Fic: Watched (It's a Wonderful Life)

[bookishwench]

Henry F. Potter drew the attention of every person in the room. It didn’t matter if he was speaking to his terrified employees or the Congressmen he controlled like puppets that fulfilled his every whim. Every ear paid attention; every eye focused on him. No one ever noticed the man who stood behind him, silent, expressionless, all except George Bailey, who had once actually spoken to him. It was not merely a rare occurrence. It was unique.

Potter gave orders to the man, of course. When he had first been hired, he had provided his name: Turnstall. The first name was unimportant, and as it was, aside from his weekly paychecks, deposited into Potter’s bank and never touched, he remained only a shadow standing slightly behind the left shoulder of his employer, a position that made him invisible to the man whose chair he pushed. No one noticed him. It was what Potter liked best about him.

Since no one noticed him, no one observed that in the many decades since he had begun his job, he had not aged a day. He remained the same, the shadow at his shoulder, a good worker, quiet, one who would not betray secrets. Never in forty years had he requested a day off, not for sickness, not for family reasons. His clothing remained the same, becoming antique, and if anyone had stopped to consider it, no one had ever seen him eat or take so much as a sip of water. He never coughed or sneezed. He never fidgeted during the endless meetings of the boards Potter chaired. He never moved unless told to do so.

Clarence was a warmer character. He knew him, of course, in the way all of them knew one another. An awareness of others was part of the lives of those on the other side of eternity, and it was probably why Clarence, in his clever plan to show George Bailey a world bereft of his influence, had made a point of not bringing him near that reality’s version of Potter. Even with his charming smile and innocent faith, Clarence could have his eldritch moments, the little glimpses into the unknown that raised the hair on mortal arms and made them instinctively draw back aware of a power greater than any they could imagine.

If George Bailey had seen through Turnstall in one of those moments, as he had almost done, he doubted the man’s sanity would have remained unbroken.

Turnstall was an angel, of course, and one aligned with the side of light. But he was not of the same stuff as Clarence, who had once been human. Turnstall remembered the burning at the beginning of the universe, the lighting of the torches in the hearts of stars. He had been since the start of it all, and his occupation was, like many beings, to watch and wait. For what, Henry F. Potter would have laughed.

It was Turnstall’s duty to convey love.

No doubt anyone who really looked at him, as Bailey did that once, would think he had done a rotten job of it, but in truth he had been quietly performing his task with immense patience. His duty was to look mercifully for any small sign of Potter’s goodness, anything. He was not permitted to interfere, to guide him towards what was right, but nor did he tempt him to do any wrong. Potter’s free will was absolute, and Turnstall was the almost literal vehicle of that. The human’s choices were his own, and the angel watched in silence, hoping to find some errant spark of good. He watched ceaselessly. He saw nothing.

Christmas Eve drew near, and Turnstall watched with the same undying hope as the gaiety of the season, the warm wishes of humanity, the cosmic swing towards warmth of the spirit came closer. His face remained the same, but in the depths of his eyes a tiny spark of desperation grew. In all the centuries he had labored, sent to one after another closed-hearted human, he had never failed in finding something, no matter how small, to report to his superiors in their favor. Never before had he found nothing, and his immortal heart burned within him at the thought of what would await Potter soon if that did not change.

Then, as William made the crucial error of handing Potter a newspaper that contained an envelope filled with thousands of human dollars, for a moment, Turnstall’s breath caught. It was a chance, a great chance, one deep enough to blot out a great many sins. He saw it before the human did, sitting behind his desk and opening the paper only to realize the sum it held.

Turnstall was ordered to wheel the man back to the door so he could observe the man everyone called Uncle Billy. He was frantic, on the edge of a nervous collapse searching for the money that Potter grasped so tightly that it bit into his fingers. The angel almost breathed, hoping in spite of everything he had seen that this would be the moment he had waited for through decades of spite and cruelty. All Potter had to do was call out. A single word. Even if he shoved the money in the poor, frightened man’s face, it would still be something.

Like Turnstall, Potter remained silent, but his face lit with glee as, at long last, the angel’s expression changed into one of devastation. Resigned, he did nothing, though he wished for the sake of both mortals that he could speak the necessary words and end the suffering of them all. As he watched, his expression once more closed, Potter lied, cheated, swore out an arrest, tempted George Bailey to take his own life, and glowed with happiness at his perceived victory.

The night went on, and Turnstall was happy for Clarence. It was impossible not to like the other angel, to wish him well, and he was glad for George Bailey, who would never again know the despair he had nearly succumbed to. But with sadness he looked at Potter, who gloated at George’s retreating form, taunting him with the knowledge that the police were waiting for him at home, that he would be in jail.

It happened only a few minutes later. Like many important things, it was almost imperceptible to the naked eye, a breath. And then no breath. Henry F. Potter had died, and Turnstall stood beside him as light broke upon them both, revealing him for what he had always been.

“Turnstall,” Joseph said, and he saw Potter’s start that meant he had forgotten his name until then, “have you anything at all to report?”

Turnstall drew a breath, and as he looked at Potter’s face, a single tear slipped down the angel’s cheek.

“No.”

His silence was broken at last, and the confirmation rang loud through eternal halls. Turnstall shut his eyes, and when he opened them, Potter was gone.

“Turnstall, this was a hard task for you,” Joseph said, his voice soft with kindness. “I know you have suffered greatly and without respite. Is there anything that can be done to ease this for you?”

He knew at once and turned his face towards Joseph, and his wish was granted without the need for words.

The next morning, two things were found. One was the discarded body of Henry F. Potter, lying slumped on the floor in his office. The other was a newspaper with an envelope containing $8000 sitting on the front porch of George Bailey’s home.

Potter’s manservant was never seen again, and in truth, no one ever wondered where he had gone.