Waiting for the Night [Dalan]

Chapter 1

The office was almost too white, with the clean and sterile feel of a hospital room, minus the lingering smell of disinfectant and pine. Martin sat down on the plush white sofa and crossed his legs, looking at Lilah, who had been Fletch's secretary for almost 1,300 years. Not a single dark hair was out of place, and her lush red lips were pursed as she wrote something down in the calendar. Of course, it was understood that everyone here looked perfectly groomed and immaculate, always ready, always waiting. For what? Martin was soon going to find out.

There was a soft buzz, and Lilah smiled up at him. "Mr. Fletcher is ready for you now, Martin."

"Thanks, Lilah." He got up, giving her a smile which made her blush as he walked past her desk and into the office, feeling her eyes boring into his back. Inside his equally immaculate office, Fletch was frowning down at the massive schedule dominating his desk, distractedly waving Martin in. Closing the door behind him, he adjusted his suit and walked over, taking a seat in one of the two chairs in front of Fletch's desk.

He remained silent until Fletch finally put aside the schedule, then smiled at him. "How's it going, Mart?"

"Bored." Martin seldom had the need to hide anything from Fletch. "I'm starting to think I prefer Earth to here, if you can believe that."

Fletch chuckled. "Don't let top management hear you say that." He took off his black-rimmed glasses, wiping them with a soft piece of muslin. "How are your assignments? I really liked the one with the suicidal teenager, I thought that was a lost cause. But you turned the whole thing around."

Martin shrugged it off modestly. "She was a lovely girl, she was just misguided. Just wanted someone to listen to her, to make her feel like she was loved."

Fletch nodded seriously. "You're good at that, Mart. To be honest, not many of us can do what you do. It's your...empathy, I think. It's a lot stronger than the others."

Looking down at his nails, Martin tried to ignore the deep flush warming his face. "It's nothing, really."

"No, Mart. It's not 'nothing'. Your gift with empathy, and your gift with music...it's a rare combination." Fletch was looking seriously at him now, and Martin pretended to be interested in the large metal paperweight in front of him. "In fact, it makes you the perfect candidate to help this next one."

"Which next one?" Martin was rather relieved; he had never really been able to handle praise or compliments, especially from Fletch. "Another case?"

"Yup." Then a grin bloomed on Fletch's usually stern face, making him look much, much younger. "Guess what? It might well be your last one."

Martin sat up. "Really?"

"Yup, to be honest, your probation may well be over after this." Fletch leaned back in his seat. "Heard it from the big man meself."

"Wow." Martin didn't know quite how to feel. He hadn't been lying when he had told Fletch that Earth was starting to look more and more interesting to him, and now, there was the possibility that his 'punishment' was coming to an end. But as the years wore on, it had felt less like a punishment, and more like a calling. There was something very fulfilling about helping the troubled humans whom he had come across, but he knew he was beginning to lose his ability to remain detached and unaffected. He liked humans and their unpredictability. He liked Earth too.

Fletch must have seen the troubled look in his eyes, for his smile was fading. "Mart, you alright? Don't you want to come back?"

He nodded hurriedly. "Yeah, of course. It's just- It's just been a long time, that's all." He laughed nervously as Fletch's sharp blue eyes narrowed at him. "Really, it's nothing. Just ignore me, I'm not myself today."

"Alright." Fletch didn't look convinced, but he reached into his drawer and pulled out a blue folder. "This one...this has dogged us for years, no one's been able to get through to him so far. We even sent Simon to try and help him, but..." Fletch shook his head, then passed the folder over to Martin.

Warily, Martin took the folder and flipped through it. "So if even Simon wasn't able to help him, then why me?"

Fletch pushed up his glasses, smiling at him. "This one is a musician."

"Oh." Realisation dawned on Martin as he looked down at the folder, eyes scanning through the man's particulars. He read them out slowly. "Alan Charles Wilder. Born 1985 in Hammersmith, West London. Musician and record producer, single father of one daughter, Paris Wilder, eight years old." Martin's eyes scrolled through the details. "Wife, Hepzibah Sessa. Died four years ago, breast cancer. Ouch."

"Yes, ouch." Fletch nodded gravely. "Bloke's still grieving for his wife, never really quite gotten over it. So he buries himself in his work, and there is the very real possibility that he may be starting to neglect his daughter and withdraw from life altogether."

"That's not good." Martin ran a finger over the photo of the man's striking face, taking in the intense grey eyes, the large slope of his nose, the dignified set of his mouth. "So what am I supposed to do for him?"

Fletch waved a hand around vaguely. "Well, help him rediscover the joy of life. Appreciate those still around him. And hopefully, help him find love again. But that's a stretch, I know. Simon wasn't even able to help a little. So we're really counting on you for this one."

Martin studied the folder for a while more, then passed it back to Fletch. "I'll do it."