Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.