Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wolfe's left wing droops slightly, like it's been broken and not allowed to heal properly. It must have happened a while ago, Jess has seen the man almost every day since his postulancy began and there was no time he could have sustained and healed such an injury. It reminds Jess of the time when he was seven, and he and Brendan were playing high in the roof of their father's warehouse, fluttering between the rafters as they got to grips with their still growing wings.

“Come on Scraps, keep up!” he calls across his brother as he skips across the wood, wings catching a slight draft and helping him on his way across the gap. Brendan's wings are smaller but more muscled and he easily catches up and overtakes Jess, laughing as he does. Jess scowls and jumps across to the beam Brendan is on before using his momentum to take him past his brother and into the lead.

Or it would have taken him into the lead, if he hadn't missed his footing.

The feeling of falling sends Jess's heart into his mouth as he frantically tries to gain control on his wings, spiralling down to the hard floor of the warehouse, only snapping his wings out half a second before he slams into the floor. He hears the crack first, and then feels the searing pain in his wrist and wing.

Callum had been at Jess's side in a moment to assess the damage with a disappointed look on his face. The wrist was treated immediately, but he took an entire day to get Jess's wing fixed, as he said to 'teach him a lesson about watching his step'.

Jess's wing hadn't hung straight for months even with that short delay in treatment, and he never missed a step again.

_

Thomas's wings are massive. They span almost twice the length of Jess's and are almost impossible to keep contained under his clothes, so most of the time he walks around with them half open, trying to prevent the tips trailing in the dirt. The only time he makes the effort to put them away properly is in the workshop, and that's only for safety. A hug with wings from Thomas is like being wrapped in a feather-filled duvet, warm and soft and almost too much, and everyone gets used to standing well clear when he shakes his feathers out.

-

Santi has the sleek black wings of a crow, much to his delight and his partner's consternation. There's many comments about Scholars and Stormcrows, but eventually Wolfe admits the wings suit Santi. He's a graceful flyer too, agile in the air and Wolfe will never tire of watching him run through drills with the younger soldiers. He does tire of Santi's favourite trick of tucking his wings in and diving to the ground, pulling them out at the last moment when it seems he'll hit the ground. It's worth it for Santi's grin when he lands, windswept and beautiful. That doesn't mean Wolfe has to approve of it though, and he puts on his sternest expression and adopts his driest tone.

“I'm not helping you when you complain about strained muscles later. And you aren't teaching that to my postulants.”

(Wolfe spends the night massaging Santi's shoulders, and pretends to disapprove when he comes across Santi teaching Jess and Glain how to dive)

-

To all that listen, Dario's wings are that of a coloured dove – the Catalan Tumbler, to be precise. It's a rare type of wing to have, and Dario takes great pride in this fact.

“Aren't coloured doves just pigeons?”

“No, scrubber, coloured doves are not just pigeons!”

“I've got pigeon wings, there's nothing wrong with them.”

“Coloured. Doves.”

“Sure thing, little prince.” Jess never did manage to raise one eyebrow like his brother, but if there was ever a situation that called for it, it was this one, so he settles for a smirk. A peacock would suit him better. By Khalila's tiny smile, she agrees.

“So defensive Dario.” She says mildly. “It's almost like you're compensating for something.”

Dario sputters and turns an unflattering shade of red, almost matching his wings, and says nothing in response before he stalks off, feathers fluffed up in offence.

“I think you may be right there Khalila.” Jess laughs.

She raises an eyebrow. “You're hardly much better Jess. Squabbling over wing type is beneath the pair of you.” It's her turn to walk away, but Jess's to stand in silence and feel like he should be offended.

“I think she won that round my friend.” Thomas pats him on the shoulder. “Come, play chess with me.”

Chapter Text

Wolfe doesn't let Santi near his wings for almost a week after his return. He keeps them tightly tucked behind his back, and his back pressed to the wall or the headboard of their bed as much as he possibly can, and pretends not to flinch when Santi approaches with his wings out. On the sixth day, Santi knows he cannot let it go much longer without checking the wings for damage, and steels himself before going into the bedroom and sitting down on the bed.

“Chris, love?” Wolfe is awake, but Santi still waits for acknowledgement in the form of a tiny nod before continuing. “I need to look at your wings.” He's far from surprised when Wolfe responds by pressing his back further into the pillows as if to hide his wings from view.

“I'm sorry, if I could leave them I would, but...they're hurt, aren't they?” He can think of no other reason for Wolfe's aversion to his wings being touched, and Santi is proved right when Wolfe nods again. “Alright. One at a time.” he takes Wolfe's uninjured hand and places it on his leg. “If you need me to stop, squeeze twice, okay?” Another nod. “Right wing first?”

Slowly, hesitantly, Wolfe unfurls his wing. It's not as bad as Santi had feared, but the sight still brings bile to his throat. The tawny flight feathers have been clipped, roughly but precisely, reducing the primaries to nothing but not touching the delicate blood feathers above. Nothing that wouldn't be solved in the next moult, but still humiliating. Santi still asks and waits for permission before gently skimming his hands over the wing to make sure the damage is as superficial as it seems. Wolfe watches his movements the entire time, shoulders tense and the hand on Santi's leg trembling.

