Chapter One: Hatchling
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Retirement wasn't suiting him so well. Sure, the food was nice.
The company, ever since Abirami had been reassigned was… well, about as rowdy as a barrel of pickled fish.
He should probably stop telling them that though.
"You've earned your retirement," Batty tried to tell him one day, green eyes alive with the kind of quixotic optimism. That expression made Dave's wings itch with the desire to inform him that Santa was actually an arsehole, or that fairies were only moths that had accidentally touched angel grace. Still buggy, just sparkier about it. "Come on Sikarbaal, you've worked hard over the last millennia. Rest. Put your wings up. One day, you'll be needed once more on the mortal plane."
"Dave," Dave corrected him, flapping his wings both to stir the paperwork Batty was working busily on into a mess on the corner of his desk and also because he was not the kind of angel who retired. "I go by Dave now. Surely you've got that somewhere there in that paperwork nightmare, Batty."
Batty winced. "Batnoam, please," he said stiffly. Stiffly, of course, because every winged bastard in this place had an ethereal stick up their collective holy ar— "And please… ah, Dave… please stop thinking quite so loud. We can hear you, you know."
Oops.
He sighed, kneading his knuckles into his eyes with frustration. It was just so damn boring up here. And pretentious. And floaty. Everything was white; the hallowed walls, the godlike foods, the billowing clothes, everything.
Mostly, he missed Abirami. But he'd never tell her that.
"Come on, Batt—Batnoam," he pleaded, leaning forward to show how serious he was. "Surely someone needs a guardian down there on good ol' earth. I'll even take a dictator. I'm high-ranking enough that you can trust me with that! Presidential elections are soon in the US, yeah? Give me one of them!"
Batnoam frowned. On the white-washed wall behind him, a white-washed clock tick tick ticked without actually showing a time on its irritatingly blank face. Pretentious, Dave thought crankily. "Your time will come that you are required again," Batnoam said, and stood. His wings were tightly folded against his back, white feathers neatly groomed. Dave's own wings were thrown out backwards from the chair he was sprawled on, feathers askew and grey-brown barred pattern ragged. "Until then, take this as it is." He paused. Dave pouted. "As a gift."
"Bah!" Dave snapped, leaping upright and turning, his wings sending a white lamp toppling. "Bah! If this is your idea of a gift you can shove it—"
Batty teleported him with a snap of his fingers. Dave blinked, finishing his sentence to his own bedroom. "—up your angel arse. Bastard."
This was hell.
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Today's dinner was godlike mashed potatoes and godlike roast… well, it looked like chicken. Technically, none of it was actually potatoes or chicken or all that godlike, and Dave picked at it sadly and wondered if it was possible to be depressed without all the necessary brain chemicals to imbalance.
Someone thumped down next to him with a loud, "Oh great, more white," and the sound of aggressive discontentment. He blinked, catching sight of humped black feathers and unbrushed hair hanging low over dark eyes.
"Alright, Abi?" he asked, perking up instantly. Company! "Wasn't expecting you back for a decade yet. You kill another charge?" He meant it in a teasing manner, nudging her wing with his as he did so, subtly encouraging her to fold the appendage shut so he could see her face.
She folded the wing alright, and glared at him without any of her usual sass. Nor did she correct him on the name she'd chosen this week either—after her previous Lunala Lovebite, he was kind of curious how she planned to top that—and they were both signs all was not right in her feathery little world either. "If only," she mumbled, and dropped her head into the crook of her folded arms on the table, shoulders bowed against the weight of her wings.
Oh. That wasn't hard to decipher.
Their charges weren't always worthy of being guarded. He winced.
"Sorry," he murmured, slipping his hand around her bicep and squeezing gently. "Sometimes, we get bastards. Did he kick it or…?"
"Or," she replied, rolling her neck to the side so she could peer up at him. "He's fifteen. I had to get him through a paramilitary terrorist operation. And then I got him out, and what the fuck does the teenage idiot do?"
Dave wasn't entirely sure, but he was still getting a distinct vibe that his friend was disappointed that her charge hadn't bit the dust, despite his age. "Finish high school and go on to higher education and a better life?" he asked hopefully.
"Joined the fucking IRA," she snapped, and picked up Dave's fork moodily, stabbing his fake-potatoes. "And then I got pulled. So, everything I did to protect him was just so he could join the tosspots I was protecting him from. What was the point? I kept him alive so he could hurt people!"
Dave took the fork from her, carefully. "He might not," he soothed, spreading his wings with a meaty glare at two angels passing by who glanced at them curiously. Fuck off, he thought loudly, and they went obediently away. "He's only fifteen. You don't know—"
"I looked at his book," Abi muttered, and her wings gave up their valiant attempt to stay flush against her back and drooped miserably to the floor. "He's going to grow up to kill people, Dave. I just guarded a serial killer. Woo, me."
There was really nothing he could say to that.
Sometimes, this job fucking stunk.
"Sorry, Abi," he replied finally, slinging his arm around her. She sniffed, the sound sad and somehow angry all at once, and he was ready to bet she was going to be stuck in the coop for a couple of decades while she unruffled her feathers from this particular bullshittery. "God, I'm sorry."
