Never turn your back on it again...
For yetregressing, for the prompt Ain't it so weird, how it makes you a weapon?
Martin sometimes thinks his life would be easier if his family had been more like the Barnams. Not with the insanely militant thing, that's not it at all, it's just... He envies their solidarity. The consistency of calling. Growing up knowing what you were meant to do, and the knowledge that everyone you know, aunts and uncles and cousins and siblings share that purpose.
He wonders if he'd feel different right now if he'd been raised a Barnam. If, watching the injured angels return to the Conrad, and counting the number who don't return, he would feel any less sick, any less wrong. A Barnam grows up knowing their whole family might one day be the casualties of a war that's never done; after almost two hundred years, Martin still can't get that through his head.
His parents were healing angels. They never taught him a thing that would have prepared him for this.
He steps forward as he spots a girl he half-recognizes - he remembers those two-tone blue and tan wings. Her face has gone grayish, and she's cradling a bandaged arm against her chest, leaning heavily against another angel whose name Martin can't remember. The man she's leaning on only looks exhausted, not injured in any way, but he was at the battle, and Martin wasn't.
"I'll take care of her," he says with a tight smile, already offering a hand to the girl. "Go to bed." It almost has the tone of an order, though not quite - the man stares at him for a moment before nodding and handing the girl off to Martin. He's not surprised he listened, considering. Martin's not his CO, and he actually thinks the other guy might have seniority, but they're down Vincent and Romana and God knows how many others. At this point, most of them will accept orders from anyone still standing to give them.
Martin so wishes that wasn't him.
He wraps an arm around the girl to hold her up, wing around her shoulders for some measure of comfort or protection, and asks, "First, have you actually seen any sort of medical professional about that arm, or did you just slap some bandages on it?"
"There was a healing angel," she says dully. "He said I'd be fine, and he had worse things to deal with... Can I just go to bed?"
Martin smiles faintly, or tries to. It's not really a smile, just a reflexive movement, meant to reassure - she's probably too out of it to even notice anyway. "Yeah. Where's your room?"
"Number thirty-four," she answers, already starting in that direction, and Martin steps forward hurriedly to keep pace with her, keep her from falling over. She starts fumbling in her pocket for a keycard when they near the door, so he plucks it out of her pocket for her, slides it through the lock and holds the door open.
She stops in the doorway, half hanging on the doorframe, and smiles lopsidedly at him. "Thanks."
Martin doesn't answer for a moment. He half suspects that if he opens his mouth to say "you're welcome"... Well, who knows what might come out? Did you know I warned them? Did you know I betrayed you? Did you know I let you walk into a massacre?
He reaches forward to rest a hand on her shoulder instead, and can't even try for a smile this time. "I'm sorry." His hand slides down her arm, fingers brushing bare skin, and for an instant he's surprised some old genetic inclination towards healing doesn't kick in, that her arm doesn't knit itself back together while tearing open wounds in his. It would only be fair, but not every angel is so lucky as to take after his parents. That's why they're here in the first place.
He lets his hand fall and walks away before she has the chance to ask what he's sorry for. She's not even the one he means to apologize to, but Georgia's dead and Vincent's in a coma and Romana's fallen, and one little angel girl whose name he can't remember is the best he's going to get.
Muse: Martin Raske
Word Count: 695
Martin sometimes thinks his life would be easier if his family had been more like the Barnams. Not with the insanely militant thing, that's not it at all, it's just... He envies their solidarity. The consistency of calling. Growing up knowing what you were meant to do, and the knowledge that everyone you know, aunts and uncles and cousins and siblings share that purpose.
He wonders if he'd feel different right now if he'd been raised a Barnam. If, watching the injured angels return to the Conrad, and counting the number who don't return, he would feel any less sick, any less wrong. A Barnam grows up knowing their whole family might one day be the casualties of a war that's never done; after almost two hundred years, Martin still can't get that through his head.
His parents were healing angels. They never taught him a thing that would have prepared him for this.
He steps forward as he spots a girl he half-recognizes - he remembers those two-tone blue and tan wings. Her face has gone grayish, and she's cradling a bandaged arm against her chest, leaning heavily against another angel whose name Martin can't remember. The man she's leaning on only looks exhausted, not injured in any way, but he was at the battle, and Martin wasn't.
"I'll take care of her," he says with a tight smile, already offering a hand to the girl. "Go to bed." It almost has the tone of an order, though not quite - the man stares at him for a moment before nodding and handing the girl off to Martin. He's not surprised he listened, considering. Martin's not his CO, and he actually thinks the other guy might have seniority, but they're down Vincent and Romana and God knows how many others. At this point, most of them will accept orders from anyone still standing to give them.
Martin so wishes that wasn't him.
He wraps an arm around the girl to hold her up, wing around her shoulders for some measure of comfort or protection, and asks, "First, have you actually seen any sort of medical professional about that arm, or did you just slap some bandages on it?"
"There was a healing angel," she says dully. "He said I'd be fine, and he had worse things to deal with... Can I just go to bed?"
Martin smiles faintly, or tries to. It's not really a smile, just a reflexive movement, meant to reassure - she's probably too out of it to even notice anyway. "Yeah. Where's your room?"
"Number thirty-four," she answers, already starting in that direction, and Martin steps forward hurriedly to keep pace with her, keep her from falling over. She starts fumbling in her pocket for a keycard when they near the door, so he plucks it out of her pocket for her, slides it through the lock and holds the door open.
She stops in the doorway, half hanging on the doorframe, and smiles lopsidedly at him. "Thanks."
Martin doesn't answer for a moment. He half suspects that if he opens his mouth to say "you're welcome"... Well, who knows what might come out? Did you know I warned them? Did you know I betrayed you? Did you know I let you walk into a massacre?
He reaches forward to rest a hand on her shoulder instead, and can't even try for a smile this time. "I'm sorry." His hand slides down her arm, fingers brushing bare skin, and for an instant he's surprised some old genetic inclination towards healing doesn't kick in, that her arm doesn't knit itself back together while tearing open wounds in his. It would only be fair, but not every angel is so lucky as to take after his parents. That's why they're here in the first place.
He lets his hand fall and walks away before she has the chance to ask what he's sorry for. She's not even the one he means to apologize to, but Georgia's dead and Vincent's in a coma and Romana's fallen, and one little angel girl whose name he can't remember is the best he's going to get.
Muse: Martin Raske
Word Count: 695