Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As petty consolation for a world controlled by wicked forces, one might be relieved to know that there was something else. 

The Divine Will, embodiment of faith in a higher power or an otherwise benevolent unknown. It stood in stark contrast to the other powers, and in fact the majority of its manifestations were to act as protector against their designs. Of course they all bickered from time to time, though none more often than the Divine Will. Be it a guardian spirit that watched over a small town, a talisman against devils, or just a common superstitious ritual, the Divine Will was the only recourse against that which went bump in the night. 

One could call it a force of 'Hope', though only if they were being charitable. 'Desperation' was a more fitting nomenclature, a need to believe that not all power was of a dark sort, and historically depictions of such powers weren't always nice about it. 

Perhaps it was a Fear in its own subtle way, one that had decided to revolt against Mother Hunt instead of deviating like its brothers and sister. 

In any case, there was something else. And at approximately 11:30 am on an otherwise unnoteworthy Thursday in the depths of winter, the Divine willed that its manifestation would appear on a crowded city sidewalk. 

There was no light or holy singing, or really any indication that a miracle had just occurred. Most people exist in a bubble of their own thoughts when walking through busy streets, and wouldn't have even noticed another stranger's face in the crowd. Even if they had been watching, the manifestation stepped out from nothing like a door, then politely stood out of the way of traffic with its back against the wall. 

It looked up at the dreary midday sky like a child awaiting instructions from a teacher. Sure enough a voice spoke that no one else would hear:

Young angel, you have been made to act as hand of the Divine Will. You are all that is good and kind in the world, and it is through that kindness that you will protect your charge against the Dark Powers that threaten to consume him. A great evil is brewing, and it is your holy purpose to stop it. 

The fledgling angel blinked in slow understanding. Seemed an awful lot of responsibility for something that was only a few seconds old, but already being kind felt like second nature to him. If that was all he needed to avert catastrophe, it probably wouldn't be too much trouble.

"Uh, okay!" He chirped. "So how do I do that?"

The voice had mentioned a 'Charge', which meant there was a specific person he should look out for, right? Or maybe knowing what evil exactly was coming might help. If nothing else, he should probably have an address of where to go. Or even just some indication of what he should do at this specific moment. 

The angel stared hopefully up at the sky in anticipation.

There was no reply.

 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 

There were a number of things he did know.

First and foremost, his name was Martin Blackwood, and he was an angel. Specifically a Catholic angel, such with the delicate features and fluffy white wings. They were tiny now, he couldn't hope to fly with them, but through age and experience they'd get bigger. Even as they flapped experimentally on his back, and the halo shimmered over his tuft of fluffy red hair, passing humans couldn't see either. They wouldn't unless he wanted them to, and somehow Martin knew that he would never want them to.  

Martin was also aware that he was a he. He was specifically a transgender he, even though he didn't have genitals, nor internal organs of any kind. His mouth, nose, and ears all lead to nothing, pits only deep enough so as to appear normal from the outside. His shell was soft and pliant as skin would be, but uniquely cold in a sterile sort of way. 

"What does any of that matter?" Martin snarled irritably. "What am I for?" 

The sky did not see fit to respond. 

Following his initial fifteen minutes of existence, Martin decided to take note of where he was. A human city, by the looks of it, probably an English one because that was the only language he knew. There was an unspecified evil he was meant to be thwarting, presumably somewhere nearby, because why else would he have manifested on this busy road? Was something bad about to happen? Now? 

Martin looked down at his hands, then up at the thrum of humans who were so fixated on their busy lives that they didn't even notice him manifesting in the middle of the sidewalk. 

This form was so… specific. The Divine Will didn't have a true covenant any more than the Dark Powers did, so why was Martin a proper Renaissance painting angel? Why have wings that no one could see? Why was he tall? Fat? Trans? There was a pair of glasses perched on his nose, but Martin's eyes were just for show. He saw, heard, and sensed evil through his halo. He could have done just as well as only a halo, such as many angels were, or an amorphous ball of light. Why was such care put into this shape if he was just meant to stop a crime in the middle of the street, then be re-absorbed into the Divine Will?

After a few minutes waiting for catastrophe to strike, Martin's suspicions were slowly confirmed. Whatever his purpose was, it was the long-term kind that necessitated establishing a presence amongst humans. Martin would have thought such a purpose would come with a bit more information, but thus far he'd spent his entire life standing around waiting for answers that hadn't come. 

Martin puffed out his chest in a matter that resembled taking a deep breath, then let his breast fall. He produced the sound of a sigh, even as no air passed through his lips. 

What follows is a summary of the first day of Martin Blackwood's life:

With the aforementioned nothing to do and nowhere to go, Martin decided to walk in any old direction. It was what the people around him were doing, and going with the flow meant he could watch them without being noticed. Keeping his false eyes downcast and focused like everyone else, Martin studied faces, buildings, and street names to get some idea of where he was. 

From the list of things Martin did know, he was able to avoid embarrassing himself by getting on a bus. You needed money to ride the bus, and a quick shuffling of his pockets told Martin that he only had a ten and twenty pound note with no change. This line of logic did not follow to access to the Waterloo Train Station, though, and Martin spent a long time trying to figure out the gate with an aggressive queue behind him. 

Martin also knew that people stopped for lunch past noon, but for some reason forgot that he didn't have a stomach. He wasted five of his thirty pounds on a meal deal from Co-Op, only to have a bite of sandwich sit awkwardly in his mouth until he found a place to discreetly spit it out.

All this to say, the things he did and didn't know were completely arbitrary, and conflicted in humiliating ways. 

The day continued in a similar trial-and-error. Martin was starting to get the hang of things as the sky darkened. Unfortunately that meant the crowds thinned until there were barely any people out at all, and those he did see regarded him with suspicion. Martin got the sense it was impolite to be outside in the middle of the night without a good reason, but not before he realized most of the shops and buildings had shuttered themselves. He managed to find a 24 hour bar that let him sit in a booth, but after three hours without ordering anything they asked him to leave. 

Martin continued to wander with growing anxiety until noticed that some of the people out late were able to open the doors. Martin watched in amazement as a man walked up to a door, paused by it to rummage through his pockets, and then did something that produced a faint click and allowed him entry. Martin ran after him to try the handle, only for it to be firmly locked again. 

Attempting to repeat the little ritual of putting his hands in his pockets did not result in the click, and after a few minutes staring frustratedly at the locked door, Martin determined he hadn't seen enough. He'd need to watch someone do it up close. 

There weren't a lot of people out now, Martin had to wait a very long time until he spotted a tired woman in nurse's scrubs struggling with a pair of grocery bags. Martin followed her at a polite distance, even as watching her struggle with the bags made his heart hurt. When she stopped at one of the doors Martin rushed up behind her to see how she'd open it. 

Apparently he'd done so too quickly, however, as the woman shrieked and dropped her groceries the moment he appeared from the darkness. Martin apologized and knelt to help gather them up, but the woman stayed pinned to her back door all the while. Even when Martin rescued what foodstuffs hadn't broken she stared at him in horror, and her face only paled further when he explained that he was just there to watch her go into her house. 

No further attempts to reassure her worked after that, she whipped out a phone and shrieked into it some very poor language that Martin did not appreciate. When Martin tried to tell her as much he had an apple thrown at his face, and thus resolved to stay silent until the police officer arrived. 

It was only after the policeman arrived that Martin realized his mistake. The woman kept insisting that she didn't know him, and true enough he'd completely forgotten to give her his name. Clearly it was too late to do so now, but the policeman was a kindly sort who insisted upon giving Martin a place to stay the night. He even got to ride in a car without having to pay bus fare! 

The police station wasn't as nice as the bar had been, more like a cage with little benches in it, but as soon as he sat down they kindly offered for him to use their phone. Martin thanked them, but had to politely decline as he didn't know any phone numbers. He insisted he was perfectly happy just to be inside, and promised that he would leave when the sun was out again. Apparently police stations had a rule that you weren't allowed to leave until you complete a process, a process which was interrupted when Martin didn't show up on any records. The police demanded Martin's real name, which he gave repeatedly, demanded an address, which he didn't have, a phone number, which he also didn't have, or any means of identification. Needless to say Martin didn't have that either. He hadn't gotten around to applying for a passport in his fifteen hours of existence. 

After some circular discussion the policemen seemed to be getting tired, but didn't take kindly to Martin offering they sit down with him in the cage. Finally they seemed to give up on him, leaving Martin alone for the rest of the night. 

There were only two other people in the cell, one who slept, and one who was up for discussion. This was how Martin was informed that it was 'All a fucking conspiracy' and various other useful bits of information about the city he'd arrived in. 

That was how Martin's first day in London ended. Still with no idea of his purpose, down five quid, sitting in a cage and not allowed to leave.

All and all a productive use of his time! All humans did on their first day was cry and defecate themselves, so Martin figured he was already ahead of the curve.

When the sun came up the next morning, Martin still wasn't allowed to leave. He figured that whatever his holy purpose was it wouldn't be found here, and while breaking the rules upset him greatly, Martin still had a mysterious evil to stop. With a fond farewell and the rest of his money pushed discreetly into his informant's hand, Martin shone through the bars until he was standing at the other side. He figured the police wouldn't like him leaving without their permission, so he turned off his body before leaving. He made sure to walk a considerable distance before becoming visible again, finding himself in much the same position as he'd started the day prior. 

Still, at least he had a plan. 

In 'London' it was most pertinent to find a place to stay at night. The police didn't like people who slept outside, and despite Martin's insistence that he didn't need to sleep, his informant said it wouldn't make a difference. So the first thing was that Martin needed a flat. To get a flat you needed money, and to get money you needed a job. There were lots of jobs in London, but apparently someone had done something silly and made it so that most jobs don't give enough money for flats.

It helped that Martin didn't need to eat or actually sleep. The following week Martin discovered that hostels provided cheap accommodations where he could twiddle his thumbs until sunrise, which he could pay for with cash he got for odd jobs listed on posters. But it wasn't a permanent solution, and it was with this in mind that Martin decided to fib. 

You could put pretty much anything on a piece of paper. No one stopped you. Martin even told the public librarian that some of the information he'd printed out wasn't accurate, just to see what she'd do. The police weren't called or anything, so Martin decided it must be alright. 

Martin needed a special job. The kind that paid well because it had all sorts of qualifications you needed to apply. Qualifications that one tended to amass when they were more than a week old, which Martin was not. But he was an angel, which supposedly didn't exist in real life, which made him a 'paranormal entity'. There were special jobs for people who were experts in such things, and what Martin lacked in understanding his own purpose he could make up for in explaining the Powers. 

So it wasn't a lie really, saying he was an accredited Parapsycholist. Whose else is more 'credited' than a hand of the Divine Will itself? 

"...So you actually studied ghosts. In an actual university?"

Jacob Parr, professional paranormal investigator, glanced up from Martin's CV with a cocked eyebrow. 

"Y-yes!" Martin said, nodding to the paper. "Thats why I wrote it down!"

"...Uh-huh." Jacob said slowly, 

"I know all about manifestations of the Dark Powers, but spiritual entities are my specialty. Your ad said you were investigating a church next?" Martin asked.

Jacob opened his mouth to answer, before his attention sharpened at the door to the little break room they were conducting the interview in.

"Hey, intern." He barked, snapping his fingers at the blue-haired teenage girl who had just come in with a box of equipment. "Where's the coffee?"

'Intern's face screwed up for just a moment, before she donned a forced smile. "I haven't had time to make any, Pat wanted me to help him prep the cameras for the–" 

"What?!" Jacob cried, "You can't mess with the equipment! You're not bending instructions again, are you?"

Intern's mouth twitched into another brief scowl. That seemed to be all the information Jacob needed. 

"You're a minor. Not technically qualified to be handling any of this stuff! If you break any of the rentals we'll have to pay a fortune!"

"I'm not going to break it!" Intern snapped. "Any idiot can screw on a camera lens!"

"You're here to sift through fanmail and make coffee." Jacob said firmly. "You're not to go anywhere near production until you're old enough to be put on payroll."

"I-I can make coffee!" Martin said hopefully. "I love making coffee!"

Nevermind that Martin hadn't seen a need to fix any sort of food or drink before. Intern certainly didn't seem to like making it, so if they hired him to do it she could work on the cameras all she liked. 

Jacob looked back at him with an expression Martin was getting used to. A sort of baffled irritation, the kind of look one would give to a tourist begging for directions in a different language. 

"That's neither here nor there." Jacob finally said, then glared at Intern. "Box down, back to the mailroom. I'll deal with you later."

The girl grumbled and put the box on a table, then stalked out of the main room. Jacob sighed and focused his full attention back on Martin. 

"Listen, Mr. Blackwood, I don't know what kind of work you think we do here, but it's not really a researching role?"

"Oh." Martin said flatly. "I thought you were investigators?"

"We're a tv programme." Jacob corrected. "You know. For the cameras. We could probably get you on for a few interviews for the show, but since you don't have any production experience I'm not sure what role you'd have here long-term."

Martin's lips pressed into a nervous grimace. He would have said he had plenty of production experience, if not for Jacob saying earlier what would happen if he broke something. Martin didn't know what a lens cap was, but he was sure he couldn't screw it onto a camera without help. 

"...I can make coffee." He repeated. 

Jacob sighed. "I'm not sure we're what you're looking for. This show is more about fun with ghosts than… whatever parapsychology is about."

Martin frowned. "You don't really have 'fun' with ghosts. I mean– I guess maybe you'd see one if you're marked by Terminus? B-but I wouldn't recommend risking that just for a TV show."

"See? That's what I mean." Jacob said, "You're a proper academic! That's not really what we're doing here." 

Before Martin could ascertain what they were doing here, there was a crash from the other room.  

"Goddamnit, Melanie!" Jacob growled, then gave one last apologetic nod to Martin. 

"Listen, Mr. Blackwood, thank you for your interest in our show, but I'm going to have to turn you down. In your line of work I'd recommend an academic position, like the Magnus Institute or something."

"The Magnus Institute?" Martin asked, but already Jacob was storming through the door Intern had gone through, the distant sound of yelling muffled by the cheap plaster walls. 

"The Magnus Institute…" Martin repeated to himself. 

Might as well. 

It was the only lead he had, so when he went back to the library to add 'Production Experience' to his cv he looked them up for good measure.

From what he could find, the Magnus Institute was some kind of historical supernatural study facility. The website listed an impressive library, programmes for students in parapsychology, and an open invitation for anyone with a supernatural experience to make a statement.

Martin briefly wondered if his own manifestation might count as such, but that line of thought only went as far as learning he wouldn't get paid for it. 

Instead, Martin poked around for hiring criteria. His 'Degree' was probably not enough to impress actual scholars, so Martin added whatever 'intellectual' credentials he could think of on top:

Concert cellist 

Chess Grandmaster

Adult Spelling Bee Champion.

They had a motto in latin, so Martin jotted down that he could speak it for good measure. So far as he knew he could speak latin. The Vulgate was in latin, wasn't it?

Again Martin printed out his CV, and again he told the librarian that it wasn't fully accurate. 

"You know I'm not going to report you to anywhere, right?" He asked, perplexed. 

"I know." Martin insisted, then expressed a warbly sigh. "I just need someone to know about it…"

He was a Catholic angel, after all. 

 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 

The following morning saw him standing in front of a neat front desk in what had to be the nicest building he'd seen in his life. The Magnus Institute was situated in Chelsea, a posh side of London with numerous other old and important buildings about. Martin didn't know if it was his angel-ness that made him feel at home next to columns and old architecture, but straight away he found himself hoping that the institute would have a place for him. 

"Ah, Mr. Blackwood. You phoned yesterday, didn't you?" The lady asked. "Elias will be conducting your interview."

Had Martin a stomach, it would have swooped. 

"...Elias Bouchard?" He asked nervously. "The head of the institute?"

The woman nodded cheerfully. 

"Oh yes, he conducts every interview himself!" She offered him a comforting smile. "Don't worry. Elias is an affable sort. I know it can seem intimidating, but we're such a small organization it's really no trouble."

Martin nervously rubbed his hands against his trousers. Small meant exclusive in his very limited experience. 

He wished he had more than the one outfit he'd materialized in. It wasn't like he produced sweat or anything that could soil his clothing, but it still felt pathetic to be wearing a lumpy sweater and khakis with all the smart suits and button down shirts he saw passing through. 

Just as Martin was eyeing the pretty marble exit, the front woman's voice broke him from his spiraling. 

"Rosie just called to say Elias is ready for you upstairs."

Martin shuddered. So much for running away. 

Plastering a smile over his obvious nerves, Martin obediently followed the front woman's instructions up the stairs and down the hall to Elias' office. Sat outside was a woman on the telephone, who merely nodded for Martin to go in. 

Martin bit his lip. He didn't like going anywhere in this place without permission, but even Elias' personal assistant looked too important to interrupt with her neat sweater vest and bun. He allowed himself a knock on the door, and was grateful to hear a clear 'Come in' from the other side. 

The door swung open, and Martin found himself inside a truly impressive office. It was like something out of a magazine, the wall to one side overladen with awards and honors, the other a series of portraits that must have been of previous institute heads. The Bookshelf facing the back wall was a large, ornate thing of dark mahogany that matched the antique desk before it. Sitting at that desk was the head himself, a man who looked up from writing something on a notepad with a smile. 

'Elias' the woman had called him. Ha!

No, no, with his impeccable suit, fancy office, and imperious gaze, the man was called 'Mr. Bouchard.' Maybe even Sir Bouchard. But never his first bloody name! Martin watched him as he would a feral dog as he approached the desk, as if any moment Mr. Bouchard would slam his hands against the ornate desk and shout him out of his institute. 

Instead, Mr. Bouchard stood and held out his hand. "Hello, you must be Martin. I am Elias, head of the institute."

As if he could be anything else. 

Martin took it to shake, and noticed Mr. Bouchard's eyes widen slightly when their skin touched. 

Shit. His hands. 

Martin always forgot about his hands. Other interviewers had commented on their coldness before, and each time it felt like a smack over the head. But if Mr. Bouchard found their temperature strange he didn't say so, merely nodded for Martin to sit. 

"So, Martin, what brings you to my institute?"

His tone was a stark contrast to his intimidating presence. Bouchard sounded conversational when he asked, almost friendly. Thinking of the front lady's reassurance, Martin tried to relax. 

"W-well, you see I've got a degree in parapsychology, l-like I wrote down here." He sheepishly fished his cv from the folder he'd carried it in, sliding it across the desk for Elias to inspect. "I um. I was told that your institute was the best place for someone in my line of work."

Mr. Bouchard's cold gray eyes flicked down at the sheet of paper, then back up at Martin's face. 

"You hadn't heard of us prior?" He asked. "Most students in parapsychology find their way into our library sooner or later."

Martin stiffened. "I uh. I went to uni pretty far away?"

Bouchard looked down at his CV again. 

"It says here you studied at the University of Greenwich."

Oh this was going bad. This was going very, very, badly. 

"I-international program." Martin stammered. "This is actually my first time in London!" 

"...Yet you competed in the 2004 British Chess Championship." Mr. Bouchard said. 

Martin was suddenly very glad he couldn't sweat. 

"Well. Ah." He said in a high voice. "O-obviously I didn't do very well."

Mr. Bouchard hummed. 

Martin fought a scream building behind his teeth. This interview had gone on for less than a minute and already it was a wash. He wished that Mr. Bouchard would snap at him, at least then he'd be able to escape this horrible tension. 

"Well, Martin." Bouchard said at last, "This is all very impressive, though I do have a bit of an odd question for you, if you don't mind my asking."

Martin nodded nervously. "G-go ahead?"

Mr. Bouchard laced his fingers together and leaned forward on his desk, staring at Martin so intently it could have drilled a hole in his forehead. 

"What is your greatest fear?" He asked. 

"Failure." Martin responded so quickly it was as though the word wasn't his at all. 

A smile curled at the corner of Bouchard's mouth for only a moment. Martin fought the urge to clap his hands over his mouth. 

"An understandable one." He said in a tone that was likely to be reassuring to someone who hadn't been caught in three different lies. "It's so easy to feel like you can lose everything over a minor mistake. Would you say that's true for you, Martin?"