She sniffed again, nestled against his chest. Despite the circumstances, he'd missed this. Home was a lonely place for an angel out of his own time. He was getting too old for this. Black wings rustled again as they perked up slightly, a smirk curling the corners of her mouth. "Blackbird," she said with a wet chuckle. "I'm Blackbird this week."
Some things never really changed. Luckily, his friend seemed to be one of them.
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The coop, despite the delightful weather—really the only thing it had going for it—and some okay views of the landscape surrounding, didn't get cable. There wasn't exactly a berth of 'things to do to cheer up my sad angel buddy'. Dave pondered this question as he headed to her room in the afternoon, a bag of Thai take-out he'd had Hannibal smuggle him up from down below.
Dave! The mental shout was loud and as smooth as a cat's purr. He knew it instantly.
Ahh, Abi. I was just coming to you—
Never mind that—Dingbat is looking for you. You've been—
"Ah, Sikarbaal, there you are." Batty appeared with the distinctive thwomp of imploding air and a restrained rustle of uptight feathers. "I put some thought into your request, and after some consideration—"
This might be my fault, Abi whispered. Nearby, Dave heard another thwomp as she teleported closer, eavesdropping. Sorry sorry!
"—and out of a desire to, ah, keep the peace as such, I've decided to grant you your wish. You've been reassigned."
Dave blinked. What did you do? he thought to her, as he said to the prim angel in front of him, "When?" and trying not to wince at how harsh his voice sounded. This was good, but he also suspected Abi was more upset than she was letting on, and he was all she…
"Immediately," Batty said blandly, handing him a manila folder with a curt smile.
… I might have turned the sheep rainbow colours again. They think it was you.
They would. Dave took the file, flicking it open and staring at the face of a squirrelly looking kid of about four or five gazing at him through smeary glasses. You normally go black. "I'm being assigned to a kid?" he asked, incredulous. He hadn't had a kid for over five-hundred years! "The fuck did I do to deserve this kind of hell?" Kids were the worst. Always eating things they shouldn't and falling into pools. They were sticky.
"Language, please, Sikarbaal," Batty snapped, sounding almost irate. Always overprotective of his damn sheep. Abi owed him for this.
"Sorry," said Dave. "I mean, the fuck did I do to deserve this kind of heck?"
The sigh he received was almost un-angelic. Dave smiled back sweetly. "He is listed as 'indispensable'," Batty said, turning on his heel and striding away. "Do not lose him."
Huh. An indispensable. Well, that was interesting.
You got an indispensable? Abi queried, popping out from around a corner and peering at the file in his hands. "That's big. You could lose your wings if you mess this up. He's important to something."
Dave snorted. "I haven't lost a charge since I was still barely new to my wings," he boasted, scanning the glossy pages of information. "I'm not going to lose this one. This…" He read the name in the neat typeface. "… Spencer Reid. How hard can a kid be?"
She'd remind him of this boast later.
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He stepped out where the coordinates dropped him, flexing his wings in what turned out to be baking desert air, just in time to see his charge sprint past and out in front of an oncoming car.
Well, fuck.
"You shit!" Dave yelped, leaping into the air and barrelling after the kid. Too late to do much more than shove him out of direct impact range. The kid squeaked, smacking onto the pavement with a meaty thud and the tinkling sound of shattering glass as the car slammed to a squealing stop. Broken arm instead of a cracked skull.
Not a good start. But… something.
People milled around them, avoiding the patch of pavement where Dave was standing despite not being consciously aware of his presence, flustering over the shell-shocked kid. Dave peered down, wincing at the greenish hue of his skin and the grossly pointy twist to an elbow that should probably be going the other way.
"Cover his arm," he suggested to a woman, who tugged off her jacket and crouched down to wrap it gingerly around him. "Tell him not to look at it."
"Do me a favour, love, don't look at your arm, okay?" she said, and the kid went, if possible, greener. Hazel eyes huge on his pale face, he twitched around and stared across the road.
Dave followed his eye-line and saw a small gaggle of middle schoolers standing there, mouths agape.
Great. Now he was going to be spending his time tsking at bullies.
"Alright," he sighed. "Let's get this started then." At least they'd had their near-death experience for the day. He could relax while they rearranged the wonky elbow.
Relax.
Yeah.
He stood by that there really was nothing he could have done to prevent the hospital from using carbenicillin as part of the post-operative care, and it wasn't his fault he hadn't managed to read the whole way through the folder that listed the penicillin under 'life-threatening allergens' seeing as his day had begun with the kid getting hit by a damn car.
He got written up anyway.
"You," David commented, sprawling in the chair next to the sleeping kid and examining his scuffed up face and his ridiculous hair and the lips-cheeks combo that was going to ruin hearts when he got older—if he got older—, "are going to be a real pain in my arse to keep alive, aren't you?"
Spencer, busy sleeping, didn't answer. David rustled his wings angrily and settled in to wait. Surely, surely, he'd only have to work this job for a little while… just until the kid achieved whatever it was the higher ups wanted him to do and became 'dispensable' again.
That couldn't take that long, right?
