I wrote this little fic because my heart hurts. It hurts so badly... "Do Angels Die of Broken Hearts" is a continuation of "The Homecoming."
Disclaimer: "Beauty and the Beast" and the character Pascal and all the rest belong to Republic Pictures. No infringement is intended. That and all the rest of the legal stuff. Max and her ilk belong to me. 'Nuff said.
Do Angels Die of Broken Hearts?
©2001 by Kayla Rigney
"Are you listening to me?" Pascal was impatient. He had that tone in his voice that he got when he really wanted to be somewhere else – or rather with someone else. Without looking up from his blueprints, he reached across the table and gave Vincent a sharp rap on the knuckles. "I have a life, Vincent. I want to finish this project while still I'm young enough to enjoy it!"
Vincent couldn't help smiling. There was something amusing about the pipemaster's frustration. The man was always so nice about it. "Pascal," he said, patiently. "When I agreed to help you, I told you my heart wasn't going to be in it."
"Yes," his friend agreed. "But you didn't tell me why. Perhaps if I knew why, I wouldn't want to strangle you right now."
"But if I tell you why, then you won't want to finish it either."
Intrigued -- or perhaps merely pacified -- Pascal removed his wire-framed spectacles and looked up from his plans for an addition to the pipe chamber.
Vincent knew Pascal. He knew that he was a kind man who would do anything for his friends -- and of all the tunnel dwellers, Vincent trusted Pascal the most. And in a way loved him most. "I got a letter today," he said. "I got a letter and..."
"And what?"
"And when I finished reading it, I found I didn't know how to reply."
Pascal leaned back in his chair and locked his hands behind his head. He looked at Vincent expectantly.
Vincent reached inside his sweater and pulled out a crumpled envelope. It was not addressed to him. He knew that Pascal recognized both the Name and the handwriting from across the room. "She sent it to me, Pascal," Vincent said. "She sent it to me because she thought I would know what to do."
"Then I trust that you will, " the pipemaster replied.
"No," Vincent said, sadly, shaking his head. "Not this time." He felt the beginning of a tightness in his chest that Father called a panic attack. It felt more and more like the breath was being squeezed out of him -- as if his heart was breaking apart.
"Vincent, what's wrong?" Pascal asked. He could always be counted upon for genuine concern. "What does the letter say? Is it bad news?"
Slowly, carefully, Vincent removed the letter from the envelope. It was written on yellow legal paper. Liz never wrote longhand. She typed out everything. Across the top of the letter, she'd scrawled: Please, Vincent. I'm 1000 miles away. Help me. I don't know what to do. L-
Vincent saw understanding dawn in Pascal's gentle gray eyes. "It's from our mutual friend, isn't it?" he asked, softly.
Vincent nodded. "Yes," he replied.
The letter was from the Musician.
"Dear Liz
(it read),I'm glad you enjoyed the CDs I sent. I spent an evening with Wayne the Train himself and you don't know how much I wanted to hitch a ride the hell out of Dodge. You don't know how wonderful it was to be around Music for two solid days. To play. To be with people who appreciate the Blues... You know my heart, Baby. It's all I am. It's all I have left.
Today, I'm pulling asbestos shingles off Jim's roof. Yes, I know it's an illegal job. But I need the money. My wife refuses to work and I now have six mouths to feed. God, It's so hot here in Oklahoma. The dust sticks to my skin and gets into my pours. And it forms this coating on my body that doesn't quite wash off. Sometimes, I just want it to be over. I want to walk out on my life and never look back. I never asked for this.
Thank you for the invitation to spend time with you and your family. You don't know how much it means to me. You're the best part of my life. You're the only part that's alive. Sharing music with you is so easy. You were born with the Blues.
I wish I could come and visit. I wish I could be part of your world for a day, but I'd end up in divorce court. (Yes, I hear you saying "And this would be bad because...?" and I can't think of a single reason. You're always right about these things. You're not supposed to be right about these things. You're The Baby. You're not supposed to understand pain.) I wish I could pack my suitcase full of blues and go Home.
Just knowing that one other person on this earth loves me.... "
"The words stop there," Vincent said. "I guess that's all there is."
"Or maybe Liz didn't send the entire letter," Pascal suggested. "You know how she is."
Vincent smiled to himself. "Yes," he replied. "I do."
"She's going to get the crap kicked out of her one of these days," the pipemaster said, smiling to himself. He'd met Liz once. He suspected she was and amazon. He also suspected she could hold her own in a fight.
"I don't think she cares about that anymore." Vincent had been struggling with whether or not to read what Liz had scribbled on the outside of the envelope in frightening lavender ink. He decided he would. "'Do angels die of broken hearts?'"
"What?" asked Pascal.
"That's what she wrote on the outside of the envelope," he replied. "Do angels die of broken hearts?"
"I don't think it's a question, Vincent."
The two men looked at each other. The Musician left the tunnels many years ago. His lifestyle made him unwelcome. His music made him different. When he came back, he always played for the community; and everybody enjoyed it. But then he went back to a backbreaking life of manual labor seven days a week. The only ties he had were Narcissa, Vincent and Pascal -- and Liz. They all spoke a common language.
"What do I tell her to do, Pascal?" he asked.
"What we always tell her to do."
Vincent sighed.
Later that night, after Catherine was asleep, Vincent sat down at his desk and wrote: "Dear Liz, Let it be. You're just going to have to close that suitcase full of blues. Most sincerely yours, Vincent Wells."
He folded the piece of stationary carefully. He'd already sealed the envelope, when a thought occurred to him.
On the back of the letter he wrote: "PS-- Angels don't die of broken hearts. They're born with them. There is infinitely more room for love in a broken heart."
Somewhere, deep inside, Vincent knew it was the Truth.
The End.
I wrote this fic for Phil, the earthbound angel, who sends me music and thinks my schizophrenic brother is just 'a character.' He sees no evil in this world and is incapable of understanding cruelty. Do Angels Die of Broken Hearts is my candle for him.