"I have nothing to lose." Martin replied instantly again, then flinched.

What was wrong with him today?

Whatever Mr. Bouchard thought of his answer, Martin couldn't read him. By now he was so busy reeling he barely heard the next question:

"I suppose you're interested in a position in the archival department?" Mr. Bouchard asked.

There was a distinct snarl in his tone, as if archival applications were the bane of his existence. That or he was hoping for an archival applicant, but hadn't had any luck. Martin swallowed, deciding to go with something neutral:

"...Is there an opening in the archival department?"

Bouchard sat back in his chair with a wry smirk. "I am afraid not. There was an opening we just recently filled. You're out of luck."

Martin blinked. Why did he ask, then?

"Well… it doesn't need to be in the archives." Martin said. "I'm keen to work in any department, really."

"Even Artifact Storage?" Asked Mr. Bouchard. 

Something about the low and dangerous way he said it told Martin that he should really say 'no.' Even still Martin would really like to have a job so he could finally stop confessing his sins to the librarian. 

"Er, yeah. If there's an opening." He said nervously. "...is there?"
 

"No." Bouchard said. 

Martin's lower eyelid twitched. 

This was a new feeling in Martion's chest. A bit like hot air, filling up lungs that didn't have, and making his hypothetical heart race. Where thus far the worst he'd been was disappointed, embarrassed, or bored, this new feeling gave Martin the strangest urge to raise his voice and storm out of the room. 

"You're annoying." He blurted out before he could stop himself. 

Martin's eyes widened and this time he did slap his hands over his mouth. Of all the social blunders he'd made in his month-long existence, that had to be the worst. But while Martin waited to be shouted out of another failed interview, Mr. Bouchard only sat back in his chair and laughed. 

"More than you know, Mr. Blackwood." He said. 

Again that subtle mocking in his voice. Though his face remained personable, there was a glint in the man's cold grey eyes that betrayed hostility. Martin got the sense Mr. Bouchard really didn't like him for some reason, and figured that he hadn't liked him since he first arrived. 

"So you aren't giving me a job." Martin said flatly. 

Honestly with how bizarre this conversation was going, it was something of a relief. Martin rose from his chair and turned to grab his coat, but when he looked back at Mr. Bouchard for an empty 'thank you for your time,' he saw an employment contract laying on the desk between them. Martin stared at Bouchard in astonishment, who only grinned in response. 

"Quite the contrary." He said. "In fact, I'm prepared to make a more generous offer to assure your employment here."

Watching him like he might explode, Martin warily took his seat again. 

"...That's alright." He said. "I don't need much."

Mr. Bouchard smirked. "I had a feeling you might not."

Red flag. Martin was barely old enough to know what red flags were, but that was a red flag. Still, this was the first time anyone had offered him employment, and he was getting tired of sitting in hostels all night.

 Martin slowly took the paper from the desk and gave it a once-over. Fairly standard employment contract from what he could tell, but it wasn't like he'd seen many of them this past month. 

"A library assistant?" He asked curiously. 

"I know it's not the best use of your skills." Mr. Bouchard admitted. "But you'll have first priority the moment a more significant position becomes available." 

Martin flushed. He didn't know what 'significant positions' were, but he was most certainly not qualified for one. 

"L-library is fine!" He chirped. "I love libraries. I've basically been living in once since I uh. I came to London."

"Excellent." Said Mr. Bouchard. "You start Monday."

He reached forward with his hand outstretched. Martin bit his lip, pretending to wipe off sweat as he rubbed his palms against his trousers to warm them up. Mr. Bouchard didn't seem to notice Martin's cold skin when they shook, merely nodded at the contract for Martin to sign. 

In the month since his arrival, Martin had been completely without direction. Not once in his wanderings and planning had anything felt like more than an inconvenience. The job hunt itself was just to secure a base of operations. Martin didn't even feel that strongly about earning money for any other reason than avoiding getting arrested again. 

But as Martin wrote his name on the contract, he had the strangest feeling like being watched. Not like the voice from the sky had been, not even by Mr. Bouchard. There was something paranormal about the decision he'd just made, but Martin had the feeling that it wasn't divine. 

Shaking off the feeling, Martin put the pen down and looked back up into his new employer's face. There he saw a wide grin, and the cruelest gaze he had ever been caught in. 

"Happy to have your feather in my cap, Little Angel." He said. 

Chapter Text

Jonah Magnus was a careful man. One did not last as long in this business otherwise. 

There was a reason there were only a handful of high-profile avatars in London. Maxwell Reiner  had his cult to fall back on, the Lukases their wealth, and Simon Fairchild could simply fall back into nothing and have a grand old time of it.

Jonah was largely on his own, though. He had his 'temple' and his unwitting followers, but neither offered much protection if it were to come down to a war. It was one thing to threaten his archival department with death if he was to perish, quite another for them to willingly risk their lives for a patron they didn't know they served. 

No, Jonah's main defense was subtlety. Even far back in the early days when all of this was new. Jonah knew better than to make a big fuss over his gifts, and to resist the urge to gorge himself on forbidden knowledge until he was a mindless voyeur. That was the realm of archivists, and Jonah preferred a less corrosive means of Beholding, thank you. 

The problem was the Divine Will. Everyone's problem was the Divine Will. 

No one had a good idea of what it was even for. Presumably it needed to feed just as the other powers did, but what exactly it fed on was hard to say. It might have been fear in a roundabout way if not for its prominence. It was spread thin and lost more battles than it won, but considering that it challenged all fourteen at once, it had to feed on more than just the scraps of uncertain, hopeless prayers.  

Web avatars liked to tease the possibility of it being one of their hoaxes, but Jonah had watched angels snap enough of their threads to doubt the legitimacy of such a claim. Desolation and Corruption avatars certainly enjoyed dragging angels into a downfall, yet the Divine Will always had more to throw at them. All that business of unknowable power shone down from the heavens could make it a twist of the Vast, but surely one of them would have mentioned it by now if it was. Jonah had never met a Vast avatar who could resist dissolving into romantic adulation of their patron for longer than fifteen minutes. 

Without knowing what the Divine Will was or how it fed, predicting its behavior was tricky. It didn't mark people as the other Powers did, nor did it seem interested in saving humans from mundane catastrophe. No marks meant no avatars of its own, no rituals, no statements. There were the 'Angels,' and an angel could also take the form of an artifact or place, but only if that would mean spoiling an avatar's work. When they failed the angel would be destroyed or become an avatar of the very force they challenged. But when they won, they'd simply disappear, their 'Holy Purpose' complete. 

That meant an Angel could be anything from a double agent to a bomb, and Jonah was sure he wanted neither poking around his institute. 

So in the beginning, he was careful. 

The parameters of the Powers hadn't been well known back then, so Jonah erred on the side of caution. He never acted too aggressively, never let his collection grow too voracious, kept his archivists in check and his victims in only as much danger as they already were in. A century passed without the Divine Will ever catching on to what Jonah was up to, which was something he bragged about during Funding Events. 

But then it was a century and one, then a century and ten, thirty, fifty, and still Jonah hadn't seen so much as a stray feather in his institute. He'd listen as Simon regaled them with his latest conquest or defeat at the hands of an angel, then watch as more and more of their peers nodded in commiseration. Soon Jonah was the only one who wasn't nodding along. Even Lukas had suffered an attack on Moorland House one year. 

Why would the Divine Will want to destroy a gloomy manor in Kent, but ignore a place of power as important as the Institute?

Clearly, Jonah could stand to be less careful. Fortune favors the bold, after all. He took risks. Asked for more funding, organized larger projects. He let his archivists run mad, poking and prodding and blowing up other ritual sites to their heart's content. It certainly didn't make Jonah popular in the avatar community, but he was feeding well. He readied to properly defend himself if the Divine Will launched an attack. He listened to his peer's statements, and made contingencies based on their fail;ures. He was ready. He was powerful. He was a proper threat, with a plan to dominate the entire world which he gradually became less subtle about and still… and still–!

Two hundred years and not a single angel darkened Jonah's door. 

Until today, at least.

The angel flushed the same deep, brilliant scarlet as the soft curls atop its head. Its breath made a sound similar to catching, its unseeing eyes wide like a doe, and Elias watched transfixed as its delightful little wings flapped uselessly against its back. 

"Ah…ah… angel?" It stammered, making a proper show of innocence, but Elias had heard enough stories to know that a show was all it was. 

"Yes, you didn't think you'd escape my notice, did you?" Elias tsked. "Your halo is practically blinding, Martin Blackwood."

The angel jumped and brought a self conscious hand to the back of his head, as if it could simply cover the holy light spilling all over the carpet. The image was almost foolish enough to be charming. 

Almost. 

"You can feign innocence all you like, Martin. You've already signed the contract, and now you are bound. If you bring any harm to myself, or try to leave the institute, we'll both learn how an angel withers to nothing."

The angel's false eyes glossed over with tears and its words spilled out in a panicked babble.

"B-but I don't want to leave! O-or hurt you, M-mr. Bouchard! I'm s-sorry, was there a rule about entities working here? I-I didn't know– I'm sorry!" 

Elias blinked. The display was certainly convincing. He wouldn't blame a lesser man for confusing the angel's response for real human emotions. Elias could have sworn he even tasted a curl of fear. 

A rare and delectable fear, one meant only for those avatars who tousled directly with the Divine Will. It was more potent than anything Elias had ever drawn from a human. Something that was cosmically and spiritually wrong…

Elias narrowed his eyes. This was most certainly a trap. 

"Stop that." He said sternly. "You won't tempt me with that pathetic display. Now tell me: What is your holy purpose?" 

"I don't know!" The angel cried in a high, squeaky voice that tickled the back of Elais's neck.

He resisted his own shudder at the distraction. "Nonsense. How are you able to resist compulsion?"

"I'm not!" The angel was properly crying now. "W-what compulsion? What are you doing to me?" 

Elias was incredulous. "Do you expect me to believe you just walked into a Temple of the Beholding by mere coincidence?" 

"B-beholding?" The angel stammered. "Is this place evil?" 

It looked properly distraught. It's pangs of fear and sadness indistinguishable from the real thing. 

"You're… not fooling me." Elias said, unsure. "I see right through you."

It occurred to him belatedly that he actually should. A cursory examination revealed that the angel didn't have a brain, but nevertheless its confused and desperate thoughts were overwhelming. 

"Money?" He asked. "You walked right into your adversary's place of power because you want to rent a flat?"

That seemed to break the mask a little. The angel drew breaths it didn't need and finally met Elias' eye. 

"I-I mean yeah? I-I got sick of bumming around hostels, and it'd be nice to have more than one set of clothes to wear. Also, um…" It pulled an apologetic face, "You're not my advisary."

Elias scoffed. "Of course I am. Why else would you come here?"

"Because I need money?" The angel said. "Which uh. Okay I know this place is evil and all but I'm still getting paid right?"

For a moment all Elias could do was stare at him, astounded. He searched the angel's thoughts again, and sure enough its only concerns were over opening a bank account without any legal documents and the tenancy deposit for a grubby little flat in Stockwell. 

"What is your holy purpose?" Elias asked again. 

This time he watched the angel's thoughts as it truthfully answered: "I don't know."

There wasn't a single hidden thought that said otherwise. The tears were entirely genuine.  

Elias couldn't believe it. This pitiful little creature was all that was sent to stop him? A confused little angel who didn't even know why it had come? By the wings on its back it couldn't be older than a few weeks and was blubbering like a child. Is this what the Divine Will thought of Elias's plan? 

"Peter got an archangel." Elias growled. "This is just insulting!"

The angel rubbed its throat curiously against the feeling of compulsion. "I-I'm sorry, Mr. Bouchard, but you're not 'getting' me either. I told you, I'm not here for you at all!"

Again that strange apologetic look. A quick review of its thoughts told Elias that it was actually trying to console him. 

"What is an angel without a holy purpose?" Snapped Elias. "There has never been a manifestation of the Divine Will without one."

The angle turned scarlet again, and its wings fluffed up like an ornery cockerel. 

"I-I have a purpose!" It chirped. "I'm supposed to thwart evil! I just don't know where that evil is… or um. What it is… or what I'm supposed to do about it…"

The creature sagged as it spoke, staring sadly down at its lap. 

Silence fell between them, in which Elias's thoughts raced. This couldn't be just a misunderstanding, the Divine Will couldn't be so foolish as to let the ritual commence. Elias was just as dangerous as Fairchild and Reiner, it was already absurd that he'd been ignored for this long! 

Then it struck him.

Of course, of course the angel wouldn't know what it was for. Because Elias could know its thoughts! The Divine Will must have known that, must have wondered for ages how best to approach an all-knowing force, and this was the only way to keep its little messenger from being discovered. 

The Divine Will was no stranger to pulling its own strings, and the angel had been drawn here after all. However it was to disrupt Elias' destiny, the angel itself couldn't be allowed to know. There must be more to this little rival than either of them knew. 

"Fine." Elias said after a while. "Well, if you're quite sure you have no interest in meddling with my affairs, I have no reason not to treat you as a normal employee."

The angel's head snapped up, hopeful. "Really?"

The expression was so innocent, so pure, and it ran as deep as the angel's thoughts. If not for his revelation, Elias would have no reason not to believe it. 

'Clever.' He thought with a smirk.  

"Yes, Martin." Elias said kindly. "You're to report to the library on Monday morning, and can expect payments in cash until you've sorted a bank account. Please let me know if you have any issues finding a reference for the leasing office, you will not represent the institute properly if your homelessness continues."

"O-oh." The angel said. "That's… okay I will, thank you."

Thanking its own nemesis. Ridiculous. 

Elias watched as the angel stood, reflexively wiping its hands against its trousers before offering one to shake. It was only a little bit warmer when Elias took it, but could pass for poor circulation. 

It shuffled out of the office, for all the world a shy, bumbling fool afraid of taking up too much space. Elias could only wait to see how the angel would be compelled to stop him in such a state, and wonder what exactly about the awkwardness and fragility was supposed to cater to his plans. 

What he wouldn't do was underestimate the Divine Will's decision. Stronger forces than him had made that mistake before, and Elias had too much to lose. He was getting closer to his destiny with every passing year, the final pieces falling into place, which the Divine Will must have noticed. His all-encompassing ritual was more powerful than anything it would have ever faced before. Elias was a legitimate threat. He was important. 

So obviously the angel was here for him. It had to be. After all this time, it was the only thing that made sense. 

 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 

Terrible as it was to admit, finally having a flat almost made Martin's blunder worth it. 

Once he was given his key and left alone for the first time, Martin experimented with the amenities. He used the sink to fill up a glass of water, poured it out, then filled it again. He did this a few times before noticing the oven and the ancient frying pan sitting atop it. 

Martin looked around for something to fry, and finding nothing, tipped the contents of his cup into the pan and turned on the stove. He watched eagerly as the water began to steam, then bubble, then boil, delighting in the hissing sound it made when the water sloshed out over the flame. 

Once the water was 'ready' Martin held it carefully over the sink and tried to pour its contents into a tin mug. It was a bit unwieldy from the pan, he would have burned himself if he hadn't thought to do this in the sink, but enough of the water wound up in the mug to satisfy him. Martin took his hot water to the rickety little table and chair. There he placed his mug neatly in the center and sat down, watching as the steam rolled up out of the mug in a sleek ribbon. He watched until the water stopped steaming, poured the lukewarm contents into a glass jar, and put the jar in the fridge. 

Unfortunately, the fridge wasn't the ice-making kind. That was alright though, Martin found some kitchen roll under the sink! He poured himself another glass of water and spilled some on the floor, watched the streams of water sink into the plastic flooring, then knelt to mop it up. 

The stove was one thing, but Martin didn't actually have anything he could safely put in the oven. Instead he set the clock, and made a note to buy something he could cook later. 

With the kitchen done, Martin focused on the living area. 

It was supposed to be a bedroom and living room at once, but all the previous tenant had left for him was a metal bedframe. Martin laid down on it anyway, the bars digging into his back, and stared up at the ceiling. He wondered if he could sleep if he really tried to, but presumably it'd be easier with a mattress. Martin only lasted a few minutes before getting bored and standing up. 

The agent had allowed him to flick the lights in his viewing so there was nothing especially exciting about them, but Martin was delighted to find that one of the bulbs had gone out in the bathroom, which meant that he could change it. That was when he noticed the tub, which was definitely too small for him to lie down in, and the showerhead perched atop it. 

Martin looked down at his body, then back up to the shower. He didn't need one, but unlike eating, there was nothing about this shape that would stop him from giving it a try. 

Turning on the water, Martin left the bathroom as it heated up. He delicately pulled his sweater over his head, peeled down his trousers and kicked off his shoes. His first time seeing his naked body struck him more than he'd anticipated. He went back to the bathroom and wiped a circle in the foggy mirror. 

Martin knew he had no organs, but his skin was as particular as the rest of him. Stretch marks on his belly, cellulite on his thighs, a dusting of chest hair that trickled down between a neat pair of mastectomy scars to his navel. Martin twisted so that he could count each of his freckles until the mirror fogged over again

He was so fascinated by his body that Martin almost turned off the shower so he could continue studying it, but he was glad that he didn't. 

The shower. Oh sweet Jesus, the shower. 

Why did anyone do anything other than take showers? Suddenly existence and all its complexities seemed like a waste of time when the only worthwhile contribution was the invention of the shower. 

Martin stayed there until the hot water ran out, and still couldn't find a good reason to leave it. Even the cold water felt nice, Martin flapped his sodden wings to ensure it seeped into every crease and feather. 

It was dark outside when Martin finally stumbled out, dripping water all over the floor that gleefully mopped up with paper towels. When that was done he decided to try sleeping on the metal bedframe again, and as he did, finally came to terms with what this was. 

Martin had made a deal with a devil so that he could play pretend in a human flat, and worse, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. 

Mr. Bouchard, the monster that had entrapped Martin in his dark covenant, at least had the decency to help him set up a bank account, along with his first three months of wages upfront. He argued that it wasn't as though Martin would be able to quit in that time, or ever, so he saw no issue in doing a favor to help Martin get settled. Martin really, really, should have objected. He should have tried to find a way to escape the contract, he should be willing to gnaw his own wings off like a wolf in a trap. But Mr. Bouchard had done more to help Martin's situation than anyone he'd met thus far, and homelessness was getting old. 

Martin sagged into the cold metal bars of his bed, his wings hanging down through the gap and brushing against the dusty floor. 

Obviously Mr. Bouchard was up to no good, and Martin would be a very poor angel if he kept his promise to do nothing about it. Beholding was a deceptively sinister power, and indeed the institute didn't seem to actually hunt down victims of its own. Still, Martin doubted the people who gave their 'statements' wound up alright, and refusing to help them so he could watch their agony was just as bad as orchestrating it himself. 

…But Martin really liked his new flat. He was having trouble getting himself to actually care. Despite Mr. Bouchard's reservations, Martin was certain that stopping him wasn't his holy purpose. He had been scared when Mr. Bouchard discovered him, revolted by the thought of a monster seeing his wings, and a little embarrassed that he had been discovered so quickly, but nothing about the interview stirred the feeling of urgency he would have for his purpose. 

Whatever evils the institute perpetuated, they weren't actually Martin's concern. So after spending his weekend shopping for clothes and cheap furniture for his flat, Martin showed up to work on Monday morning to stack books for a demon. 

 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 

"We mostly get students coming through, and they have open access to anything in the red section, but they're not allowed in the blue section unless you take their name and the project they're working on. Only Diana can authorize access to the yellow section, and the green section is off limits for browsing. They'll need to send in a formal request for the book they want with an accredited overseer's approval. Usually Tom handles those, so just make sure there's a Professor's signature before giving it to him. He gets in a mood if you try to bother him with incomplete requests."

Hannah, the assistant that Martin was shadowing for the week, rattled off explanations at a dizzying pace. Martin nodded along awkwardly, feeling like he should be offering some contribution to their conversation even though he was barely following what she was talking about. 

"We got a bunch of new computers in the fall, but there's still a few books in the yellow section that haven't been cataloged. We'll probably have you on those the first week, are you good with computers?"

Martin turned pink. "Y-yes! I love computers!"

