Wings

by Crowsnight66

It's an odd job, being a guardian angel. Invisible to the mortals, even to other guardians, and watching over someone who will never know you exist. Except, there lies my problem. He knows I'm here. I'm like an imaginary friend, something he believes in that adults brush off.

Warning: This story is rated T for major character death and mentions of child neglect.

Wings

"Then it hits you so much harder than you thought it ever would."

―Unknown

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

It's an odd job, being a guardian angel. Invisible to the mortals, even to other guardians, and watching over someone who will never know you exist.

Except, there lies my problem. He knows I'm here. I'm like an imaginary friend, something he believes in that adults brush off. And I've been the guardian to many, many people in the past, but no one has ever seen me. Mortals don't see the fairies in their yards or the unicorns in the forests.

"Francis?"

I look at the little boy. Big, green eyes and uncontrollable, blonde hair. He's only five, and though I loathe admitting it, kindergarten is just around the corner at this point. "Yes, Arthur?"

"Why can't Mum and Dad see you?" he asks.

The park isn't particularly crowded, so if Arthur swings his legs a bit, no one questions how the swing in moving with no one pushing it, and there's nothing odd about a child talking to an imaginary friend. His parents are too busy with their less reclusive children anyways. Being the youngest of four, I thought Arthur would receive more attention, but I'm also fairly certain that he was an accident. Well, I've heard his mother tell her friends this, but Arthur is still too young to understand.

After a moment, I say, "You're special, Arthur."

"Special?" he repeats, trying to look back at me over his shoulder, but when the swing begins to wobble as a result, he stops.

"Yes, you're very special. You're the only one who can see me, so you have to keep it a secret."

"Why?"

Or else it's therapy and being locked up in a mental institution for schizophrenia, I answer to myself. "Because if you don't, I have to go away."

"No!" The protest is more upset than I expected it would be. "You can't so away!"

"Then you have to keep me a secret."

Arthur nods.

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

School isn't bad. It's just that Arthur doesn't make many friends. On the playground, he sits just around the corner of the school building, still technically on the playground but out of the sight of the teachers and most of the other children.

I sit beside him as he plays with a piece of mulch. "Don't you want to play?"

Arthur shakes his head.

"Why not?"

"Because I can't be with you."

And that is…sweet, but I sigh quietly. I pull him up so that he's standing in front of me, but he keeps his head down as I hold his hands. "Listen to me, Arthur. Are you listening?"

He nods.

"It's good to have friends. I know that it's hard to understand right now, but it's important that you have friends. Okay?"

"But you don't have friends."

"No, but I have you."

"And I have you, too," Arthur says stubbornly, and with a little huff, he adds, "Why do I need everyone else when I have you?"

"Because it's better that way."

Arthur doesn't reply, but he doesn't move either. His grip on my hands tightens.

"Let's try, okay?" I stand up and hold one of his little hands in mine. I'm not adult-sized, but more like a teenager; my body changes like my human's once he or she hits puberty. "Just for today. You go play with someone new, and I'll be near you the whole time."

He looks up at me. "Promise?"

"I promise."

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

Arthur makes a few friends. And he keeps those friends all through elementary and middle school, but none of them are best friends or anything close. They're friends that invite him to birthday parties or sometimes work with him on group projects, but Arthur prefers to spend time alone. Well, alone from other humans.

"You're a bloody angel; don't you know how to do long division?" Arthur grumbles one night in fifth grade.

"Yes, unfortunately, but that does not mean that I will do your homework for you," I say, lying on the bed with my eyes closed.

Arthur huffs and flops back in his desk chair. "If you can't do that, what are you good for?"

I don't grace him with an answer. Over the years, that sweet boy has grown into a sharp-tongued brat, and most nights, I leave him to his own devices.

There's a loud banging on the door. "Dinner's ready, runt!"

"Not a runt!" Arthur retorts as he stands from his desk and tosses his pencil down. When he reaches for the doorknob, he stops and looks back at me. "Are you coming or not?"

I grunt in reply, content to stay where I am. It's not like I need to eat to stay alive.

The door opens and slams shut. It's less than a minute later that the door opens again and I sense that there's someone standing beside the bed.

"I don't get to sleep through dinner, so you don't, either," Arthur says, and when I open my eyes, he's staring down at me expectantly.

He's a demanding, sharp-tongued brat, but attached to me in a way that I can only call endearing. However, just because I follow him downstairs, that does not mean that I'm attached as well. No, I'm…simply doing my job. Of guarding him. Yeah….

