Work Text:
In the calm after the storm, Peter brought Marcus to Jarrell Cove on his boat. Littering the shore were broken branches and marine debris, which they picked their way through gingerly, their feet wet from the surf, as birds sang in the trees around them.
The nest was up a rocky outcrop, hidden from sea-level view but marked by a stain of guano trailing from the lip of the shelf where it sat.
"I was expecting a big basket of sticks stuck in a tree," said Marcus.
"That's the beauty of condor nests," Peter answered. "They don't blow away, even when the big bad wolf comes calling."
Marcus chuckled. Peter wrapped his arms around him, and they watched together in silence, simply breathing, until a great dark shape glided home quietly to its chick, a bloody scrap of meat dangling from its beak.