Hannah sighed with relief. 

"That's good, they've been driving me crazy. I don't know why Elias had us retire the old system, I worked so hard on it…" She said, deflating. 

Martin had to physically restrain himself from reaching out to touch her, holding the offending arm at his side. He'd learnt the hard way that people didn't like random hugs from strangers, especially women. 

"Maybe we could figure it out together?" Martin asked. 

The woman laughed. "Aww, that's very sweet. I'm sure we will!" 

A tiny flicker of joy danced in Martin's chest, and his wings flapped with pleasure. Even as his month of aimless wandering had jaded him, it still felt nice to be nice.

Hannah led Martin to a discreet door hidden behind one of the shelves. "Break room's this way, you can have anything from the cupboards so long as you replace it when you're done, but…"

She turned suddenly on her heel and glared up at Martin with a ferocity that made him flinch. 

"There is regular milk in the fridge, and then there's a carton of Alpro. The Alpro is mine. I brought it from home and it's a massive pain to replace. If the regular's out bugger off and get some more. Do not touch my Alpro."

"Uh, okay!" Martin said nervously. 

The aggression dropped from Hannah's face and she gave a wide smile. "Good! Now to the left is the door to the microfiche…"

Most of Martin's morning was spent learning, before Hannah left Martin to catalog the books. Luckily Tom was more familiar with the system than Hannah was, and soon the both of them were making heady progress. 

Unlike Hannah, though, Tom wasn't chatty. The terse little explanation of the computer system were the only words they spoke until Hannah came back to grab Martin for lunch.

"The institute cafe is rubbish, we should head to the Pret on the main street." Hannah said cheerfully.

Martin grimaced, remembering his bite of sandwich his first day. Stalking around hostels the past month, it hadn't occurred to him to come up with an excuse for why he didn't eat. 

"I uh… had a big breakfast?" He tried. "I can keep working. It's fine."

Hannah pouted. "Oh, no Martin you shouldn't work through your break! I know your first day's intimidating, but Tom will overwork you if you let him!"

There was an irritated grunt from behind Tom's monitor, which Hannah ignored. 

"Come on, the walk will be good for you."

"I uh, I don't know." Martin dithered. "I'd really rather stay here? I'll just um. I'll sit in the break room. It's all been a bit much."

Hannah still didn't seem convinced, but she went to grab her bag anyway. 

"Well, alright Martin." She sighed. "At least make a cup of tea."

With that she left the library, Martin staring nervously after her. Maybe 'break' didn't mean what Martin thought it did, because he was fairly certain tea was like coffee in that it was someone's job to prepare it. 

After a nervous glance to ensure Tom was still ignoring him, Martin discreetly typed 'How do you make tea' in a browser's search engine. He carefully read the instructions, and was overjoyed to learn that it was simple enough. It even involved heating up water, which at the moment was Martin's favorite pastime.

The kettle wasn't as fun as heating water in a pan, he just had to fill it and press a button. As it boiled he took a mug and teabag down from the cupboard. Martin dropped the bag into the mug, then crossed to the little fridge and opened it. 

"Oh dear." He said. 

There was the carton of Alpro, and just behind it was the milk jug. Hannah must have just been using it and put it back at the front of the shelf. Pinned on either side were tupperware and pots of condiments, there was no clear way to reach around the Alpro without touching it. 

Martin bit his lip as the kettle whistled behind him. Google told him that you didn't need milk in your tea, but from the vitriol in the comments section of that article he surmised it wasn't very nice. 

Sighing, Martin pulled out each item in the fridge and set them down in a neat little stack. Once there was room he reached around the Alpro for the milk, careful not to brush against it with his little finger. It took some doing, but Martin pulled out the jug of milk without disturbing the carton, then carefully put everything back. 

Returning to the countertop, Martin poured in the hot water and waited for it to steep. Google said three minutes, but there wasn't a clock on the microwave like the one in Martin's flat. He resorted to quietly counting to sixty three times, removed the teabag, and poured in a drop of milk. 

Once stirred to a lovely light brown, Martin looked down at the drink he'd made and wondered what he was supposed to do with it. Obviously drinking it was out of the question, but Martin didn't feel right about dumping it down the sink either. Maybe he was meant to give it to Hannah when she came back?

As he dithered, the smell wafted up to reach his halo. Martin paused, eyes widening, and shivered a little with pleasure. Tea smelled nice. Much nicer than coffee, which Martin had experimented with following his failed interview with the ghost hunters.

Martin held the cup up to his halo. It was a warm, soothing scent that made his wings shiver. Cozy, and strangely familiar despite this being the first time he'd had any. Usually Martin wished that he had a stomach so he could eat like other people, but now his only wish was for a pair of lungs. How lovely it must be for humans to draw that smell inside themselves and hold it there. 

"...What are you doing?"

Tom had appeared in the doorway, watching as the new hire appeared to be trying to balance a  teacup on his head.  

Martin blushed so deeply he felt a hint of warmth beneath his skin. 

"Um… n-nothing!" He stammered. "I uh…"

Martin angled his faux eyes on the cup and shrugged. "I thought I saw a crack but we're all good!"

He put the cup on the countertop and gave Tom a nervous smile. "Y-you taking your break now too?"

Tom watched him warily, but shook his head. "Just came in to let you know about the milk. See, Hanna has this carton of Alpro…"

"Oh I know!" Martin chirped. "She told me this morning, I didn't touch it, don't worry!"

"Mmn." Tom hummed. 

"Y-yeah." Martin said. 

That was all that was said for an excruciating three minutes. 

"Your tea is getting cold." Tom said at last. 

"Uh. I actually didn't make it for me?" Martin said.

"...What." Asked Tom in a flat, suspicious tone. 

Nervousness caught Martin's tongue for a moment. Somehow he felt that getting caught with a teacup on his head was already strange enough, and he didn't want to risk being wrong about it being a favor for Hannah. 

 "I-I mean, I thought you might want some." He said desperately. 

"Oh." The glum suspicion dropped from Tom's face, and he looked at Martin in surprise. 

"Mhm…" Martin hummed nervously. He didn't know if the shock on Tom's face meant this was a good lie…

But soon Tom recovered and took the cup from the countertop. 

"That's… thank you Martin." He said awkwardly, as though gratitude wasn't familiar to him. "That's very kind."

Martin's eyes widened, his back straightening so he stood a little taller. The wings on his back fluttered and puffed up their down, and his halo must have shone bright enough for even Tom to notice. 

He didn't though, merely sipped his drink, gave a last awkward smile, and left the breakroom. 

'You are all that is good and kind in the world.' 

Yes, yes Martin was kind, wasn't he? Martin was a kindly angel that did kindly things! In his worries about finding a flat and trying not to be suspicious to onlookers, Martin had completely forgotten this was what he was as well. 

It wasn't like a holy purpose. Martin could still feel that hole in him, cold and aching. But when Hannah returned he made a cup of tea for her as well, then one for Diana, and another for Tom later that afternoon. All that kindness was like coming home, the only home Martin had at only five weeks old. 

There was still the small matter of the incoming evil, but over the course of his first week in the institute it was easy to forget. It wasn't as if Martin had written down what the holy voice had said exactly, and with his newfound joy in making people happy, Martin was content. 

Over time the message shortened in his mind, and small details were clipped for simplicity. What remained was that Martin was good, and it was through that goodness that he would save the day. The rest would surely come later, and in the meantime, he was glad just to be kind to his friends. 

As for who the dark forces threatened to consume, Martin could be forgiven for forgetting that the voice mentioned him at all. 

Chapter Text

Martin's first month passed, and those that followed were much the same. In the following year, Martin gradually learned every facet of what normal humans did, and found himself a neat little routine:

Martin came to work, said hello to Trisha at the front desk, asked Hannah how she was doing this morning, listened as she gave her latest update regarding the coffee guy, made a tea for Tom, and checked Diana's desk to ensure she had the 'good' sticky notes (she liked the blue ones), and then slowly, carefully, extracted the precious Alpro in order to make a tea for Hannah too. 

Next Martin would get to work on whatever tasks Diana gave him until lunch, wherein he would gently turn down whoever wanted to go with him that day. He'd become a regular at all the nearby coffee shops, but usually preferred the Nero by the station. Once inside he'd wait politely in line with his ten pound note, order a white chocolate mocha with an extra shot, then tip the entirety of his change into the little jar. 

When the drink was finished he'd usually only have about eight minutes to make a ten minute walk back to the library, fifteen if the coffee guy wanted to subtly press for details about Hannah. Once he was safely back at his desk he'd offer the mocha to Diana, who depending on the day she was having, would either thank him for or wordlessly snatch it from his hand. 

It felt nice to be nice. Like a balm for ache his purposelessness left him with. 

The issue was still the nights. Martin worked so hard to gain shelter only to find it dreadfully boring when he wasn't plotting or dodging the police. 

At first he tried decorating, finding a company that would deliver self-assembly furniture while he was working that he could build through the night. Without a proper food budget he could afford as many pieces as he wanted, but his was still a very small flat, and his body was already quite large. To say nothing of the wings, which wouldn't be so small and manageable forever. Once Martin finished the shelf, the table, and the chair, he was already carefully measuring his floorspace to see if he could justify anything more. 

Hobbies, then. Normal humans had hobbies. Martin needed one that didn't take too much of his limited space, nor necessitated an outdoor space. Baking was the first thing Martin tried, it gave him an excuse to use his kitchen and there were plenty of children living in his building who wouldn't say no to a cookie. 

He learned the hard way that adult men weren't really supposed to do that. Even the implication of it was enough to put Martin off the pastime forever. 

Knitting was fun, but spend sixteen hours doing it a day and you wind up with considerably more sweaters than you had before,  which again, space. Painting at least came with the double-passtime of cleaning up after, but in the dead of night in a cramped little flat there wasn't much to paint. Many hobbies were like that sooner or later. Martin came to understand that the time commitment wasn't catered to people who didn't need to sleep. 

Ultimately, though, Martin landed on two: Notebooks and Jars.

Notebooks were handy because he could stack them neatly on his shelf, and just throw out old ones once they'd filled. He'd put pretty much anything in them– journals of his day, vague thoughts, or just copying down entries from the encyclopedia that caught his fancy. For a long time he got into the habit of just writing one word over and over on each page, seeing how far he could get into it before sunrise. 

He'd only managed to fill the book entirely twice, once with the word 'Mister,' then again with the word 'Knock.' Both of which he displayed proudly at the top of his shelf. 

Martin still liked frying his water in the pan, and there were so many lovely glass jars that humans thought nothing of chucking out when they were finished with them. He'd made a little display of them in his fridge, emptying and refilling the water when it started to get funky. Those he couldn't fit in the fridge were cleaned, dried, and placed about the flat.

One time Martin fed one of his notebooks, a one hundred and ninety-two page tribute to the word 'Spider,' into a paper shredder page by page. When crumpled up the strips looked like white-and-gray clouds, which Martin plopped into his dry jars and adorned each surface of his flat. 

Between his acts of kindness and his thrilling personal life, Martin passed the milestone of his first year of human life.

December was an all around jolly affair. Martin liked the windowshop displays and lights hung over the main streets, but had learned the hard way how many of the festivities involved food or drink. 

The one exception was gift giving, or a 'White Elephant' ritual that was apparently more appropriate than giving outright gifts to coworkers. Martin e was a little disappointed to learn that they were each only allowed to submit one gift, and that the rules of the ritual meant you couldn't determine who would walk away with it. Martin would have really preferred to just give everyone something special, but decided that if he was only allowed to get one gift it should be a really good one. 

This was how a luxury gift hamper wound up on the christmas party food table alongside three identical gift cards for TK Maxx. 

It was fought over bitterly. 

There was profanity. 

Martin cried. 

Hannah wound up with it in the end, which prompted Tom to look up and vindictively reveal its price, to which Diana scolded Martin for bringing something valued more than his weekly salary. Martin was banned from participating in any future gift exchanges, the hamper was pried from Hannah's arms, and the event was effectively ruined. 

Left with a hamper full of food that was apparently too expensive to give to any coworkers and no one else he knew outside the institute, Martin ultimately left the gift with Rosie to give to Mr. Bouchard. Apparently there was no price cap for the institute head. 

Greedy sod.

All in all not the best way to round out the first year of Martin's life, especially when he learned that no one would actually be working the next few weeks for the holiday. Martin sat alone in his flat until the new year, his only company a smug phone call from Mr. Bouchard in which he wished him a very happy Christmas and thank-you for the thoughtful gift. 

"...And you can call me Elias." He said fondly. 

Martin hung up. 

The second year brought Martin a firmer resolve. Even as he enjoyed his hobbies and coddling his coworkers, it wasn't what he was here to do. It was starting to feel like he was slagging off his actual job. 

The one reason he was here. The reason he was able to walk and talk at all. His Holy Purpose, which was still a complete mystery to him. 

Logically Martin knew it wasn't his fault. If the Divine Will had something specific in mind, it should have told him what it actually was. But logic had very little to do with the supernatural. Putting off his Holy Purpose was uncomfortable whether it was intentional or not. A year had been plenty of time to get settled, Martin resolved to find his destiny within the next few weeks. 

It made the most sense to begin his search in the institute. It was a place of dark power, and Martin had wound up here without any intervention from the Divine Will. Martin faked a minor infection to take two weeks off work to confirm that his body's eccentricities didn't preclude him from the contract's effect. Surely he'd be able to do something about that if he was really not supposed to be here. 

Working in the library hadn't offered any divine revelation, even from the restricted section that contained the Leitners. Instead Martin set his sights on artifact storage in the hopes that one of the cursed items would speak to him. A quick poking around told Martin that basically everything available to students was fake and that their 'real' artifacts were only to be tested by the research department. It wasn't as though Martin could ask Mr. Bouchard for special access, so instead Martin waited for a moment of relative calm, turned off his body, and walked through the thick security door. 

However, the moment he re-materialised on the other side the loud clang of a fire alarm sounded overhead. Knowing that his absence would be missed, Martin quickly hurried back to his desk to evacuate with the rest of the library staff. 

Apparently there was a new hire in the archives who had accidentally opened an alarmed door. 

"I-I swear, I didn't see any sign!" Mr. Shelley insisted to anyone who would listen. "It was just a regular door! I swear I've used that door before! I didn't know an alarm would go off!"

Martin, who coincidentally was the only person who listened, smiled and patted him on the back. 

"Maybe it was a technical error?" He asked gently. 

Mr. Shelley's boss, a subdued old woman who was marked so thoroughly by the Desolation it was a miracle she never caused her department to spontaneously combust, scoffed and rolled her eyes. Mr. Shelly flinched, his lip wobbling. 

"I-I don't know? Maybe? I-I-I'll ask. I just– I'm really keen to do a good job and I had no idea this would happen!" He stammered. 

Martin smiled and squeezed his shoulder. Mr. Shelley looked up at him like a lifeline. 

A shudder travelled down Martin's spine, and he realized suddenly that he was being watched. 

Of course, from the very first day Martin knew he was being watched. There were hundreds of eyes around the library, from the actual portraits to the more symbolic shapes in the masonry. Even the carpet had a design that resembled a thousand little eyes, which made Martin worry for anyone who came into the library wearing a skirt. It didn't take a genius to figure out who was watching, this was Mr. Bouchard's institute after all, but sometimes Martin could sense his gaze more than others. 

Now was one of those times, and sure enough when Martin looked over he could see the institute's head subtly smirking at him. Martin left Michael to his wallowing to drift close enough to speak. 

"That wasn't very nice, Mr. Bouchard." He said discreetly. 

"I'm a monster." Mr. Bouchard replied, "And please, Martin, call me Elias."

"No." Martin said and stalked away. 

Over the next few months Martin was more subtle about it. He'd drift around the institute instead of taking lunch breaks, introducing himself to the other departments, waiting to feel anything stronger than the dull thrill of making polite conversation. Artifact storage had been a bust, and the research department wasn't any better. They seemed to hold themselves above the rest of the institute, particularly library workers who didn't actually need proper credentials. Martin very quickly sensed that he wasn't welcome there. 

The archives were a bit more friendly, but only because it consisted of two people. The old woman was polite in a distant sort of way, but Michael was all smiles and stammering attempts at conversation. 

"I-I asked around, a-and you were right! Elias says it was a technical error after all!" He said. 

"Oh good." Martin said, smiling awkwardly. 

"Yes, thank you for the suggestion." Michael said. "I um. Well. I thought I'd offer to buy you a drink..?"

Dread yanked harshly at Martin's stomach. "Oh, uh. I don't drink."

"Oh!" Michael cried. "Right, sorry! A coffee then?"

"I… don't like coffee." Martin said. 

The smile on Michael's face twitched. "...Maybe I could just take you to lunch?"

Martin should really just say yes. He'd gotten better at faking eating ever since he'd been caught off guard at the Christmas party. But as much as Martin liked complimenting people or asking about their day, something about spending time on anything that wasn't his Holy Purpose felt like a chore. He had enough chores to do in the library. 

"I take my lunch breaks alone." He said with an apologetic smile.

He fled before he could see Michael's expression fall. 

So maybe his purpose wasn't in the institute, it was just that he wasn't trapped enough to need divine intervention. Martin set his sights around Chelsea next, every moment not spent working he searched the streets top to bottom for even a whiff of the 'great evil' he was meant to be preventing. He watched suspicious characters, peeked in shops, gave money to beggars on the street so often they knew him well enough to make conversation. 

It was no use.  Whatever Martin's purpose was, it wasn't here. 

The remaining months of the year wore on. Martin's investigation had produced nothing but frustration and exhaustion, such that he barely had the energy for his usual acts of kindness. Neglecting those left him even more exhausted, and frustrated by his peer's concern regarding his mood. By the time Christmas rolled around again he could barely muster enough enthusiasm to be disappointed by the reminder he was still banned from the gift exchange. 

But still, Martin felt like he needed to do something, and it wasn't like he had any actual friends. 

"Happy Christmas, Martin." Elias said cheerfully on the day just as he had the previous year. "And thank you so much for the cake. It was very kind of you."

Martin scrunched his eyes shut and let out a small groan. He hated how much that made him feel better. 

"You're welcome." He said hoarsely. 

There was an expectant pause on the other end of the line. Martin sighed, defeated. 

"You're welcome, Elias." He said. 

 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 

Another December passed, and Martin began his third year on earth. 

He gave up on his search to focus on pleasantries, which did wonders for his mood. Everything still felt like an intolerable waste of his time, but at least when he wasted time with Hannah she'd smile and talk about how her new relationship with the coffee guy was going. 

By spring Martin was back to his 'old self' again, and midway through summer he was able to sort of enjoy himself. It was muted, far more muted than his first year, but Martin had learned the hard way what chasing a vague purpose cost. He just couldn't afford to do both.

Especially when he had to deal with Elias. 

"Usually my review is with Diana." Martin told him as he sat down in the little chair across from his desk. 

In lieu of an answer, Elias merely smirked. 

"This isn't a review, Martin. I just thought you'd like to know about an opportunity to advance your station here."

"Could it have been an email?" Martin asked dully. 

Elias chuckled, then sat back lazily in his seat. "I thought it better to do so face to face."

His gaze rose slowly, almost theatrically, as if he wanted Martin to be fully aware of how it travelled from his face, his head, then finally the halo floating above it. The smile became cruel when Martin flinched. 

He hated the way Elias looked at him when they were alone. 

Another shudder travelled down Martin's back, but by now he didn't like to give the creepy git the satisfaction. 

"Well, you've got me–" He said. 

"I have, haven't I?" Mused Elias.

"--So what's this 'opportunity', then?" Martin finished stubbornly. 

Elias smirked. Martin tried to avoid the feeling that he might be enjoying this. 

"A fundraising banquet at my estate." He said evenly. "Many of the institute's biggest collaborators will be there, and as you might guess, that includes a good number of our sort." 

Even as he just made a point not to rise to Elias' taunting, Martin felt his mouth press into a thin line. 

"...And this is an opportunity for me, how?" He asked stiffly. 

"A number of avatars, at home in my estate where they believe themselves to be under truce. We don't play politics during these events, you understand." He trailed off and gave Martin another of his 'winning' smiles. "...But your patron never was much for honor amongst thieves, as it were." 