Dinner is always the worst time of the day for Arthur. As the youngest, he gets his food last, and as such, usually gets measly amounts or the pieces no one else wants. His brothers are loud and constantly pick on him, but his parents do nothing. Of course, there's nothing I can do, but angels have a few capabilities. If Arthur's little pile of macaroni seems to last much longer than a normal pile of macaroni, that's nothing to do with me. And if the last bit of chocolate milk is just enough to fill his glass, that's pure coincidence. Sometimes, his tater tots seem to multiply and some even become less burnt when they hit his plate. It's not my doing.

The funny part is that Arthur actually believes that. I don't mind; probably better that he thinks that it's all coincidence.

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

In seventh grade, Arthur falls off his bike and breaks his arm.

No one is there, and no one can see me or hear me, so all I can do is sit there and hold him to my chest. And oh, he tries to keep the brave face. He bites his lip and won't look at me, but I know that he's crying just a little bit. I hold him closer, because what kind of guardian angel can't protect his human from this kind of pain?

It's true that guardian angels don't do that. We don't protect our humans from pain, only early deaths. I've never wanted to cure someone's pain so badly in my life, and I've lived many lifetimes.

It's nearly thirty minutes later before one of Arthur's slightly nicer brothers finds him and runs back to the house for help.

And for the week or so that Arthur stays in the hospital, somebody―parent or other relative―is always in the room with him. I normally wouldn't mind this, but that also means that Arthur can't talk to me at all. In class if he has free time, he writes on scratch paper, but his right―dominant―arm is the one in the cast, so he can't do that, and unlike at home, I can't lie down with him at night. Sleeping together wasn't my idea, by the way; when he was younger, he didn't understand that I don't need to sleep and insisted that I sleep in bed with him instead of the floor, and as he matured, it stuck, like a security blanket.

When Arthur finally gets home, he says he's going to go to bed, despite it only being six o'clock in the evening. And go to bed he does, struggling to find a comfortable position with his arm in a cast before he says, "Lie down."

I want to make a comment about how demanding he's being, but between his disinterested eyes―a mask of disinterest over pleading, puppy dog eyes―and cute little yawn, I can't find it in myself to deny him a sleeping partner. It's a nice distraction from the pile of makeup work on the desk, at least.

Arthur's hand clutches mine all night. And I realize, for the first time, that our bodies are the same size now.

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

Freshman year is…less than pleasant. Mostly because Arthur ends up at a different high school than his handful of friends from elementary school. And that's…not good.

"Arthur―"

"I'm not six anymore!" Arthur snaps under his breath before he starts writing again. We're sitting at one of the tables in the back of the cafeteria, as we do most days during lunch. No food. Just a notebook. "I've survived three months with no friends; I don't need to start making them now."

I sigh, propping my elbow on the table and my cheek on my palm. "Alright. What would I know? I'm just an angel. I wouldn't know what's best for you."

"I don't understand why you try so hard to change my mind."

"Because unlike you, I have experience with life."

"You've only watched people live."

I stop, mouth open to speak, and Arthur just quirks a brow at me. I think he sees it as a personal victory, rendering my speechless.

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

A guardian angel knows when his or her human is going to die. We ensure that it happens when it's supposed to.

When little Arthur Kirkland was born, I remember reading an angel's file about his life. "Dies at age seventeen from a side collision with a drunk driver". And I remember thinking, I hope the poor boy doesn't suffer. A short life, but what can you do?

That was before I realized he could see me. Before he fell asleep to the lullabies I sang. Before…everything.

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

Junior year. March seventh. It's a normal day, and the milk runs out. Being the only child left in the house, Arthur has to drive to the store at around nine if he wants milk in his cereal the next morning.

"Arthur," I whisper, sitting in the passenger seat.

"Hm?"

You can't tell him. It doesn't change anything.

"Francis?"

You can't stop it from happening if it's fate.

"Are you…are you crying?"

Just let him enjoy his music for a few more minutes.

"Francis, what's wrong?"

It's cliché, isn't it? Looking away from the road for just a moment. And I have to close my eyes when I see the car speeding past the red light, but I feel the jarring. I feel the arm thrown across my chest. I feel the warm blood splatter on my face. I hear the cursing.

And when I finally open my eyes again, it's over. Because once my human dies, I'm kicked back to heaven. It's just the way it works.

I sink to my knees, sobbing for the first time in my thousands of years. And Antonio is there, asking what's wrong. I shake my head, whispering that name over and over. I knew. I knew he was going to die. Why? Why did he have to see me? Why couldn't he be like the others?

Why does it hurt so much?