to ball it up in her fist, but stopped. The truth. Her curiosity got the better of her and she read on.

Everything I told you was true, just not the entire truth. At first, I withheld the information to protect you, to make my mission easier, and to allow you valid escape of any interrogation you might go through. But as time progressed, I became selfish. I still wanted to protect you, not as a witness or as a mission, but as a friend. I thought that if you knew that I was Captain America and of my work for SHIELD, especially the mission concerning you, you would hate me. I guess that all backfired. Now I've lost your friendship and your trust, and I'm sorry.

You deserve to know the truth, so here it is. My name is Steven Rogers, but the world knows me as Captain America. I was born on July 4, 1918, and my dad really did die in the war- "the war" being WWI. My mom died from pneumonia, and I really did become an arts student in college after her death. America joined WWII and the rest is history until a few years ago when SHIELD thawed me out and introduced me to the new world. I never lied when I told you I was a soldier before becoming part of SHIELD. My mission initially was not to protect you; I was supposed to get information out of you. After I saw the danger you were in at the matinée, I couldn't do it. I wanted to keep you safe, and it didn't seem right to wring knowledge out of you- the very knowledge that was putting you in somebody's crosshairs. I couldn't do it. At that time, telling you everything would have endangered and prolonged the mission. The extra facts seemed irrelevant.

Then during the two weeks you stayed with me, I got attached. I no longer saw you as a mission, but as a friend, something I have precious few of that still live. I made so many promises, broke most of them, continued to hold back the whole truth, and thought that you wouldn't hate me. How wrong I was. And Antoinette, I can't put into words how sorry I am. On that bridge in Nice, I battled telling you the truth. The whole truth. Everything. It almost slipped out. Then you reached for my hand, and I couldn't make myself do it. I was too attached to you and couldn't bear to lose you if that was what happened once you knew.

What happened in the catacombs was inexcusable on my part and again, I'm very sorry. I thought you understood that I was bluffing. I would never let those men take you, Antoinette. You still might not believe me, and I don't blame you. I wouldn't believe me either from your point of view. But that's the solid truth: I never intended for you to get hurt. If only I'd been faster or wiser, I could have saved you, I thought. But he only would have hurt you that much sooner and I would still have been the cause.

The last sentence had been written in a shaky, unsure hand so that some letters looked deflated and others drifted haphazardly over their neighbors. Only strong emotion could shake the hand of a soldier, and she found herself believing him. Her stubbornness melted in the way that an ice cube melts clutched in a warm hand. Why hadn't she believed him sooner? Why had she overreacted? What did it matter if he was Captain America? What would she have done if he had told her the truth? Would she have understood? Would she have treated him any differently?

I promised you the whole truth, and I will keep that promise if it happens to be the only promise I can keep. At the hospital, I waited a day to see you, and another day to talk to you. I was going to tell you everything. But you didn't want to hear anything I said, so I left. To be the cause of your pain and distress, and to know exactly what I should have done to prevent it, ate at my conscience and eroded at my peace of mind. I know you didn't want to hear me say this, but I knew there was a chance you would read it. Whether you actually made it this far without burning, tearing, or crumpling, I might never know.

Antoinette, now that you know the truth, I understand if you cannot forgive me. I understand that sometimes pain and hurt as deep as what I've caused you can't be forgiven. But I am asking you- as sincerely as I humanly am capable- to forgive me for what I've said and not said, done and not done; for the pain I've inflicted upon you both directly and indirectly; for whatever problems I've placed on your dancing career; and for destroying your trust. I can't express how sorry I am. If I could go back and tell you the truth from the beginning, I would, but of all the technology today, time travel remains elusive. Please forgive me, Antoinette. If you can't, I understand, and I'm sorry. If you do forgive me, enclosed is a ticket for a  flight that leaves from Paris and will land in New York on January 1st. I would like very much to see you again and hope you accept this offer.

Sincerely,
Steven Rogers

Why did she read it? Why did she read any of it? She groaned and slid down to sit on the floor, clutching the empty mug in her hand. Now she felt compelled to either burn the letter or pack her bags and meet him in New York. Which should she do? Both were viable possibilities; she was capable of both. But what was right? Should she save herself the bitter pain and just burn the letter? Would she regret going to America and seeing him? If she did fly to New York, would she be happy? Would she want to fly home again?

Would she be able to forgive him for tearing a rift in her life? Her ballet had been put on hold for months so she could heal. How could she forgive that? She'd been so depressed and upset for weeks until she could return to practices.

If she did forgive him, was the emotional pain worth it? What if their relationship couldn't be healed? She knew that to see Steve again would open old wounds and make her bleed out multiple times over again. It would be like pulling splinters- an act that caused pain to allow healing. Her mental and emotional wounds had long since scabbed over, but was she willing to let them bleed to give them a chance to heal?

After fighting an inner war for the better part of an hour, she crawled to the sink and set her mug inside. What was she doing? she wondered as she dragged her suitcase out of the closet. Shaking her head, she began to throw her clothes into the space.