"You mean we don't enable monsters." Martin clarified. 

Elias laughed, shaking his head as though Martin were a beloved imbecile.

"You seem to be under the impression that you are anything less, but that is a debate for another day." He leaned in close, his gaze turning conspiratorial. "If you were to attend as my guest, poke around, get a lay of the land. You might find something of use to you."

Martin snapped up from the chair, and took a horrified step back. "I'm not smiting your competition, Elias!" 

The affable wickedness suddenly dropped from Elias' face, and he put an offended hand to his breast.

"They are not." Elias said, pronouncing the 't' with considerable disdain, "My competition. Neither are you to 'smite' anyone. This is between you and me, I won't have Lukas or Fairchild interfering."

Martin stared at him, baffled. He really should have something to say about Elias presuming ownership of him, but the larger issue is what he was after.

"...So why do you care how I'm getting on?" He asked warily. 

Elias scoffed, some of his hostility disappearing back behind his mask. 

"Because you've been my employee for three years and haven't succeeded in stopping any of the work we do here." He said. "It was amusing at first, but I've grown rather fond of your incompetence. I thought I'd give you a head start."

"Oh." Martin said.

A wave of lethargy crashed cold across his shoulders. He didn't even sleep, yet suddenly felt the need to lie down. 

"No thanks."

Elias rolled his eyes, misunderstanding Martin's refusal. 

"No need to be suspicious. I can promise that no harm will come to you at my estate." He said. 

Martin scoffed. "Obviously I don't believe that, but even if I did, the answer's still no."

Elias tilted his head, frowning. Martin knew what that meant. 

Over the past three years the watching had become familiar. Most of the time Martin would just shudder and then go back to ignoring it. There was the faint buzzing in his skull, there was the flash of green in Elias' pale gray eyes. Martin steeled himself against the invasion, and just as abruptly Elias seemed to lose interest. The connection cut off with a near audible snap.

"Hm." He said. "Frankly I find that harder to believe. Here I am, making myself vulnerable, offering to let you into my home, and you have no interest? No angel could resist such an advantage towards their Divine Purpose."

Martin blinked. 

"Um. You're not my purpose though, remember?" He asked. 

A silence fell, and Martin saw a flash of irritation in Elias' eyes. It was brief, cracks in the eccentric and approachable persona always were, but Martin could have sworn he'd managed to actually tick him off. 

"Ah, yes." Elias said once he'd recovered. "I had forgotten that was your story."

"Story?" Martin echoed. "What do you mean story? It's the truth!" 

Elias was a servant of the eye, had to have been watching during that year when Martin failed to find his purpose. How dare he insinuate that all that suffering was just a… what? A joke? 

But if Elias could sense his outrage, he didn't show it.

"Come now, Martin." He said kindly, as a parent might to a child caught mid-heist in the pantry. "I saw you poking around, looking for cracks in my defenses. You might not know what draws you, but it is obvious what you're doing."

"I was looking for my purpose, but I didn't find it!" Martin cried. 

The warm disbelief didn't drop from Elias' face, even as he looked again, the familiar buzz scratching at the back of Martin's mind

"Stop that." He snarled, flinching. 

Elias chuckled and sat back in his chair, fingers steepled. 

"I'm not your purpose, yet you have the power to shield your thoughts." He said. "Really, Martin, you could have let me in to avoid suspicion."

"Wh-" Martin choked, "I… I have no idea how I did that!"

Martin felt another buzzing sensation probe in his mind, and this time he really did try not to flinch. But it was like a reflex. He didn't even know how he did it, but the beholding died as abruptly as it had started. 

"Ever so convenient I can no longer know for certain." He said. 

Martin barely heard him. This ability to shield his thoughts, this power, he hadn't even noticed it. How long had Elias been locked out of Martin's thoughts? 

But then, it had been just the same in the jail cell, hadn't it? Martin had simply recognized that he couldn't leave it through conventional means, and then was on the other side of the bars. He knew that the police officers would stop them if they saw him leaving, so he turned invisible. Angel powers just sort of happened. 

They happened when you needed them for your Divine Purpose. 

Martin gaped at Elias. Was it him? This place? It was certainly evil enough. But then, why was it such a pain trying to find out what he needed to do? Why was the only thing that felt right making tea for his coworkers? The Divine Will wouldn't just send an angel to earth to make unknown servitude to a Dark Power a slightly less shitty job. 

And why was dealing with him so annoying? Martin didn't hate Elias, hell they were sort of friends. It was a distant, frustrating sort of friendship you kept because you had literally no one else. Martin never felt an urge to attack him, or mess with him, he bought him christmas presents every year!

"I… I don't know?" Martin stammered. "I mean… wouldn't I care more if you were?"

It was Elias' turn to splutter. "Care? Of course you care! I'm your greatest enemy!" 

The confusion turned awkward fast. Martin smiled weakly, unsure if he should tell Elias that honor actually went to the road sweeping truck that made the annoying sound when it came up the main street at three in the morning. 

"I was looking for my purpose for ages, though." He said instead. "You remember when I tried to get into artifact storage? I-I don't think it's actually in the institute, you must have seen me searching top and bottom!"

"And yet you've stopped." Elias said smugly. "Once you found what you were looking for, presumably."

Martin felt a whine of frustration building in a throat he didn't even have. 

"No, I got sick of it, Elias! It's depressing waiting for an answer that never comes!"

"Then stop waiting and start doing!" Elias snapped. "There is no other reason you would have wound up in my institute! Angels without a holy purpose do not exist, they either complete their work, or are extinguished before they can! The only way you can be sitting here discussing this with me is if I am who you're here for."

He finished the summation with a definitive nod. Martin just stared with his mouth hung open. 

There was more to say about that. So much more. Mostly that Elias had no idea how the Divine Will worked, because he was a monster and a human being at once. But talking to Elias always made Martin tired, and suddenly this conversation was more taxing than most. 

"Fine." Martin said. "Fine, you figured it out. You're my Holy Purpose. And you've won. Can I go now?"

Elias narrowed his eyes. "Don't be smart."

"Oh I'm not!" Martin said, rising from his chair and snatching up his coat. "You're the clever one, so I give up! You don't need to give me hints, or try to help me, or whatever. We can just not talk again. That's just fine."

He could feel the glare digging into the back of his head as he turned to leave the room. 

"Don't walk away from–!" Elias began, but his voice was cut off by the slam of the door. 

It stung to be so rude, even to a prick like Elias, but Martin needed to make his point. Martin didn't know how Elias still carried the notion they were connected, but Martin certainly didn't plan on convincing him. He didn't really have the spare energy to do anything, especially now that he knew he'd been using holy power whenever the Eye tried to look at him. 

Martin resolved to double down on being the friendliest, kindest, most boring library assistant of all time. 

𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 

Another year, another mission. 

This time to have no mission. To just get by with the pitiful satisfaction he could draw from being kind. No suspicious behavior, no double entendre, no room for speculation. If Elias was forcing Martin to waste his powers on protecting his mind, then he'd be stuck watching Martin do nothing. 

Nothing but his job. Nothing but listening to Hannah sing the praises of her new boyfriend. Nothing but kindly rebuffing Michael's affections, or sitting in companionable silence with Tom. The life of Martin Blackwood was empty and boring, not worth the Dark Power's time. 

It took half a year for Elias to be fully convinced that Martin had no intention of conspiring against him. 

Unfortunately that gave him the other half to waste goading Martin into conspiring against him. 

"Hmm, what a shame. It appears as though George from research has taken off quite a bit of time. Must have caught a powerful bug."

"I wonder, have you noticed Trisha's smile is a bit wider than usual?"

"Martin Blackwood today I am going to feed three students to a jack-in-the-box."

Martin whined and walked a little quicker down the hall. Elias practically chased him, speaking low so that the few people in the hallway wouldn't hear. 

"They will request access to a high clearance section of artifact storage, which I will deny despite their approved credentials. Due to Miss Phelp's unfortunate encounter with the Stranger when she was young, she simply will not take no for an answer and–"

Martin slipped a pair of headphones over his faux ears. The music barely carried to his halo, but it did make Elias look insane trying to talk to him. 

Really, Martin should be intervening. Whether this was his Holy Purpose or not, those were innocent people being targeted. But at the same time, Martin doubted that Elias' victims would actually die. Fatalities were a rare enough occurrence that everyone gossiped about them when they did occur, if Elias was really killing researchers left and right Hannah would have told Martin about it. 

And also, things had gotten… worse. Regarding his mood. 

As weeks of Elias' pestering wore on, Martin couldn't help but notice that it exhausted him as much as his own efforts to search had been. Pleasant chatter felt like a chore again, the thrill he got from it not making up for the deficit. 

What he needed, what he really needed, was his true purpose. Martin felt like a shell of what he'd been on his first day, the longer he went without it the harder it was to manage. It was out there somewhere, it had to be, but Martin was stuck at a nine-to-five with a meddlesome horror for a boss. How was he supposed to find his purpose if he was stuck here barely getting through the day on workplace favors? 

All Martin could do was hope that Elias really was the one making things so difficult for him. The grim alternative was that he was clinging to a meaningless routine as he withered away. 

"Excuse me."

It was late in the day when Martin heard a voice over his shoulder, which was why it concerned him to turn around and find himself completely alone. Alone save for the man, of course, who hung politely like a spectre in the otherwise empty room. 

He was clearly a monster. 

They popped up in the institute from time to time, and Martin was getting better at spotting them. He was ghostly pale, and the lapels of his jacket stained with frost despite it being midway through June. While Elias' friendliness and Martin's naivete had obscured his patron during their first meeting, Martin was sure he would have spotted this one. Even as a fledgling he would have sensed the subtle evil of the Lonely. The briny smell alone was a dead giveaway. 

"Where are the others?" Martin asked calmly, as he might inquire about the weather. It was never a good idea to give these things the reaction they wanted.

But the man didn't seem disappointed. He didn't even bother to appear sheepish. He grinned, revealing rows of straight teeth that were the same pure white as his beard. 

He was deeply unpleasant to look at. 

"Nowhere permanent, I assure you." He said. "I'm looking for Elais. I have an appointment?" 

Martin's mouth twitched, glancing between the avatar and the empty room. 

"This is the library, sir?" He finally asked. 

There was a long moment where they just stared at each other, the dull, salty, horror of the Forsaken leaking onto the carpet. Then at last the monster's dour expression split into a gentle smile. 

"You've got my number." He chuckled. "But how could I help it? I had to see the institute's own mastermind angel for myself."

Martin blinked. "What."

"A mastermind, aren't you?" Peter asked. "Elias has been 'complaining' about the treacherous and powerful angel that has been trying to thwart him."

He rather obviously looked Martin up and down, sizing him up. 

"...I'm assuming your appearance is just a part of the deception?" He asked. "Not a bad look to be sure, it's just that my angel had a bit more in the way of… weapons."

Martin sighed with a groan. "I'm not Elias' anything. I just came to work here because I needed the money, and was too stupid to realize this was a place of power."

Peter made a genuine attempt at a shocked expression that didn't meet his eyes. They twinkled with wicked delight. 

"So you haven't been engaging in intense battles of wit with Elias?" He asked. 

"No." Martin said flatly. 

"Hmmm…" He gave another look, closer and more obvious this time. With all the experience Martin had in being watched, now he was looked at by an actual person he could see rubbed him the wrong way. He could only be thankful that servants of the Forsaken wouldn't have any way of seeing his wings. 

After a few more minutes of tense silence, he stepped back with a shrug. 

"Elias must be more clever than me after all, because I'm afraid I'm falling for it." He said. "You really do look like you have no idea what you're doing."

Martin scowled at him. "There's no game. I keep trying to tell him, but he won't get it through his skull.'

The man stroked his beard contemplatively. "Usually the opposite of how he operates. I'm more inclined to believe him than you."

Martin sighed and turned back to his computer screen. "I don't really care what you believe." 

There was a longer pause in which Martin worked as if the man wasn't there. It was not very difficult. But after a time he heard a throat clearing, and looked up to see he was still being watched. 

"Elias isn't here." Martin reminded him. "Of all the places Elias is, here is usually not one of them." 

The man leaned close as if he hadn't heard Martin at all. "Why are you here?"

Martin scowled. As dire as his position here was, the presumption that he'd just be forthright with a servant of the dark forces was just humiliating. Suddenly the gleeful expression made sense. Martin wondered if he even had an appointment with Elias, or this was some new game to goad him into conflict. 

Well it wasn't going to work. Martin had no pride to lose. 

"I don't know. And I don't care if you believe that either." He spat. 

Whether he was an agent of Elias or not, the man made a genuine show of being perplexed. 

"So you don't know what you're for?" He asked. "I don't think I've ever heard of such a thing."

Martin flushed and focused on his computer. Very important returns he had to log…

"An angel without a purpose." The monster mused in a warm voice, almost adoring. "I imagine that's quite a lonely existence–"

"Peter."

Both of them snapped up straight and turned. Elias was standing at the entrance to the library, looking as though he might have ran there. 

Martin prepared for whatever annoying double act they might have in mind, while 'Peter' just turned with a fond smile. 

"Oh, hello Elias." He said. "I was just asking your employee where I could find you."

Elias' chest rose and fell with exertion, enough that he almost looked like a person. After years of being smugly toyed with, Martin realized he'd never actually seen him peeved. Seeming to notice this himself, Elias stiffened and smoothed a hand through his already immaculate hair. 

"Peter." Elias said patiently. "You have kept this bi-anual appointment with me for the past several years, and my office is in the same part of the building that it always has been."

Peter hummed. "Well, I just have a very poor sense of direction I suppose."

"You are a sea captain." Elias practically hissed through his teeth. 

Martin really wished he wasn't in the middle of this. Oh, it looks like Pauline finished her work on the Lesser Key of Solomon. Martin wondered how her term paper turned out. 

"Well you've found me now." Peter said goodnaturedly. "Shall we go?"

Elias' glare shifted fiercely enough to make Martin flinch. He could no more see inside Martin's head than he could the past few months, but after a moment seemed satisfied that his encounter hadn't… corrupted him or anything. 

'If I was going to fall, it would have happened by now.' Martin thought petulantly. 

"Fine." Elias said after a time, the thrum of his attention waning from Martin's skull. "I would thank you to remember the way this time, this excuse of yours is growing tiresome." 

"I have an adventurous spirit." Peter replied. "Who knows where I'll wind up?"

Whatever row they were having, Elias finally had the sense to hold his tongue until they didn't have an audience. But even so, as they left Martin could hear a discreet: 'Stay away from my angel.' before the door swung shut. 

𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 

Year five, Elias became more proactive. 

Forgoing hints, teasing, and the pretense of 'meetings' altogether, he cornered Martin during a moment where the others were occupied outside the library. Even as Martin could feel the buzzing and hear the aggressive clearing of Elias' throat, he continued to shelve books in the thin hope that he might go away. 

"Mr. Trevor Herbert is going to give a statement today." Elias announced. 

Sighing. Martin turned slowly from the shelf. "Who?"

The frustration dropped from Elias' face. He straightened his posture and was all smug smiles again. 

"A friendly old tramp. Beloved in his home city of Edinburgh. He's had some run-ins with vampires, and will be making his statement in person today." He explained. 

"...So?" Asked Martin. 

Elias huffed a short laugh. 

"So, he is an old man suffering from cancer who has been hounded by the Hunt since he was a child. While giving statements isn't too rigorous, it does take something out of them to give to the eye. It's likely he will not survive his appointment."

"Oh." Martin said. "That's a shame."

"It's more than a shame, Martin. He's marked by the Hunt, and quite keen about it. When he dies he will doubtless resurrect as an avatar." explained Elias. 

"Mhm…" Martin hummed distractedly. 

"...It won't just be vampires he goes after." Elias continued. "The hunt slowly consumes its avatars until they don't need an excuse to stalk and terrorize. Today a monster is going to be born in these halls."

"Elias…"

"You'd be doing a great deal of good for your patron. Think of it as a birthday present." Elias said. 

Martin heaved his shoulders and produced the sound of a deep, frustrated sigh. It was times like this he wished he had real lungs, just so that he could properly express how annoying Elias was in a way that he could feel. 

"The day I manifested was a month ago." He said flatly. 

"Yes," Elias nodded. "But I'd consider the day you found your holy purpose to be more significant."

Martin shut his eyes. There it was. 

"You're not my purpose Elias." He reminded him. 

Elias scoffed. 

"And how would you know that?" He demanded. "You've done nothing but shelve books since you came here!"

"So, you win then." Martin said tiredly. "Congradulations."

Elias made a disgusted noise and rolled his eyes. 

"As if it remotely counts when you won't even try." He snapped. "How do you know I'm not your purpose if you've never even given me a chance?"

Martin thunked his head against the frame of the bookshelf and counted to ten. 

"It really doesn't work that way." He tried to adopt a gentle tone despite his frustration. "Honestly Elias, you've been pretty horrible to work for. I would love to be your arch nemesis or whatever." 

"Thank you." Said Elias stiffly. 

"But that's just not what I'm here for." Martin insisted. "It's not you, it's me."

Another silence fell, in which Martin wondered if looks could, in fact, kill. 

"Martin, as your employer I am ordering you to dispose of Trevor Herbert." He said. 

"I'm busy." Martin whined. 

"This is more important." Elias snarled. "I am important."

"Sure, alright." Martin agreed. "Everyone is important in their own special–" 

Elias made a disgusted sound and turned sharply on his heel, leaving Martin to his peace at last. Sighing, Martin got back to work. 

It had been over a year since Elias had started this game, and he didn't show any signs of stopping. Even now that he internalized that Martin wasn't lying, it seemed to just be replaced by the belief that Martin was being… lazy? Irresponsible? It didn't matter. 

Neither did it especially matter to Martin why Elias wanted an arch nemesis so badly. Who could say what semi-humans were after. 

Still, it was food for thought. If Elias wasn't going to get bored of this, if he was going to keep using his powers to drain Martin's defenses, then what did Martin have to lose by going along with it? He'd be at a deficit either way, perhaps he should just use up all his powers and get it over with. 

It wasn't that he wanted to die or anything, because he wouldn't. All that would happen is that he'd fade away until he was weak enough to be drawn back into the Divine Will. This perplexing body and mind would be unmade, molded into something new, and sent back down to earth. There was certainly shame in it, Martin had failed, but it was a better fate than falling. 

The holy purpose wasn't coming, Martin could see that now. He'd had a decent go, at five years old he'd already 'lived' longer than many angels did. He'd made friends, had hobbies, and been kind. At least that part of his purpose had been fulfilled. It was better than nothing. Whoever or whatever he was going to be made into, Martin sincerely wished them luck. 

And if he was going to fade away, at least he could do some good before he did. 

It took a few weeks after the resolve for Martin to figure out where best to intervene. 

Something bad was going to happen to Michael Shelley. He was an archival assistant, and from Elias' teasing they didn't seem to last long. Apparently the polite, cold, woman in the basement stank so heavily of desolation because she spent her spare time averting rituals. Rather impressively as well, she had a track record better than some angels, and similarly to avenging angels, wasn't too fussed about collateral damage. She had a nasty habit of feeding her assistants to the dark forces as a first recourse, and Shelley was her only one left. 

And coincidentally, he and Martin were already kind of friends. Martin would rather something bad didn't happen to Michael Shelley, thank you. 

When Martin made his excuses to go down to the archives, he wondered if Elias was watching. Apparently he couldn't see Martin through any set of eyes but the ones in his skull, but was able to see how others spoke to him. Martin certainly didn't feel any watching as he made his way down, only to realize with a start that there were no eyes down here. 

How the hell did Gertude swing that?

Crash! 

Martin jumped and whipped around to see a tower of manilla folders toppling off a desk. Beneath them was Michael, wide-eyed and already red in the face, staring up at Martin as though he could see the wings. 

"M-Martin! Hello!" He stammered as he tried to wriggle free of the mess. "S-sorry, I uh. I was surprised to see you!"

It was difficult to look at Michael without pity tugging at Martin's heart. He knelt to offer the man his hand, then pulled him up from the pile of statements. Michael stumbled a bit once upright, eyes widening further. 

"W-woah! Hah!  You've very strong- I mean, um–! Thank you Martin." He theatrically cleared his throat. "C-can I help you with something?"

Something squirmed in the place Martin's heart would be. Looking down at Michael's flushed cheeks and awkward grin, it gave Martin the sudden impression he was holding this poor man's life in his hands. His skin crawled with anxiety, tea and compliments were one thing, but he was really about to save someone. Properly save them. With magic and powers and things. With the war between good and evil. 

There was no telling what would happen if Martin messed this up. 

"I um…" Martin began, words suddenly failing him. "I just… ah…"

He stammered, unprepared for how difficult this would be. It had all made sense in his mind on the walk down here, but suddenly it was like all rational thought had fled him. Martin took a beat to calm down, allowed his body to perform a self-steadying sigh, and tried again with a shy smile:

"A-actually, I was hoping I could help you." He said. "I um. Remember how you always ask me if I'm doing anything after work?"

Michael's smile twitched. His eyes displayed sheer panic. He opened his mouth, closed it, laughed, and then rubbed the back of his neck. 

"Y-yes, and you uh. You always say you are?"

Martin nodded. "Well today I don't!" 

"You don't…?" Michael asked. 

"Don't have anything after work." Martin finally said. 

Michael just stared at him as though he thought this might be a dream. Martin waited patiently for him to respond, and when he didn't, bounced awkwardly on the balls of his feet. 

"So uh." Martin said. "If you still want–"

The spell over Michael snapped in an instant. 

"I do!" He said quickly. "I would love to, thank you!"

Martin performed a sigh of relief. "Good."

"I get off at 10." He said hurriedly. "Want to meet for drinks?"

The smile dropped from Martin's face. That's right.

"I don't drink." He said in a small, apologetic voice. 

Michael's expression fell with abject despair. 

"Ah, that's right." He said. "W-well um..!"

"...But I don't mind watching you drink." Martin said. "If that's not weird for you?"

Michael brightened just as quickly. 

"Oh! Not weird! N-not weird at all! Haha! Very very not weird! U-um, yes! Not– I said that already…" He babbled. "I-I suppose I'll meet you after work? O-or I should I take your number or um–!"

"After work." Martin said with a polite nod. "By the pillar. I'll see you then?"

Finally the manic excitement seemed to exhale from Michael with a huff. He wobbled on his feet, as if dizzy with relief, but nodded his head and managed to speak relatively calm. 

"See you then." He said. 

Martin gave him a nod in kind. With a last conspiratorial smile, he turned and fled from the archives, watching Michael's dreamy expression from his halo as he went. 

'This is what I'm for.'

Martin repeated it to himself as he walked back to the library, over and over through his shift. 

'Not this specifically, maybe, but in the grand scheme of things, this is what I'm for.'

Martin was a failure. He was half-formed and without a chance to complete, but he was still an angel. Still a manifestation of the Divine Will. He was still supposed to stop a great evil, and there was evil in Michael's future. If he could save just one person from the Dark Powers, this mistake of an existence would have been enough. 

So why did it feel so wrong? 

Why did dread pulse under his skin as he smiled at the others. Why was there a drag in his feet as he stalked about his duties? Why did this feel like war when all Martin was doing was going for drinks after work? 

This could be part of Elias' game. The taunting, their 'rivalry', all of it. He might have just been waiting for Martin to choose a human worth saving, only to have a place to focus his cruelty. In a naive hope of doing good, Martin might have just consigned poor Michael to death. 

"Heavens Martin, you're still here?" Asked Diana as she poked her head out of the library. "I'm nearly off, and I've been here ages!"

Martin smiled sheepishly and drummed his fingers against the bar of the returns cart. "I'm just hanging around until 10."

Diana, who had been a cool and competent superior for the five years Martin had known her, did a double take. When she met Martin's nervous expression her face broke into a knowing smirk. 

"Meeting someone?" She asked. 

Martin responded with an appropriate 'gulp.' 

"Poor Michael." Diana said, shaking her head. "Gertrude really puts him through the ringer, doesn't she?"

Martin choked on something between a laugh and a sob. 

Michael was waiting just where Martin asked him to, nearly as tall and thin as the pillar he leaned on. There was an attempt to appear nonchalant, gazing around the room as though he wasn't fussed whether Martin showed up or not. The anxiety showed itself in his hands, though. Long and thin, they twitched into fists over his garishly colored trousers. 

'Was he wearing those when I saw him last..?' Martin wondered. 

Then he noticed the sweater was different too. Had Michael seriously given a later time just so he could run home and change? 

Martin flexed his own fingers. Michael was always so nervous, but Martin always assumed that was just because he fancied him. But he should be nervous. He should be scared. There was a lot worse than could happen than a bad first date. How much did Michael actually know? Did he know how much danger he was in? Did he see this as anything more than a date he'd been hoping for? 

This poor man. This poor species. Poor Hannah, Tom, and Diana. Poor, stupid, mankind, that was as lovely as it was doomed. There were so many of them, and Martin was just so weak– 

"O-oh! Hello!" Michael perked up when he saw him, the attempt at aloofness shattering. "Uh… are we still meeting?"

Martin blinked. "Yeah, why?"

Michael cocked his head to the side. "Just that you look like you're about to go hiking?"

"At night?" Martin asked. 

Michael giggled nervously. "I-I suppose that was a silly thing to assume, but that is a hiking bag, isn't it?"

Realization dawned embarrassingly, clutching at the place where Martin might have a heart. He thumbed the straps of his rucksack, so familiar that he barely noticed them anymore. 

Two or so years back his wings had grown to be a problem. Not large enough to fly, but plenty large enough to make riding the tube deeply uncomfortable. He'd taken to cutting out the backs of rucksacks so he could stuff them inside. The other passengers didn't like having a backpack in their face, but it was better than being buffeted by something invisible. 

"Oh uh…" Martin babbled uselessly, "I broke my satchel a few years ago, a-and just started using this. Does it look odd?"

Martin expected more nervous giggling, babbling, Michael-ness. Instead Michael just laughed, and looked at Martin with an expression so warm he forgot which of them was the angel for a moment. 

"Maybe." Michael said. "But I think it's interesting."

Martin's hand tightened into a fist. He really, really, didn't want Michael to die. 

"Let's be off, then." Michael said. "I'm guessing I'm choosing, s-since you don't drink and all…"

Martin nodded, and followed Michael out of the institute. 

This wouldn't be the first time he was asked to drinks. Hannah and Tom had each made their go of it, the former out of pity, the latter being pitiful. But Hannah had real friends she could be spending time with, and Tom was a weird old duck who preferred his own company, so both of them only offered once or twice. 

The researchers apparently were more chummy, as Martin could see a few of them hanging around the entrance. It was a proper old place, with a striped red awning and a union jack hung over the door. The inside smelled like beer and old leather, and the faintest hint of sick covered up by a scented spray. 

Martin tried not to grimace too obviously as he followed Michael to the bar. He needed to focus. 

"You want a soda or something?" Michael asked over his shoulder. 

Martin shook his head. "That's alright. And put your wallet away, I asked you." 

Michael's mouth twitched. 

"I uh, I don't know how I feel about you paying if you don't order anything..?" He said awkwardly. 

Martin's stomach dropped. Usually 'I don't drink' was a suitable explanation that didn't arouse suspicion, but to clarify that he literally doesn't drink…

"...I'll take a coke." He finally went with, eyeing the tables that were in tipping-distance of the dusty old planter boxes. 

Once the drinks were in hand they took their seats, and Martin's actual work began. 

"So… what brought you to the institute?"

Michael flinched, his eyes widening, his hand twitching around the straw of the cocktail he'd ordered. Just like they all did when asked. 

Everyone in the institute had a story. From the desolation-riddled archives to the tidy desks in the research department. There were probably a handful of students who were interested in the paranormal for purely academic reasons, but they didn't tend to land the job once they graduated. 

The odd thing was, that they didn't know that everyone had a story. By some dark design, they had all come to the independent conclusion that they alone had a brush with the truly esoteric, and couldn't fathom that someone else might have experienced the same. Michael certainly seemed caught off guard, and the nervous way he wondered whether he was allowed to refuse the question implied that no one had actually asked him before. 

"Um…" He mumbled. "Just uh. Was interested, is all."

Before Martin could even think of pressing further, Michael perked up and pointed to the overly large rucksack. 

"S-so what do you have in there, anyway?" He asked. 

Martin frowned. Right. This was a 'date' not an interrogation. He'd need to proceed naturally. 

Carefully sliding his wings out of the rucksack without exposing the holes, Martin made a show of digging through it. Honestly he barely carried anything. His wallet and keys fit in his pockets, and the rucksack had to be hollowed out to fit his wings. But he did have a journal pressed into the bag, which as he recalled, didn't have anything especially strange in it. He pulled it out and presented it to Michael. 

"I like to write things down." He said awkwardly. 

Michael looked from the little notebook to the massive bag, and laughed lightly to himself. He reached out a hand to hover over Martin's journal, eyes glancing up for permission. 

"Go ahead." Martin said with a shy smile. 

Martin took advantage of the distraction to empty his coke out the window, and in doing so, realized the bottle it had come in was quite lovely. And small despite its ornate shape, it would look lovely in his bathroom cabinet. Martin was able to tuck the bottle away just as Michael looked up from reading. 

"Oh! is that Krasiński?" He asked, pointing to a passage. 

Martin blinked. "Bless you..?"

Michael turned the book to show the page he was looking at.

"Zygmunt Krasiński. Psalms of the Future, right?" Michael said, pointing to the lines. "Do you like gothic poetry, Martin?"

Martin glanced down at the words he'd jotted down on the train ride this morning. 

….K’niemu wciąż dążę,  zrazu tam iść muszę

Przez piekła trudu,  przez czysce zasługi, 

Aż zacznę wdziewać i ciała, i dusze

Bardzieగ promienne, i wstąpię w świat drugi.

W świat, co od wieków zwan okręgiem nieba,

I w nim letargów mi గuż nie potrzeba

Ani przebudzeń z grobu, by iść wyżeగ.

Tam żywot wieczny, żywot nieustanny, 

Grób i kolebka, konieczne, są niżeగ,

Na tych planetach, gdzie świt Ducha ranny,

Gdzie człowiek Boga niemowlęciem గeszcze

I kwili tylko przeczucia swe wieszcze, 

Lecz dla aniołów śmierci nigdzie nie ma…

"...Uh. Yeah." He said. 

Michael studied the passage. "You have nice handwriting. I once tried to keep a notebook of translated poetry, b-but I could never get the calligraphy right."

Never was Martin so glad he didn't have sweat glands. He looked again at the poem that he apparently hadn't actually come up with himself. Was it not in english…? 

He'd thought he was past finding new and embarrassing ways he was bizarre. His knee started to bounce. 

"S-so um." Martin cleared his throat and discreetly tugged his journal out from Michael's fingers. "What's it like working in the archives?" 

Michael didn't seem as intimidated by this question. 

"Oh, pretty quiet actually. Ms. Robinson is strict, b-but you can tell she's kind. I worry about her when she stays late. I don't like her climbing those stairs on her own…"

It took considerable effort not to let the astonishment show on Martin's face. 

"...Right." He said. "So… you see a lot of weird stories then?"

Michael just shrugged, pinching the little red straw of his drink between his fingers. "No more than anywhere else, I suppose."

"...It doesn't feel weird to you down there?" Martin probed further. 

"Haha… weird? Is that what people say about us?" Michael laughed nervously. 

"N-no!" Martin stammered. "Not at all, just uh. Um…"

He pinned his lips together, trying to think of an excuse. 

"Well, didn't someone die there recently?" 

It was the wrong thing to say. Michael's entire body went stiff, like frozen prey. He glanced nervously up at Martin's face, then down at the empty space between them.

"O-oh, you finished your drink?" He laughed. "L-let me get you another one…" 

With that he fled the table, weaving between enough bodies that Martin wouldn't be able to see him if not for his real eyes floating above his head. Once presumed out of sight he smoothed back his hair and seemed to be making an effort to calm himself. Martin could even hear some self admonishment, as if he thought he was the one making a fool of himself. 

Martin tilted his head back and groaned. It was so frustrating, they both knew there was more to the institute than dusty old books, so why dance around it? What Martin wouldn't give to be able to just… pluck the story out so he could have something to work with!

'I'm trying to help you…'

He couldn't help but notice when Michael returned he had another alcoholic beverage for himself as well. A cycle established itself quickly. He'd come back with drinks for them both, and they'd take turns asking questions. Michael was interested in Martin's past, his friends, and his favorite foods. Martin had none, so would try to change the subject. Or laugh so that he could dump his coke. Martin would inquire as to similar subjects to put Michael at ease, but each time he tried asking about work again Michael would jump up to get them more drinks. 

If not for Michael's back being to the room, Martin might have suspected he was also dumping his drinks with how quickly they went through them. 

Soon the conversation became… weird. Michael was blinking too much, his words slurred, and the chirpy awkward way he spoke was replaced with laughter and bizarre observations.

 "Isslike… windows. But with a dot innem." He said, "To like… a grassy field?" 

Martin's smile froze on his face. "Uh. What?" 

Michael groaned and melted into the palm that was holding up his face. 

"Your eyesss." He said in a sort of whine. "They're sooooo greeeeen!"

Right. 

Hm. 

Nothing Martin had learned brought him any closer to finding out what lurked in Michael's future. He didn't even know which power had marked him. Should he have been more aggressive with his questioning? Should he have asked not to do anything with drinking?

Honestly it was almost worth calling this one a bust. Elias would probably be suspicious, maybe keep a closer eye on Michael from now on, but if they kept meeting like this Martin could just play it off like he was genuinely interested. Elias didn't have to know that Martin wasn't meant for that sort of thing, he was in fact, willfully ignorant of the things Martin wasn't for. Why couldn't a worthless angel have a fling before he faded away? 

And if they did this every week, become 'boyfriends' or whatever, Martin might be there to intervene when the other shoe dropped. 

"Maybe we should call it a night." Martin said, gently putting his hand over yet another cocktail Michael had brought back from the bar. 

Michael's face fell. "What? Oh.. nononono! Did I do somphing wrung?" 

"Not at all." Martin smiled and shook his head. "But it is getting late. How about we go back to yours?"

Michael stared at him wide eyed, the light tint to his cheeks growing until his entire face was scarlet. 

"Woah…" He murmured softly, then wobbled his head in a nod. "Y-yeah! Yes! Please!"

There was a clatter as Michael stood so abruptly it sent his discarded drink rolling across the table. He swore and tried to stop the glass spinning, only to sluggishly wipe his hands through the pungent puddles of vodka and syrup. 

"S-sorry! Sorry!" He slurred, though there was an almost manic smile on his face that suggested he wasn't too fussed about it. 

"Shall we go? Martin?"

Martin cocked his head at the puzzling reaction. He'd thought Michael would be put out to be separated from the bar, but he seemed more excited about going home for some reason. Maybe he wasn't enjoying the date either..?

The thought weighed on Martin as they stumbled out of the pub. Dating wasn't something he'd even considered before, but the fact he might be bad at it made him unpredictably sad. Martin didn't like disappointing people…

Michael, on the other hand, was either unbothered or too drunk to care. He clung adoringly to the hand Martin had offered to him, smooshing his reddened cheek against his shoulder. His complimentary prattling continued, praising Martin's eyes, his hair, his stature, the size of his feet for some reason..?

"Ss'was fun." He slurred in summation. "I'm having fun. You're so… fun…"

Martin tried not to be relieved at that. It made him feel like a damn dog the way he perked up at the mere suggestion he'd done a good job.

"Thissis the best week ever." Michael continued. "First Gertrude… n'now this?"

Martin stopped short, causing. Michael to swing giggling into his chest.

"...What about Gertrude..?" He asked.

Michael's face broke into a broad smile. 

"Gertrude used to go on allis'… trips. America, Istanbul, Alexandria…B-but shesso old now. I was 'urprised when she told me we were going to Russia."

The night air around them suddenly felt very cold. 

"Russia?" Martin repeated.

Michael hummed and nodded into Martin's bicep.

"Sommace' called Sannikov Land. She asked me along to help her next week." He said. "I'm going on an adventure!" 

"How long have you known about this?" Martin demanded harder than he intended. 

Michael just frowned with confusion. "Uh… today? Why do you ask?"

Martin shut his eyes and tried to appear less hysterical about what should be exciting news.  

"Isn't that um. Risky?" He asked. "Maybe you shouldn't go?"

The frown on Michael's face broke into a wide smile. He practically beamed up at Martin before nuzzling into his chest again. 

"Are you worried about me? Thas'sweet…"

"O-of course I am…" Martin mumbled, squeezing his shoulders.

Michael made a happy noise, then stepped back. "Howbout you gimme a sweet goodbye? For luck?"

Martin frowned. Could he do that?

He looked over the swaying, intoxicated Michael and waited for something to happen within himself. 

It occurred to him only now that he didn't really have the most useful powers for a rescue. He could turn invisible, walk through walls, and keep Elias from probing his mind. 

The only time he'd consciously used his powers was to escape the holding cell. Even then he didn't think anything of it, only that his purpose wasn't in that cell, and there was no other way to leave it. Angels could only live by their purpose, and as such their powers only manifested around it. Martin was basically a human being who happened to have some invisible body parts. 

But it wasn't as though Martin was the only non-fighting kind out there. Agnes had been able to save those poor Hilltop orphans just by sneaking kisses without the puppet noticing. It was with this in mind that he cupped Michael's face in both hands, and pulled him into a kiss.

'This is my purpose.'

He just needed for it to make sense. Like the jail cell had. Martin just needed to push through the awkwardness and the screaming inside himself that this was inherently, unavoidably wrong. Luckily Michael didn't seem to feel the same. He was writhing, breathing fast through his nose, clinging, pressing–

Oh dear. 

Oooooh dear. 

Was he..? 

Yes. 

He was. He very much was. 

That was… Hm. 

It's not what Martin was for though? It wasn't like Martin did know, though he was certain he'd have more to work with if it was. So maybe he could just push back a little…

O-kay. Michael was clinging tighter now. And that was his…

Oh dear. 

Right. That was enough of that. Martin placed his hands kindly on Michael's shoulders and pushed him back, flinching at the wet sound of them coming… unstuck. 

"Micheal!" He gasped. "I don't… stop!"

Michael's hazy eyes became sharp with mortification. "W-what? Did I do something wrong?"

He hadn't, that was the worst thing. It wasn't his fault that Martin wasn't human. 

"I just don't… do that." Martin said, nodding to the situation he was anatomically incapable of correcting. "Sorry if I was um. Leading you on."

Michael glanced down, and when his head snapped up it was like Martin had just condemned him to death. He slapped his hands over the protrusion and curled over it like he'd been kicked. Martin couldn't help but find the image endearing, and found himself wondering if his mouth was deep enough for a compromise…

"N-no no!" Michael babbled i stead. "God- I'm embarrassed! P-please don't… I just–! I really really like you…"

"It's fine!" Martin said. "It's fine, Michael. Lets just… get you to bed, yeah?" 

Michael nodded pitifully, and Martin slung an arm around his shoulder. Together they walked the short distance to the tube, then onwards to Michael's flat. Between giving directions Michael slurred apologies and praise.

"You're so kind…"

Martin kept his vision trained stubbornly ahead. He didn't like how giddy he felt. Carrying Michael home was better than anything he'd done in months. It was as if the more pathetic the person's state, the more satisfying it was to help them. Like it was… the way it was for the other ones. 

It was an old suspicion that Martin tried actively to not think about. 

There continued to be no surge of divine inspiration as Martin unlocked Michael's door and carried him to bed. Martin was worried when he felt Michael grope for him, but it seemed as though he only wanted to be held. Beds weren't really suited to Martin, he'd spent months working to afford a mattress only to learn that he'd come to appreciate the gap for his wings. Now he just used some sofa cushions atop the bedframe if he wanted a lie down, which wasn't often in any case. 

Micheal seemed content to lay his head in Martin's lap, humming happily when he felt Martin's fingers in his hair. There really was so much of it. Martin couldn't help but notice the way it caught the light in the bar. Like a halo. 

"Please…" Martin murmured in the darkness. 

It wasn't like he wanted super powers. He didn't need a flaming lance or to fly, or to be able to smite anything. He just needed to know how to help Michael. How to get him out of this doomed voyage. He said that he and Gertrude would be leaving in only a week. Even if Martin asked him out every night until then, he wouldn't have enough time to build up enough trust to demand Michael stay behind. And it wasn't like he could just say what would happen. He didn't know what would happen. Only that Michael probably wouldn't come back. 

"Anything." Martin begged. "I just need to know what to…"

Then, it came. 

And Martin did not like it. 

Michael groaned when Martin flinched, then snuggled closer in the following stillness. 

"I… I can't do that!" Martin hissed in a desperate whisper. "I don't even… how would I…"

But there was nothing to argue with. The Divine Will hadn't spoken to him in the first place, not like it had his first day. Instead it was like a memory had just appeared in Martin's mind, and suddenly he knew that the only thing that would stop Michael from getting on that boat was losing his job in the archives. 

Martin's only useful power was the ability to phase through walls. It didn't even feel like a proper one, outside of escaping that police cell all he'd ever used it for was reaching into the computer to brush dust out of the fan. He'd become quite practiced at it. Only making his hand intangible, learning how to reach in delicately, his fingers solid enough for only a moment, and only enough to gently nudge. It was as if he'd been training precisely for this. 

Micheal shifted in Martin's lap, this time letting go of a warm, soft, sigh that seeped into Martin's knee. He was face down now, hair falling in ringlets to expose the back of his neck. It was like he was presenting himself, giving permission for the grim work ahead. 

"No he's not…" Martin whimpered. 

The poor thing was just drunk. Martin had gotten him drunk, followed him home, and was now sitting in his bed. Michael thought they were friends. He was only clinging like this for comfort. 

Martin could be a friend, if he wanted. He could stroke Michael's hair, maybe stay the night and be there with some hastily googled hangover remedy in the morning. He could text the archivist on Michael's phone asking for the day off, and hang around looking after him all day. He could make him tea. He could hold his hand. He could even kiss him again, if that was what he wanted. 

And it would feel good. It would feel so good. Just like it would feel good to mourn him when news of his death came back to the institute. To meet his friends and family, and help them through their grief. It would feel so good to be a friend. It might even sustain him. 

Or Martin could be an angel. And let Michael hate him as much as he needed to.

'This is what you're for.'

He held back a sob, turned off his hand, and reached in through the back of Michael's pretty blonde hair to nudge his retinas from the optic nerve.  

The next day, Michael Shelley woke with a pounding headache and a gut full of dread. He belatedly called in sick from work, thinking that his spasming pupils and blurry vision was nothing more than a hangover. The next day he couldn't justify taking off work, so even though his vision had begun to split, he tried to get on as normal. It would take a week of worsening symptoms until he finally went to Urgent Care, where he was told that unfortunately he'd come in too late to save his eyesight. 

He received an email from the institute while he was still in the hospital. A nurse had to read out to him that he'd been terminated because of his unexplained absence last week. It seemed a bit of an overreaction, but Michael supposed he would have needed to resign anyway. 

Martin was devastated. The numbness that had permeated the last five years cracked into a cold pang of agony. He just couldn't stop picturing Michael's face when they'd gone out. So hopeful, almost innocent, as if he couldn't believe his luck. That Gertrude had invited him on some mysterious adventure and he'd been asked out on a date with his crush? He must have thought this was the most exciting week of his life. 

And Martin had taken that hopefulness, that excitement and then…

And then he…

Martin felt sick. Like he needed to void a stomach he didn't have. No matter how he told himself that Michael was better off, that it was worth it to be free from the institute, or whatever horrible thing Gertrude would have done to him in Russia, it made no difference. Martin just kept picturing that happy, smiling face. He'd never see it again. 

It was foolish to think he could actually help. Angels saved humans from the Dark Powers either through necessity or mere collateral against whatever manifestation they were disrupting. You couldn't just do it willy nilly, especially if you were a worthless, purposeless angel with no powers and no idea what to do. Martin was as helpless as a human, and when humans tried to escape the fears, there was always a price as horrible as their fate. 

Michael Shelley would never go to Sannikov land, and Martin Blackwood never tried to 'save' someone again.

Chapter Text

"...So I'm getting better with the cane, a-and my claim for assistance has gone through, but it might take ages for me to g-get a spot in a program. It's j-just easier for me to go back home to stay with some old friends. I um. N-never really met anyone like that in London…"

Michael smiled apologetically, as if Martin might be offended that he was included in that summation. As if after a single disastrous date, Martin would insist upon being his own personal nurse. As if Martin had seen him waiting outside the institute, and hadn't practically fallen over himself in his desperation to make sure he was alright. 

Martin made a fist in his pant leg. It was like he had to physically restrain himself from begging Michael to let him help. 

"T-thats nice." He murmured instead. "I'll uh. Miss seeing you?"

Michael's face twitched. 

"Uh, yeah. I suppose." He said. "Though er, even if I was staying, I don't think I– I mean there's so much going on with me right now…"

"Right." Martin agreed. 

"It's just," Michael continued as if he hadn't. "You're great, but–"

"Mhm." Martin hummed. 

"...Yeah." Michael said. 

Neither felt the need to comment further. Eventually Michael's coffee cup was empty, and Martin's fragrant tea had gone cold. Martin had to be back at work in five minutes. 

They made their awkward goodbyes, Martin promised to convey Michael's specific apologies to Gertrude, and the man whose life Martin ruined walked out the coffee shop door, never to see him again. 

Martin sighed and got up to fetch Diana's coffee for her, then made his way back to the institute. 

The worst thing was, Martin could make it work. He had plenty of money saved up, his lack of a food budget and obscenely low energy bill meant finding a two bedroom flat would be easy enough. As Michael said they weren't that kind of close, but Martin could say he has experience nursing, spin some story about caring for an ailing mother in the past or something. 

It would take some fumbling around each other, but it would be easy to hide Martin's eccentricities with the blindness. Martin could 'wake up' early to eat before Michael could ask, go to work, and then come home to a person who needed him. Someone who was in a new, terrifying place where he needed plenty of help and support. Someone whose only purpose in Martin's life was to be the recipient of his kindness. 

The thought made Martin sick. Worse was how much he knew he needed it. 

Martin finally arrived at the heavy institute door, and even with his hands full, made sure to hold it open for Ms. Robinson as she tried to conceal a limp. The woman gave him a quiet, suspicious once-over, but then nodded her head in thanks. 

"Very kind of you." She said, and Martin felt practically nothing. 

He watched her go, trying to determine if that had been an intentional dig or not. The Archivist, and by now Martin had surmised it was 'Archivist' with a capital 'A', hadn't yet made any accusations of Martin thwarting her plans. She had still gone to Sannikov Land, and since she'd survived, presumably another person had gone with her. But Martin still wasn't sure if she was properly evil or not, as the Beholding loved to play around with 'knowing all' but not actually understanding their role in things. It was very much in line for an Archivist to obsessively catalog the unknown but never understand what powers she was feeding, though Martin wasn't really in a position to care. 

It was year six, and things were getting dire.

It had been ages since pithy 'kindness' had done anything to fill the hole in his life. By now he couldn't blame Elias, the institute, or his lack of effort in keeping up with his chores. The longer Martin went without his purpose, the less his distractions could sustain him. 

Martin sighed and continued on to the library. He set Diana's coffee on her desk, then went to sag into his swivel chair.  

It was going to be a slow, exhausting decline. Using his powers on Michael had left Martin haggard, he could probably snuff himself out quickly if he kept looking for excuses to do it again. But Martin had no illusions of it going any better next time. There was no telling what his next 'salvation' would entail, and whether walking away with a life-altering disability was the best outcome he could hope for. 

"Hey, you're back!" Hanna chirped. "How was Michael?" 

Martin realized his faux eyes were pointed directly at her, meaning he had no good excuse not to respond. 

"Erm. As well as he could be. Cheerful." Martin mumbled. 

Hannah rested her cheek in her palm and nodded. "Poor sausage."

Sighing again, Martin turned to begin logging returns into his computer. "...Says he's moving back to his hometown." 

"Oh." Said Hannah. "Well. Hm. I'm sorry." 

It took some effort not to bark out a laugh. As if Hannah or Michael or anything else in the world owed Martin a thing. 

"It's fine." He mumbled. "Was a crap date anyway."

Hannah didn't seem to have a response to that. The two of them sat in awkward, professional silence until she spoke up again:

"So have you met the new guy yet?"

Martin fought down a groan and turned to face her with a friendly smile. "New guy?" 

"Yeah, in research." Hannah said. "Has all sorts of questions, is really pushy, doesn't follow protocol… Apparently he's been something of a nuisance."

Martin nodded. They all knew the type. 

It was another of those things that no one talked about. When a new guy comes in like he's on a mission, like he needs to know so badly he might die if he doesn't, when he's constantly glancing over his shoulder like he thinks some ghost from his past might manifest in the institute's walls…

Yeah, they all knew the type. Michael had been that type, once. And the thing about that type, was that they either chilled out or didn't last very long. 

"Has he broken into anything yet?" Martin asked casually. 

Hannah grimaced and shook her head. "No, but he has been trying to check out books from the green section."

Martin hissed through his teeth. Only a matter of time then, if he was that brazen. 

"I'll keep an eye out." Martin assured her. 

Though it turned out that Martin didn't need to. Near to the end of Martin's shift, long after the others had left, when anyone with a life would have gone home too, Martin was surprised to find the library door swinging open to admit a researcher. 

He knew who it was immediately. Not because Martin kept track of researchers, they were so pompous there was little point in trying to befriend them, but rather because he had every visible tell.

A neat suit he wasn't comfortable in, a forcibly neutral expression that wasn't fooling anyone, and a darkness beneath his eyes that betrayed the kind of long nights that the institute didn't pay nearly enough to justify. It was the full 'that guy' look, complete with the sharp intake of breath when he noticed he  hadn't stumbled into an empty library. 

"Oh." Said the new guy. "I didn't realize anyone would be in here." 

Martin gave his best friendly smile. "Looks like we both burn the midnight oil!"

What he didn't say was that admitting to trying to enter the library without a librarian present was very much not allowed. 

"Heh…yeah." The new guy rubbed his neck. "Um. I'm glad I've caught you! I-I'm here to check out a book."

Welp. Might as well get this over with. 

"I'm just an assistant, so I can't get anything from the yellow section." Martin said politely. 

The corner of the man's mouth twitched and Martin caught the tiny flicker of frustration there. Martin had the sense that he'd needed to be told the color system multiple times. 

"W-well uh," The man stammered helplessly, the lies clearly uncomfortable on his tongue. "I don't know the um. The sections yet. B-but I filled out the form! Just like Tom told me to!" 

The fist around Martin's hypothetical heart loosened. "You have a project head?"

'That Guy' strode confidently up to the counter and slid a green form for Martin's inspection. 

"I'm on Audrey's team. She signed off on it." He said. 

Martin sighed with relief. 

"That's good to hear. Honestly I expected–" 

But then Martin actually read the green form, and saw the book he wanted to take out. He froze, his faux eyes fixed on the form, while his true eyes dragged back up to the man's face. 'That Guy' had let some of his mask drop with Martin's attention on the form, and a quick examination showed that he was anxiously bunching and unbunching his fists as he waited for approval. Approval that Audrey clearly hadn't actually given, because the book in question was a bloody Leitner. 

"...You didn't sign your name." Martin finally went with, meeting his eye again. 

'That Guy' did groan this time. "Can you just help a bloke out? I need that book."

"Clearly not enough to fill out the form properly." Martin said evenly. "You…" 

But the thought escaped Martin as he felt a sudden tug of his energy. As if the cracked tub that was his existence had suddenly sprung a different, larger, leak. Martin was now doubly exhausted by this conversation because Elias had taken notice of them. 

Martin licked his lips. Elias had been suspiciously quiet about him 'saving' Michael, though that might be because Gertrude wound up leaving with some 'volunteer' that had come in to give a statement. A messy solution, fine, but clearly their plans hadn't been thrown that much off course if she'd been able to find a replacement so easily. 

So whatever this fellow was up to, apparently Elias cared about it. Which meant that Martin should probably care, if he wanted to help. 

"...Nevermind." Martin said after a beat. "It's probably fine."

He turned back to face his computer while he studied 'That Guy's reaction. It fell with utter shock. 

"Wh- really?" He asked. 

Martin nodded. "Yopp."

"But…" The man stammered, "But what about the Green Section and clearance and like?"

So much for not knowing about the color system. Martin just shrugged. 

"I don't care." He said. Then, again for the statue just a few feet over the man's shoulder that was practically shaking with beholding, "I really don't care." 

Martin turned back to his computer and started jotting down the details of the form. 

"I am going to need your name though." He said apologetically. "I can't submit the request if it's blank."

'That Guy's face fell. "Oh. Right. It's Jon."

Martin nodded and typed it in, then waited for the surname. 

He waited for quite a while. 

"...Jon?" He asked expectantly. 

Jon growled. 

"Just Jon, alright?" He snapped. "It's not blank, so give me the book!" 

Martin heaved a deep, indulgent sigh. 

"You already work here." He reminded him. "A ghost isn't going to follow you home if you tell me your real name." 

The man's cheeks colored in the dark. He spluttered some half-assed arguments, each dying after only a few words. 

"...And everyone already knows you're acting shady." Martin continued. "I was told to look out for a suspicious new guy at lunch. Eventually the dummy request will get back to Audrey, and literally everyone will know it was you."

'Before or after you've been entombed in a wall.' Martin didn't say. 

That guy, whose name probably wasn't Jon, glared at him, before yanking back his form.

"Fine." He spat. "It's Tim. Tim Stoker. And you can tell Tom that he can shove his green slip up his arse!" 

With that Tim Stoker spun on his heel and marched out of the library, leaving Martin to cancel the request and go back to what he was doing. 

Or at least try, because no sooner had the doors clacked shut did Martin receive a text message on his phone. 

Dickhead Eyefucker: Clever…. I'd expect nothing less.     Seen: 6:45

Martin groaned into the ceiling and pressed his palms into his false eyes. 

 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 

It wasn't the last time Timothy Stoker accosted the library, but it was the last time he did so in such a brazen manner. Eventually things died down as they always did in the institute. People just got used to the horror, whether it was the grim understanding of their work, or whatever it was that went on in the Archives that Michael was so hesitant to talk about. 

Martin had fallen into a dull comfort as well. And by year seven, it was comfortable enough for him to make a mistake. 

There was no sudden, intense fuck-up, it wasn't like he consigned someone to death or accidentally orchestrated another 'rescue,' but rather Martin a slow accumelation of poor decisions. 

Firstly, he'd been spending most of his nights in the institute. Going home had come to mean nothing but staring up at the ceiling wondering if he'd finally withered enough for the Divine Will to recall him. By now Martin was dependable enough for Dianna to let him 'close up,' which meant he could simply never go home. He hadn't gotten permission from Elias, but Martin had a sinking suspicion that was only because Elias hoped he'd start sabotaging the institute once he was alone. 

Secondly, it was more comfortable working in the dark than during the day. Martin's power had depleted enough that even hiding his wings and halo felt like a chore. Those blissful eleven hours where he could work without needing to hide his body was the only time he didn't feel like he was actively dying. 

And finally, the wings were getting larger. Not large enough for anything cool, but they were the perfect size for knocking things off shelves and accidentally brushing against his coworkers. Martin couldn't exactly wear his rucksack in the library, so he'd gotten into the habit of tucking them tight against his back at all times. Long hours of the strain made them cramp, and it was a considerable relief to unfurl them when he was alone. 

At the time each shrug of common sense felt so insignificant. He found himself saying again and again, 'what are the odds?' But the thing about the Magnus Institute was that it was an epicenter for odd things, which was why Martin was completely visible at his most 'chapel painting angel' when he heard a flat voice in the darkness:

"Woah."

Martin spun around so sharply he knocked a book cart clean over. There was a young man hanging sullenly at the end of the stack, dressed all in black with dark makeup and shitty dyed hair. 

Martin squawked and stumbled back, hands slapping over his chest of all places, his wings beating madly as he fought for balance. 

"Jesus!"

A snort laugh punched from the man's chest, as if amused Martin had used the lord's name in vain. The expression dropped quickly however, and he just shrugged. 

"It's fine. I'm no snitch."

Martin managed to smooth some of his feathers as he pinned his wings anxiously to his back. There was no way to properly articulate how much 'snitching' was the least of his concerns. It was bad enough that Elias could see his halo, to have someone, someone from this place, see Martin's wings… It was repulsive. It filled him with a worse dread than anything his miserable life entwined with the eye had  before. 

"Fine thing for a guy covered in eyes to say." He snapped instead. 

The man blinked, as if surprised that someone might common on his approximate fuck-ton of eye tattoos all over his hands and neck. 

"Oh." He said flatly. "No, yeah, I get it. But I'm not with beholding, though."

Martin eyed him warily, but sure enough a quick once-over confirmed he wasn't apart of this place the way Martin was. He was still positively saturated with dark power, but Martin couldn't place exactly what power that was. 

"Who are you?" Martin asked. "This area's off limits." 

Again the man snorted. "You're one to talk."

"I work here." Martin said coolly. "You don't, if you're not affiliated with the eye."

The man nodded slowly, and Martin could practically see the presumption forming in his mind. He groaned internally, waiting for the accusation, the presumption, whatever. But when the man spoke again, it was merely to say: 

"Gerard Keay."

Martin's eyes widened in sudden recognition. He'd heard that the Archivist had taken on a new pet to serve as an unofficial assistant. The son of someone she used to work with or something. Elias had hinted about something awful happening to his father, but then, Elias hinted at a lot of things. 

"Martin Blackwood." Martin said with a nod. "And before you start, no I'm not on some secret mission. I'm not a double agent or a mastermind or anything. I'm just shelving books."

Gerard Keay smirked, and then there it was:

"Like I said, I'm no snitch."

Martin groaned. 

"Believe what you want." Martin said. "But believe it somewhere else? I'm working."

He knelt to pick up the cart he'd knocked over, watching Gerard with his halo as he did. The young man didn't seem to be affiliated with the eye enough to see it, he frowned down at the top of Martin's head suspiciously. 

"Wait, so why are you here then?" He asked. 

Martin propped up the cart and began collecting the scattered books atop it.

"It pays the rent."

Gerard made a disbelieving, spluttery noise that wasn't quite speech. Martin let him, cleaning up the mess and returning to his previous task by the time Gerard Keay recovered enough to cry:

"Angels have rent?" 

Apparently Gerard had enough beholding in him to know Martin was telling the truth. And, unlike Elias, wasn't so steeped in delusions of grandeur that he bent over backwards to believe it was all some conspiracy. 

"This one does." Martin said with a shrug. 

That was all either of them said for a time, long enough for Martin to hope that Gerard had lost interest and gone away. But a quick swivel of his halo confirmed that the young man was still watching him. 

"So… your lot is… real?" Gerard asked after a time. 

Martin's hand froze in pulling a misfiled book from the shelf. He performatively turned to face Gerard, taking in his conflicted, tight expression. 

It was something that weighed on humans. Martin didn't have mind reading powers, but he could still tell. Everyone who had a supernatural encounter wondered about what they could do to protect themselves next time, and when they learned enough about the powers to realize there was nothing they could do, their thoughts wandered to the hope of there being something else out there. Something that might be able to help. 

"I mean. I'm here talking to you." Martin said mildly. 

He'd learned the hard way that there wasn't. He wasn't.

"You know what I mean." Gerard snapped. "The Divine Will. It's actually out there, and it's as powerful as the fears. Sending down avatars and stuff?"

"I don't know about powerful, but it certainly sent me." Martin muttered. 

Suddenly it was too much. That piercing glare, almost desperate, waiting for Martin to tell him that it was really that hopeless. That the Divine Will was too small and spread too thin to do any real good. That Martin himself was a failure who never even learned what he was for. 

Or worse, the alternative. That there was hope. That Martin was that hope, and that, useless as he was, there was something he could do to help. It would be rotten, it would hurt as much as the fears themselves, but Martin could help this man if he really wanted it. 

"But you're… good?" Gerard asked. 

Martin heaved a deep, performative sigh.

The library became just a little bit gloomier as his halo dimmed. 

"Are you evil?" Martin replied. 

There was silence, before Gerard mumbled: "Fair point."

"Yeah." Martin said. 

"Mmn." Gerard hummed. 

 "Well anyway, did you want a book or something?" Martin asked, but when he looked up Gerard was already gone. 

That was the last time Martin spoke to Gerard Keay. Rumor had it he was dead. 

 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 

Year eight, Martin's wings had grown large enough to fly. 

He didn't know how exactly it happened, and it wasn't as if he could wake up to the revelation. The realization didn't even come at a momentous time in the day. It was an ordinary afternoon, Martin was curled over Hannah's computer trying to figure out how she'd managed to fuck up excel this time, and then he just sort of knew. A second ago his wings had been too small to lift him by a tiny, imperceivable degree. Then they weren't, and now Martin could fly. 

"What's wrong?" Hannah asked anxiously, mistaking Martin's shudder for the state of her spreadsheet. 

"N-nothing." Martin replied with a smile. "Its actually better than last time? Here let me help…"

And so he did. Just got back to work, as though nothing was different. He didn't like how 'just knowing' felt like an eye thing. And anyway, it wasn't like there was much Martin could do about it in the library. But it was nearly the end of the day, and there was a discreet staircase to the roof. 

With his face still diligently 'reading' the spreadsheet, Martin let his halo look up at the clock that hung over the entrance to the breakroom. Just two more hours and the others usually left, an hour or so after that until the institute would effectively be abandoned. Elias had stopped watching Martin's 'night shifts' when it became clear he had no intention of sabotage, so there might even be a touch of privacy. 

So that became a sort of plan, in the way saving leftover cake for after work was a plan. He'd wait until everyone else was gone, turn off his body, and then fly back to his flat. It wasn't too long of a trip, and it wasn't like Martin had anywhere else to go in London. 

In the hours leading up to his departure, Martin allowed himself a little excitement. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't been looking forward to this. 

No more cramped bus rides, for one thing. It'd be so much faster. He might be able to go home on his breaks, instead of pretending to eat lunch. He could actually make some of those fragrant teas that he bought, and not have to worry about someone catching him dumping them down the drain when the smell went off. 

For another, it was just sort of… right, wasn't it? Martin had blessed little to work with in the 'angel' department. The halo was handy for cheating at card games during the christmas party, and Martin liked having the ability to turn off his body when it was inconvenient. But the wings were another part of him. Something intentional. Related to whatever it was he was supposed to have been doing all this time. 

Presumably the wings would have grown faster if Martin had found his purpose. He was older now than even the most powerful archangels had been before being recalled or corrupted, it didn't make any sense for his wings to grow so slowly if he was doing things right. But for that Martin could bear to be a little bit thankful he'd lived this long. At least he'd get to fly. 

Finally the time came. Even the most obsessed researchers had clocked in for the evening, and the Archivist was still on one of her little trips. Martin had the institute to himself, and after a quick beat to ensure Elias wasn't peeking, he slowly made his urgent climb to the roof. 

As someone who didn't smoke, it wasn't like Martin had been here before. Martin hadn't been to a lot of places, his world existed purely in the route between work, his flat, and the chain cafes he wasted time in during his lunch break. 

But now as he stood alone in the dead of night, invisible to the eye even if Elias suddenly decided to care, the whole world was Martin's oyster. Walls and buildings had always been a minor inconvenience for him, but now he stared up at that wide expanse things like rent and bus schedules seemed so inconsequential. 

Martin drew in a breath he didn't need with a chest that didn't currently exist. He walked up onto the ledge and unfurled his wings.

The wind caught the shell of his coverts and his feet were yanked away from the ground. Martin expected the first few flaps to be awkward. Early on he'd taken to watching videos of birds trying to fly for the first time, and prepared himself to drop and dip a little bit as he got the hang of things. 

But instead Martin took to the skies like a fish to water. Whatever aerodynamic witchcraft enabled him to climb, Martin merely had to imagine himself rising and his wings moved in accordance. Martin soared easily up and up until he was overlooking the city, and found it just as effortless to lean back and hang there without moving at all.

As he'd moved, Martin could feel the wind licking at his face and through his clothes, but when he came to a stop it seemed to pass right through him. His weight seemed to be as insubstantial as his visibility, and sure enough he was able to turn it back on. 

This caused his body to drop like a stone, the wind catching in his wings again. Shifting back into his corporeal shape, Martin angled them home. The whistle of wind in his ears was like a shield against the familiar harsh sounds of the city. Droplets of vapor caught in Martin's hair, little teardrops sliding along the strands like beads on a string. He felt the wind everywhere, tactile and real, welcoming him instead of fighting him. 

The sky was endless. It was endless, and his body was made to traverse it. It was as easy as thinking, natural to a thing that was supernatural, so physically and paranormally correct that it was indisputable. Martin was an angel that was supposed to fly. He was supposed to have been flying this whole time. 

Finally Martin had traced the familiar bus route to Battersea station, where he was able to remember the rough shape of the northern line. Martin followed it until his building came into view. 

Then he was falling, instinctively turning off his weight once he'd built enough momentum. By the time the ground rushed up to greet him Martin had slowed to a gentle float, his feet becoming corporeal on the sidewalk with no more force than descending a step. 

Martin landed on the sidewalk, the phantom touch of the wind fading on his skin. His fingers shook as he rummaged for the keys to the front door, swearing he struggled to hold still long enough to press the fob to the scanner. Once inside he raced up the steps two at a time, all the way to his tiny little flat with his shitty wooden door. 

He barely got the door open to make it to the bedframe in time before the tears spilled over. 

Martin sobbed. He sobbed loudly, pathetically, as if the world were ending. He yanked up one of the sofa cushions from the floor and pinned it to his chest, wishing its presence could do something against his despair. Such a pathetic little gesture, a shadow of a human's idea of comfort, even though Martin had never had a hug in his life, comfortable or otherwise.

Thinking that made Martin sob anew. The sadness was sharper than it had been in years. Not since he was a stupid idiot fledgling in Elias' office, crying at the realization that he'd been trapped. 

Martin was made to fly, and today was the first time that Martin had ever flown. But being up in the sky made him feel the same way as being on the ground. 

Worthless. 

As worthless as his kind gestures. As worthless as blinding Michael. As worthless as taking the ruddy bus like an ordinary worthless human enslaved by a monster. What was the point of his wings? The point of his halo? His powers, pitiful as they were? What was the point of Martin Blackwood, an angel without a purpose? 

There had never been an angel without a purpose. Martin Blackwood shouldn't exist. 

The night continued on in a similar fashion, Martin only quieting when he heard angry hammering from his neighbor's wall. Never had sleep seemed like such a distant luxury, what Martin wouldn't give to escape this despair for even a moment. 

Instead the hours ticked by agonizingly slow. Until, without any meaningfulness or fanfare, it was the time Martin usually left for the day. Left to ride the stupid bus to his stupid job so he could get enough stupid money to pay for this stupid flat. What was the point? What was the point of anything?

Yet if he didn't get on that bus to go to that job he wouldn't get his money, so he'd have homelessness to deal with on top of his shattered hope. So Martin straightened from his cold bedframe, changed out of his perfectly clean clothes into a similarly fresh set, and didn't even bother putting anything fragrant in his thermos before he went to work. 

It was only when he reached the bottom of the staircase that Martin learned how costly his indulgence had been. 

He was completely done in, worse than that year when he used his powers constantly. It seemed as though flight didn't come for free no matter how naturally it came to him. Martin stared up at the gray London sky and wondered if he could bear to feel so empty again even if he was up to it. 

Grumbling, Martin tucked his wings tight to his back and got on the ruddy bus. 

 Maybe he was just extra tired from crying, but Martin felt himself getting worse the closer he got to the institute. It wasn't rare for him to sometimes stare up at that fancy old building and curse its very existence, but today he could barely manage that. He found himself wondering how much longer his shift could possibly be before he'd even set foot on the premises.

"Heavens Martin, you look dreadful."

Martin barely heard Tom's cry of concern, and when he turned to insist he was fine no words came out. 

"...Martin?" Tom asked, frowning. 

Was he frowning? Suddenly everything looked a bit wobbly around the edges. 

Martin scrunched his faux eyes shut and opened them again, predictably doing nothing to clear his vision. 

"...Late night." Martin mumbled. 

Either that was a satisfactory answer or the wobbling was getting worse. Whichever it was, Martin needed to not be under scrutiny right now. 

He stumbled into the Green section with a mumbled excuse of misplacing some paperwork. There he could barely stay upright, but at least the gloomy, sterile quiet left him able to work as sluggishly as he was able. If someone saw him like this they'd know that he…

That he was…

"Oh…" Martin said softly, finally understanding. 

It was time. 

Eight years had passed, a long and impossible lifespan for an angel. Maybe if he hadn't saved Michael, maybe if he hadn't taken that flight, maybe if he'd stayed home sick today to recover, this wouldn't be happening. But he had just pushed through the pain like he always did, and now the failed angel was finally going to end. 

"N-ngh…" He grunted, keeling over a bookshelf. 

This wasn't right. 

Martin expected to be tired. He was always tired, and while he had no memory of whatever forms he'd taken in the past, he knew intrinsically that it had never felt like this. It wasn't dying, this wasn't death! He had no particular attachment to being Martin Blackwood, and knew that whatever the Divine Will made him next it would be more worthwhile than nearly a decade of wasted time. 

"Haa…" Martin gasped, gripping at his chest.

It was a strange impulse. It wasn't like Martin even had a heart. But this was all so very strange. It wasn't meant to be so upsetting. It wasn't supposed to hurt.

"No…" He whimpered. "I…"

He'd been waiting for this, hadn't he? For the Divine Will to finally give up on him and let him return to nothingness? Maybe that was why his wings had started working. Maybe that flight had just been a quick way to snuff himself out. 

Martin stumbled, his wings flapping pathetically, but nothing was knocked from its shelf. His body passed clean through the obscurations, the edges of him as faint as his last vestige of life. For some reason that was what sparked the confusion into outright fear. 

'This is wrong.' He thought pathetically. 'Anything but this…'

There had never been an angel with a will to live, but there had never been an angel without a purpose either. It figured that Martin would fail even this. Fail to accept his death, just being passive in the face of oblivion too much for him. 

But even as it was pathetic and nonsensical, Martin fought desperately to keep his body together. He didn't know what he was fighting for. His collection of jars? Grabbing coffee for Diana? Hearing about Hannah's dates? 

Martin hadn't enjoyed any of that in years, but for some reason the thought of them made him desperate for something, anything to preserve this pitiful little life he'd made for himself. The alternative was a blinding terror. The thought that if he gave up he would never be Martin Blackwood again. 

With a strength that was just as impossible as his newfound determination, Martin clung to the edges of his form and forced it to remain corporeal. He staggered upright, trying to sort his panic into a proper plan. 

He used too much power in that flight. So he needed to recharge. To… ugh. To feed. Ideally with a purpose, but he didn't have one of those. But it wouldn't take much to knock Martin away from the edge, he just needed enough to not be actively fading away, and then he could just figure it out from there. 

"Are you alright?" Asked Hannah when she saw his pale expression. 

"Yeah, fine." Martin grunted. "D'you want a tea?"

A tea, a carton of Alpro, the lost city of Atlantis, anything Hannah wanted right now, and purpose she could give him, Martin would accept it. 

"No, that's alright." She said, frowning. "Why don't you have a sit down?"

Martin resisted the whine building on his tongue and marched right past Hannah into the breakroom. There Diana was reading her emails on her phone, something she did at the top of every shift. Martin sighed in relief, at least his coworkers were reliable. 

"Hey, Diana, tea?" He asked. 

Diana didn't respond for an infuriating amount of time, but finally she seemed to recognize Martin had said something. 

"Mmn?" She hummed. "Oh, no. I brought a thermos."

Martin's eyelid twitched. 'You stupid old bag.'

A breath he didn't need– or at least he didn't think he needed, caught in his throat. Where had that come from? 

 Martin made breathing sounds to soothe himself. 

"Alright…" He laughed lightly. 

Diana frowned at him just like Tom and Hannah had. "Are you…?"

"I'm fine." Martin snarled, in the midst of dying, "I'll just uh, do some washing up."

Diana hummed again and put her phone away, picking up her stupid fucking thermos and taking it with her into the library. Martin could have wailed the moment he was alone. 

He needed to do something, but he was so haggard that he wouldn't come across right. If he made a fuss they'd just keep asking if he was alright, ask if there was anything they could do for him, and the frustration would rip him to pieces. 

Martin was desperate, too desperate to be nice about it. 

Instead, he rummaged through the break room drawers until he found an ancient kitchen knife. It was small, probably meant for cutting apples, but a quick test of the blade found it sharp enough. That done, he yanked the first aid kit out from under the sink, tucked the knife up his sleeve, and marched out of the library with his body turned off. 

'Turned off' was perhaps the wrong term. It implied he was saving power instead of expending it faster, but Martin didn't want Elias to know he was coming. He marched up the steps to his office, past Rosie's desk, and right through the closed door. 

In a perfect world that would have been that. Martin would have maintained his invisibility until doing what he needed to do. But the moment Elias lifted his eyes the buzz of self-protection made Martin's form buckle. His body snapped back into visibility in a second, Martin didn't even have enough energy to conceal his wings. 

Elais' eyes widened. Their cold gray shade was always like an evil well, but now Martin could see the shimmer of his own draining divinity reflected in them. That expression was genuinely confused, somewhat afraid, and just a little bit excited. 

Martin hated that he knew that. 

"Ah, I see." Elias said, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "Now Martin, lets not be–"

But Martin wasn't in any place to listen. He wouldn't have made it to the end of the sentence if he hadn't marched forward, yanked the knife from his sleeve, and slashed it across Elias' arm. 

"You–!" Elias spluttered, his expression dropping with bafflement as he tried to squirm away. 

But Martin wouldn't let him. He allowed the edges of his wings to fade into nothing if that meant keeping Elias close in his grip. He yanked the first aid kit out from his pocket, popped it open, and went about cleaning the fresh wound. 

"You cannot kill me, the others would–" Elias began, before realizing what Martin was doing. 

It had been eight years of smug innuendos and constant badgering, but Martin was too focused to enjoy that his boss had shut up for a change. He wiped the wound clean, undid the paper of a plaster, and carefully, kindly, placed it over the gash. 

"There." He gasped. "Is that better?"

Elias finally managed to find his words. "What is wrong with you?"

Martin let out a whine. "Does that feel better?" 

"Wh- yes. I suppose it does. Thank you so much for dressing the stab wound you inflicted on me!" He snapped. 

Relief flushed through Martin and he collapsed into the chair opposite Elias' desk. He didn't know if it was just because he'd corrected a deadly deficit or if healing wounds was more kind than doing chores, but it was the closest he felt to sated in a very long time. He was so relieved that he couldn't be arsed about the blistering, hateful glare Elias leveled on him. 

"What the hell was that?" He demanded. 

Martin's halo flickered with renewed vigor. It was a bit like rolling his eyes. 

"No one wanted tea." He said. 

Elias let go of a choked, humorless laugh. "No one wanted tea, so you stab me?" 

"You might have said no to tea too." Martin said. 

Elias' jaw dropped, his expression so outraged he seemed to be unable to think straight. Again Martin had rendered him completely without words, and again Martin was too overcome to care. 

When long minutes stretched without further elaboration, Elias finally recovered enough to straighten his tie and snarl.

"Well had I known the alternative, I would have loved a cup of tea."

Martin huffed darkly. "That would be threatening you, and it doesn't work unless I'm helping."

"What doesn't work?" Elias asked. 

Finally the euphoria, adrenaline, whatever this was that made Martin feel so good, wore off. He glanced at Elias' face and frowned. Right, they weren't exactly chatty with each other. Elias probably didn't know. 

"I'm kind." Martin said. "I'm all that's good and kind in the world."

Understanding dawned at last, and the fascinated look he gave Martin made it seem as though the attack was forgiven. 

"You need to help people." He said softly. "That's how angels do it."

Martin just shrugged. That wasn't how it worked for all of them, they wouldn't leave so many humans to die if that were the case, but it wasn't like he had anything else to go on. But in the astonished silence, Elias' mood soured again. 

"If you have to feed by helping people, why haven't you tried helping my followers?" He demanded. 

Martin groaned. Back to this? So soon? 

"Can we not? I nearly died." He said.

Elias scoffed at his audacity. 

"You were dying? You let it get this bad and you didn't tell me? Eight years in my employ, and this is the first time I'm hearing something so important!"

Martin keeled over to rest his face in his hands. Give it to Elias to make his rescue as annoying as possible right away. 

"What do you care, don't you want me dead?"

Elias spluttered something nonsensical again, before snapping his head to the side. 

"That is of little matter, Martin. Had I known about your needs I would have seen to them earlier."

"What?" Martin asked. "Why?"

"Because this is absurd, Martin!" Elias threw up his hands "What do I have to do to get you to accept our destiny?"

Our destiny. Christ. 

Martin stared miserably up at the ceiling of Elias' office. Would oblivion really have been so bad? If he was going to stab anyone, he should have gone for Robinson…

"Why have you been so resistant? The Divine Will wouldn't be sustaining you if this wasn't your destiny. Obviously you belong here. With me." Elias continued to rant. 

Martin tilted his face back down to study him. It wasn't the first time Martin wondered why the daft old monster cared so much. At first, fine, he was suspicious. And then Martin supposed it was about the principle of the thing? Like he didn't want to admit he was wrong? But they'd been doing this crap for ages now, and no matter how many times Martin proved there was no connection between them, Elias wouldn't just let it go. 

"Do you want me to stop you or something?" He asked. 

Elias glared. "I want you to take this seriously." 

"But why would you…" Martin began, then trailed off. 

Again he focused on Elias's face. His defensive posture. His creepy old eyes. 

The Library didn't get much word about the world outside. They weren't research, or the archives who had constant interactions with major players in the war between good and evil. But still, Martin had been around long enough to know how these things worked, and to know that the Institute Head was more of a real person than Elias Bouchard was. Maybe this form was a ghost, or a manifestation, maybe a body snatcher or some projection made by an old artifact of the eye, but the man that housed the intentions of a monster was clearly just a small part of the real manifestation. The institute's heart, an important piece, but just a piece all the same. 

 "Wait…" He said softly, disbelieving. "Are you…?"

No. Fuck off. No. That couldn't be it. Because why the hell would he have trapped Martin here? Why did he try to stop Martin when he poked around in the beginning? This couldn't be some big conspiracy, the eye wasn't smart enough for that! So if it was just Elias acting on his own, if he needed Martin to be his angel…

"Elias, if you want to escape the eye–"

Before now, the interactions between Martin and Elias had been relatively subdued. There was their weird Christmas thing, the allowances Elias made of him in the institute, and just the fact that, despite the evil that was very much going on all the time, Elias hadn't been hostile to Martin directly. It was only now, after voicing that presumption, that Martin realized he'd never seen Elias Bouchard angry. 

He'd also never had a cane cracked over his head before, so. New experiences all around. 

"Ow! What the hell!" Martin cried, his wings flapping desperately as he stumbled back. "If I had a skull that might have–"

His words choked off when he saw the expression Elias wore. Something so twisted with rage it very nearly gave Martin a heart to race. 

"Get. Out." Elias snarled, eyes blazing with fury. 

Martin didn't need to be told twice. He'd already avoided death once that day. 

 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 

Nine years. Martin had been trapped in this miserable existence for nine years.

 He was too afraid to intervene, too afraid to search for his purpose, and now a whole new world of fear had opened itself. Fear of death, of ending, something so antithetical to an angel's being that it should make Martin's skin crawl. 

But he was afraid of death, so there was little else to do but start living. 

It did change his opinion on pain, however. Before it was something like a pantomime, the same way his facial expressions and 'breaths' were. But now pain was a precursor to injury, and injury might lead to death. 

"It's alright, Martin." Hannah shushed kindly. "It's not serious…"

Martin heaved heavy, pathetic sobs as she wrapped up the small burn he'd inflicted on himself during that day's tea run. 

"D-does it look infected?" He asked.

Google had been very helpful in explaining all about infections and inflammations and things. All the tiny ways the world outside your skin was out to get you, and just the tiniest knick could be it! 

"What the hell's gotten into you…?" Tom asked from where he hung astounded by the doorframe. 

Martin knew he was acting like a child, but god how did any of them stand it? How were you supposed to know how much pain was dangerous? How were you meant to know when to panic? 

"I-I was trying to be careful." He whimpered, "But then my hand started to shake, a-and I poured it all over myself!"

How had Martin ever been so careless with his health? He used to boil water for fun! 

"...A tiny bit splashed you." Tom muttered before slinking out of the room. 

It took the rest of their lunch break for Hannah to convince him the arm did not need to be amputated. 

Martin didn't know how to explain that his skin was different from her skin, so all her humanly anecdotes didn't apply. Who was to say a small burn wouldn't tip the scales again? A cut? A bashing his knee against a desk? Martin didn't even have proper organs, so whenever his body made a sound that might seem normal, there was actually no way of knowing. On top of it all apparently google lied about stuff sometimes? How was anyone supposed to keep track!

Like everything, he got used to it. The newfound appreciation for his mortality caused the year to roll by agonizingly slow, and he paced his flat in terror of some new malady practically once per month, but he did get used to it.

December rolled around, which meant that it was nearly ten years since Martin came to earth. It felt like a significant number, maybe an end to his torment, but now that Martin was keen to never end, it was just a normal year like any other. 

Which was why he was a bit surprised to find Elais at his doorstep on Christmas Eve. 

"Uh." Martin said flatly, taking in his prim, monster of a boss standing in the entry way of his grubby little flat. 

It was like oil and water. The two images didn't mix. Nevertheless, Elias took off his coat and folded it over one arm. 

"Hello Martin, happy Christmas."

"Uh. Yeah." Martin mumbled. "Same to you?"

While he had a whole year to dismiss the impression that Elias was still peeved with him, they still weren't exactly pals. In fact, Elias had taken Martin's sudden resorting to violence as reason to avoid him in person most of the time. These days his little 'tips' only came via text message, and he had never approached Martin outside of work in the nine years he'd known him. 

No one had, actually. What were you supposed to do here again..?

"Do you want to come in?"

Elias smiled pleasantly. "Absolutely not."

Frowning, Martin swiveled his halo to look back into his home. He'd recently gotten into the habit of making mush out of old poetry pages, and some of his experiments were still leaking on his kitchen counter. 

"Okay so why are you here?" Martin asked. 

"To invite you to mine." Elias replied. 

Martin stumbled back. "What? Why?"

"Because you've never celebrated with anyone before, and that's rather sad isn't it?" Elais asked. "And of course you've been so generous over these past years, I thought it was only right."

Martin groaned. The yearly gift to Elias was one of the few things that still felt like it properly sustained him. He'd come to see it like a benefit of employment. 

"You don't have to repay me, I know you know why." Martin said. 

The friendly expression dropped, and Martin flinched at the ferocity of Elias' glare. 

"As you might recall, I didn't know why I had to repay you for the longest time. Now I think I ought to have inquired earlier." 

Terror spiked in Martin's body. Elias could kill him. Elias killed people all the time. And now Martin knew he could die, that it hurt to die, and that at any moment in the past nine years, all the times where Martin had pissed him off, Elias always could have killed him.

The anger fled Elias' expression. He stared at Martin like he'd popped another halo. 

"...Interesting." He murmured softly. 

Martin wasn't in the mood to enlighten him about anything at the moment. 

"Well the answer is no." Martin said. "I've already given you your gift, so I'm just fine in the kindness department." 

Ludicrous as it was, Elias made an expression like a pout. 

"Well, I've already come this way." He asked. "Are you really going to say no? That's not very kind of you, Martin."

It was such a stupid attempt at coercion. The only thing worse was the very real yank Martin felt at his being. 

"...I hate you." Martin said. 

Elias grinned. "Excellent."

Martin had never been in a fancy car before. He hadn't really been in a car either, unless buses counted. The journey wasn't that much more comfortable, Martin still had to keep his wings cramped tight to his back, and as they left the familiar streets of his work route, Martin found himself nervous. 

A whole city he'd never seen more than a straight line of. Elias could be taking him a warehouse to bash his head in, and Martin would be clueless. 

Nevertheless, eventually they pulled up to an estate on the south side, which was old and ominous as Martin would have expected. He could very much see evil club meetings between avatars going down here, and not for the first time wondered how Elias managed to keep up his appearance of an affable first-name boss of an institute that was 'like a family.' 

Feeling sorely out of place, Martin followed Elias through the door just as the afternoon light outside was fading. 

"You know I can't eat dinner or anything." Martin reminded him. 

"We'll figure something out." Elias said pleasantly. "And in either case, the purpose of tonight is to spend time together– ah!"

They stopped short at the sight of a figure in the hallway. Martin took a step back, ready to run from Elias' nightmare dog or whatever it was– only for the light of his halo to illuminate a girl sulking in the dark. 

She couldn't have been any older than sixteen, pale faced, blond hair messy, and with bags under each eye that implied months without sleep. She was wearing a dirty flannel bathrobe, her skinny, bare legs poking out the bottom like straws. Under one arm was tucked a litre of Dr. Pepper, a gaming laptop beneath the other, and she carried a Gregg's traybake in her mouth. 

There was a brief moment of fear as she looked at the pair of them, before her eyes glazed over with adolescent distaste. A glace at Elias showed that he was barely restraining a similar reaction. 

"Hello Gwendolyn." He said through gritted teeth, then smiled at Martin. "This is Gwendolyn. My terrible niece."

"You have a niece." Martin repeated flatly. 

"Oh yes." Elias nodded. "A terrible one. Say hello Gwendolyn."

Gwendolyn glared at them both without a word. 

"Now Gwendolyn, I believe I told you we'd be having company tonight." Elias continued, sneering at her dirty robe and pj bottoms. "This is not appropriate attire to receive guests."

The glare hardened, then pivoted sharply to Martin. Then, to Martin's horror, her gaze travelled up. 

Looking Martin in his true eye, she took the traybake out of her mouth to ask: "So what are you then?"

"Gwendolyn!" Elias cried in outrage. "This curtness is unacceptable! Go to your room!"

He pointed a furious finger down the hall, which Gwendolyn followed with a long, bitter, groan. 

"Whatever…" She mumbled, and disappeared down a set of steps. 

Once they were alone again, Elias sighed and shook his head. 

"I'm very sorry about that, Martin. You know how teenagers are. Always so sore about what happened to their parents." 

"...What happened to her parents?" Martin asked warily. 

Elias chuckled. 

"Nothing she can prove." He said. "I made sure the sectioned officers were the first on the scene."

Martin worried his lip with his teeth. That didn't sound great. Elias was always hinting at the sinister nonsense he got up to on his own time, but if he was implying he'd actually just murdered his own brother…

"Are you going to hurt her?" He asked. 

Elias smirked at him. "Are you going to get involved?"

Martin's mouth fell open, but no words came out. Of course he wasn't, he never got involved. But actually seeing her, sunken eyes and the knowing glower of someone who was probably being held captive by a monster, that made it different somehow. 

Martin swallowed. His fists tightened. 

"...If you were, you'd be doing it anyway." He said tightly. "It's got nothing to do with me."

Anything Martin could do to get Gwendolyn out of Elias' clutches would just make her situation worse. She'd be trading one supernatural nightmare for another, and it wasn't like Martin had life force to spend freely. 

Elias hummed, the familiar, distrusting smugness in his eye. Martin could practically hear the response behind his teeth, some little quip dripping with innuendo. Like Martin was somehow supposed to know that he'd apparently had some poor teenage girl in his basement all this time that Martin could have been helping. Like this was all some fond game between them.

Worse was that maybe it was. Had Gwendolyn been here when Martin rejected Elias' party invitation all those years ago? Were her parents still alive back then?

Martin was sick of it. He was so fucking tired. 

Nevertheless, there was little more he could do but follow Elias into a drawing room. A fire had already been lit inside, as well as a fully ornamented Christmas tree. In the center were two cozy looking chairs facing a small, checkered table. 

Martin frowned in confusion. The tree and the fire he knew about already, but what was up with the table? He was even more lost when they both set down, and Elias opened up a compartment and started pulling out little statues. He watched as each was placed on the little boxes, black on Elias' end, white on Martins. 

"What's all this?" Martin asked. 

"Chess." Elias told him. "You are a grandmaster, if you recall."

Martin swallowed. "Ugh that's right."

Looking down at the pieces, Martin tried to summon what he could remember about chess. He'd only added it to his resume as a presumed 'smart people thing' but he was fairly sure it was a game? 

Elias was smirking expectantly at him. "White goes first." 

Of course it did.

"I guess I'll just take the horse–" 

"Knight."

Martin groaned. "I'll take my knight and uh… storm your castle?" 

He lifted the little horse and galloped it across the square to knock over one of the little towers. 

"Mmn." Elias hummed. "Then I suppose I have no choice but to kidnap your queen."

He reached forward to snatch a tall game piece that looked like a salt shaker.

"Oi!" Martin snapped. "Fine well uh… I'm taking your other tower then."

He reached forward to snatch up the little statue, as well as a few of those little pieces up front. Elias didn't seem to take any issue with it. Was it possible that Martin was actually a miracle chess player? 

"So." Elias said in a warm, conversational tone. "Big milestone coming up."

Martin grunted. "I'm not planning anything."

Elias chuckled. "Of course I don't believe you. Mastermind that you are…"

He reached forward to flick over the other salt-shaker shaped game piece. 

"There goes your king. I win."

Martin scowled and set the board up again. Once finished he went for Elias's king first. 

"There's your king." He said smugly. 

Elias put up his hands in defeat. 

"I suppose it was inevitable." He said. "In any case, you're not even a little excited? It's rare for an angel to last as long as you have, in my experience."

Martin put Elias' king back and shrugged. "I'm a real rule-breaker."

Instead of going for any of Martin's valuable pieces, Elias pushed forward one of his little ones two squares. 

"I'm surprised you haven't been using your powers at all, though." He admitted. "Did you assault me for nothing?"

Martin's hand froze in going for Elias' king again. Fear squeezed his insides so tightly he could have sworn there were actually organs in there. 

"I mean I don't want to have to stab you again…" He said. 

Elias chuckled, though the vicious gleam didn't leave his eye. He pushed one of his tall pieces diagonally across the board instead of taking any of Martin's pieces. Apparently not caring to actually play. 

"You could always ask me if I want a cup of tea instead." He said lightly. 

Martin snatched his tall-ish piece and knocked over his queen for good measure. "I told you if it's a threat it doesn't count."

"Hmm." Elias said, then nudged his tower to knock over one of Martin's small pieces. 

Martin snatched the tower to put a stop to that nonsense. 

"Still, your wings have grown so lovely. Seems a shame not to use them." Elias said. 

Martin's hand froze in reaching for his king. "You can see my wings?"

Again Elias smirked up at Martin's halo. Martin hated it when Elias looked at him. The real him. 

"But of course. You may be able to hide your thoughts, but your body is another story."

"Ugh don't say it like that." Martin grimaced.

"I know I'd be flying, if I could." Elias continued. "I'd save a fortune on petrol." 

Martin rolled his eyes. "I'd rather pay bus fare than die."

Elias, who had jumped his own knight over a wall of little pieces, froze to give Martin an astonished stare. 

"What?" He asked. 

Martin glared at him. As if he didn't ruddy know. Not all of them had a whole forty years or however old Elias was to come to terms with the mortality thing. Martin just had this, this sudden unexpected terror, and fuck-all the Divine Will had ever given him to deal with it. 

"If I fly around saving people and waste my energy or whatever, I'll go out like a light." He said in a high patronizing voice, like explaining to the world's dullest child. "I'll die."

Silence fell, only interrupted by the tick-tock of Elias' fancy clock.

"I didn't know angels feared death." He said. 

Martin laughed darkly. 

"And I didn't know how much it would hurt." He snapped. "We don't exactly get instructions!"

"So you're fine letting others go to their doom just to preserve yourself?" Elias asked, arching a brow. "Not very angellic."

"Yeah, well being an angel's piss." Martin said. "At least when you expend your resources you know how to get them back! I can't even eat or sleep like a regular human can. The only way I have to preserve my lifespan is a complete mystery, so I've got to save my powers for myself!"

How was it that the person who had orchestrated so much misery could be acting so judgy? Martin drew a defensive breath and drummed his fingers anxiously on the chessboard. 

"Look, everyone who comes here, they came for a reason. A-and they chose it for themselves. So I'm just going to live. I-I'm going to live as long as I can however I can."

He let go of a breath. Martin didn't even know if they were fake anymore. They felt real, just like dying had felt real. 

"If that means I'm being corrupted, I don't care anymore. I don't want to end." 

The words were met with only silence, and for the first time Elias seemed more fixated on Martin's face than trying to meet his eye. Martin stared down at him, vaguely suspicious that he wasn't about to just snap his gaze up to spook him or something. But instead Elias studied Martin's face.

After a while, he cleared his throat. "Bit of a grim topic, considering the season."

"You're not the most jolly person to talk to yourself." Martin said dully.

Elias laughed, looking back up at the halo again. "I can be just lovely to talk to, I'll have you know."

"When you're not trying to be a creepy git." Martin mumbled. 

"Fine, lets have a normal conversation." Elias said. "What do you think of this 'war on Christmas' business?"

Martin snorted. "What do I care?"

"You're an angel, Martin." Elias reminded him. "Shouldn't you have an opinion?"

Martin pursed his lips. That was a good point, but he struggled to think of anything other than an interview he'd heard on the radio once. 

"I think real Catholicism is more about praying during the holy season instead of windowshop displays." He said. "And anyway, Jesus wasn't actually born on Christmas, so it doesn't make much difference does it?"

Elias stared at him, incredulous. "...That's blasphemy, Martin. Literal blasphemy."

"Is it?" Martin asked. "I dunno. I'm a pretty crap angel." 

"I should say so." Elias agreed. "Here you are, playing chess with your greatest advisary!"

Martin opened his mouth to confirm as always that Elias wasn't his nemesis, but paused. He huffed and looked back down at the chessboard. Elias could think that if he wanted, just this once. It was Christmas after all. 

 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 

Year ten. The big One-Zed. A full decade now. He was practically just a human at this point. 

Martin christened this chapter of his life by requesting a transfer. Martin had known the others in the library for long enough to see them age, and while none of them had commented on his own lack of aging, it was just a matter of time. 

"Well there is plenty of space in the archives." Elias told him. "Gertude is no longer available."

Martin pulled a face. Complacency to save his own skin was one thing. Actively helping Elias by filling such an important and evil position was quite another. 

"I'm not going to be your archivist." He said flatly. 

Elias chuckled. "You think rather highly of yourself. You're not even marked."

Martin rolled his eyes.

"...But Jonathan will need assistants if he's to catch up. Fairly large shoes to fill." Elias said. 

"Do I have to do evil stuff?" Martin asked warily. 

"Oh heavens no." Elias shook his head. "You'll have to avoid evil things happening to you, yes. But that's just a part of life overall I'm afraid."

Martin pursed his lips. "How evil."

"Avatars, mostly." Elias said. "But you've met those before and come away just fine."

Martin nodded slowly. He had come away, hadn't he? Peter had certainly left him alone ever since their first meeting. 

"I'm not going to challenge your archivist to a duel or whatever." He said. "And if he attacks me I'll just turn invisible."

Elias scoffed. "If only you could see who we're talking about! No, he won't attack you. He might try to feed you to something, but you're far too clever to fall for something like that, aren't you?"

Martin heaved a deep sigh. "I guess it's better than nothing."

"Have some more enthusiasm, this is actually a good position for you." Elias argued. "Your coworkers will die so frequently no one will notice your lack of aging!"

"Joy." Martin muttered. 

He wasn't going to get involved. He refused to get involved. 

Saying goodbye to the library staff was harder than Martin expected. Their relationship had felt so transactional towards the end, especially with the others growing tired of his bouts of hypochondria. Hannah cried when Martin told her, and became really aggressive about Martin attending her wedding. Tom was more subdued, but he did seem disappointed. Diane just said something about needing to get her own coffees from now on, and for some reason that felt like the biggest loss of them all. 

Martin wondered if it was normal for people to only feel loved in hindsight. It seemed like all this time his 'worthless existence' had been spent with three very good friends. 

Making his way to the stairwell, Martin had to wonder what he'd do if any of them became archival assistants. He'd already made the logical decision not to get attached to anyone down here, Jonathan Sims could kill as many of them as he wanted. But if Tom was the one who might get fed to some unknown monster in Sannikov Land, would Martin really be able to stay neutral? 

It didn't bear thinking about. 

Martin paused at the top of the staircase, looking back over his shoulder one last time. 

"Just stay up here, all of you." He muttered. "And-"

His words cut off abruptly as something darted underfoot. 

"What–!" Martin cried, stumbling as he tried not to step on the furry shape weaving between his legs. 

It was a dog. A spaniel maybe, but Martin only assumed that because the only dog he'd ever seen were pictures of Tom's. 

"What are you doing here?" Martin asked softly. 

He balanced his box of things in the crook of one arm, then knelt to inspect the little fellow. The dog yapped sharply, tail wagging, staring up at Martin like he wanted to be friends. It shoved its little head into the palm of Martin's hand when he outstretched it, and divine joy seemed to spark between them like lighting. 

"Well hello there…" Martin said, placated despite himself. "Alright, well you really shouldn't be down here but…"

The dog wagged his entire arese with excitement, then rolled onto his back. Another jolt of kindness racked Martin's frame, making his wings twitch with happiness. 

Damn it, dogs just gave away pure positive energy, didn't they? Should Martin get a dog? This dog? 

"N-not right now." Martin managed to say. He straightened, trying to appear professional. "I-I've got work."

But already his mind was buzzing with possibility. He considered further as he walked down the steps. 

A pet! Why had he never considered a pet before? A tiny little thing that needed him, that existed only to be loved by him. Something that needed to eat and sleep, that demanded that he live so that they could live together. Martin could spend his money on food and toys and sweet little outfits, and think of a cute name–

Martin had barely noticed the dog still yapping at his heels, only realizing it was still there when he reached to open the door. 

"Ah, hell." Martin muttered as the little creature darted inside. 

He had known the dog for exactly ten seconds. He didn't know where it had come from, who it belonged to, if anyone, or why it was there. But bad things happened to those who went into the archives, and if anything happened to that dog Martin would torch the entire institute and then himself. 

Putting his things on a spare section of desk, Martin ran between stacks of boxes and manilla folders searching for his new little friend. 

"Come on, you don't want to be in here…" Martin mumbled. 

It was more of a mess than it had been when Michael worked here, there were hundreds of little stacks and alcoves for something small to hide in. Martin could hear snuffling and shifting of papers, but not even his halo could determine where the dog had gone. 

What he did realize was that he wasn't the only one down here. Someone was in the main office, which meant another set of eyes. 

"Hey!" Martin cried, rushing through the door. "You haven't seen a dog have you–"

Then, quite abruptly, everything changed forever. 

There was a man sitting at the desk. Skinny, short, in his late twenties despite the gray hairs and dour expression. He wore a dark green cardigan and light pink shirt buttoned up to the neck. There were tiny marks in each ear, piercings that had long since closed, but you could still feel the hardened scab if you squeezed his earlobe. His glasses were an outdated prescription, as his most recent pair had come in a frame that was too big and gave him vertigo.

That was why when he looked up at Martin he squinted, unsure if they actually knew each other from that distance. But Martin knew him. Of course he knew him. There was nothing else in the world he cared to know. 

Ten years. Ten long years of purposeless faffing about. But it was over now, it was finally over, because just looking down at that face made it all go away in an instant. 

"Excuse me, what?" The man asked. 

Martin barely heard him. He certainly had no more intention of getting a dog. 

"It's you." He said softly. 

The man stared at him, baffled. Martin stared back, transfixed. 

It was him, and he was everything.