“Thank you Chris. Left one?” Wolfe folds his right wing in almost as soon as Santi moves his hands away, but is far slower in unfurling the left than he was the right, and the reason why is clear before it's even half way out. The feathers are clipped again, the same rough but precise job as on the right, but it's the bone at the top of the wing that is the main cause for concern. Santi can see without touching that it's been broken, probably more than once, and it sits at a nauseating angle. He takes a deep breath, ruthlessly shoves down the urge to go and find the man that did this and do unspeakable things to him, and asks if he can touch. Wolfe's nod is the smallest yet, and his eyes track Santi's every movement. Santi isn't surprised when, after his fingers make the lightest contact with the feathers, Wolfe's hand squeezes his leg hard, eyes wide and barely breathing, and Santi lifts his hands away immediately.

“Chris, breathe. You're okay, I won't touch it, it's fine.” He watches carefully as Wolfe manages a shaky breath, his hand still gripping tight, five bruising points of contact that never waver. Santi technically doesn't need to touch the wing to see that it's damaged, and forcing the matter now would only cause more harm than good. Wolfe's wing twitches once, twice, almost like he can't decide whether Santi is telling the truth or not, and that realisation burns in Santi's throat. “It's alright, you can put it away.”

Another twitch, and then Wolfe's grip tightens impossibly more as he starts the slow, painful process of tucking his wing back behind his back. Santi wants to help, to take the limb and gently fold back into place for him, but he doesn't, he doesn't move, and he's not sure what's worse, the helpless seconds as he watches or the whimper that forces its way out of Wolfe's throat when the wing is finally fully folded away. Wolfe's grip on his leg finally loosens as he slumps, all tension leaving his body at once, and Santi resists the urge to rub at the sore area, instead taking Wolfe's hand in his own and guiding him to sit back against the headboard.

“I'm sorry I had to do that. Thank you for letting me.” Wolfe manages a tiny, shaky smile, just at one corner of his mouth, and it's the sweetest thing Santi has ever seen.

A few days later, Santi gets permission from Wolfe to allow Finn, his company Medica, in to treat the broken wing. It takes a little bit of working out to find the best position for what needs to be done, but they manage it eventually. They end up with Wolfe leaning into Santi, head buried between his neck and shoulder, hands curled as tightly as they can in Santi's top, wings spread. Finn is knelt behind, hands as gentle as possible as he feels his way along the damaged bone.

“This will hurt.” Finn warns, a bare half-second before his fingers tighten and there's a horrible grinding noise of bone on bone and Wolfe's keen is lost in Santi's skin. The whole awful process is repeated twice more, leaving Wolfe shaking and failing to hide his cries, but at least the bone is straight again. Santi barely follows as Finn gently manipulates Wolfe's wing to fold it against his back and bind it in place, explaining it should stay like that for at least a week before Wolfe tries to move it, preoccupied as he is with soothing Wolfe.

When it's over and Finn has left and Wolfe is once again asleep, Santi retreats to the bathroom, slides down the wall and wraps his wings around himself to muffle his sobs.

Chapter Text

Khalila stares up at the Archivist's throne, and can't imagine how she will ever be able to fill it. It looms over the room, and she can't help but think of the one time she saw the previous – no, not the previous, the one before Murasaki – Archivist. Despite everything that can be said about him as a person, the man had an impressive wingspan, and Khalila knows her own, perfectly proportional, wings could never live up to that image of power. She could claim modesty and never show her wings, but that would ground her forever more, and whilst Khalila has never been precisely good at flying, she enjoys it, and the thought of not doing it again is untenable.

“Querida?” Dario is stood at her shoulder, and she shakes her head to dispel the thoughts. “You look deep in thought.”

She hums in response and unfurls her wings – the left catches on the fabric of her new dress, she must get that sorted – and ascends the staircase to sit on the – on her throne. She feels even smaller sat on it than she did looking at it, the material cold and uncomfortable even through her dress. Dario drops to one knee on the floor beneath her, his wings spread, one hand in a fist on his chest, managing to make even that movement look regal, and she can't help the swell of love in her chest even as she giggles a little, a girlish sound she hates the second it comes from her mouth, and it feels like they're playing a game. Dario looks unreasonably charmed by it as he gazes up at her from beneath his ridiculously long eyelashes.

“May I approach, Archivist?”

Khalila inclines her head in permission and watches as Dario tucks his wings in and walks up to join her on the dais, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet.

“The throne suits you, my love.”

“Flatterer.” she accuses him, and he takes it with a grin.

“Any day.”

Khalila grows quiet then, turning back to the -her throne. “I don't know if I can do this.”

Dario touches her shoulder, and waits for her to put her wings away before wrapping his arms around her from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Wolfe wouldn't have nominated you if he didn't think you could do it.”

Khalila scoffs at that. “Wolfe only nominated me so he wouldn't have to do it. How can I do this, Dario? I'm only 18.”

“We all knew when we started that you'd be Archivist one day.”

“But not now! I'm not ready for this! How can I be, how can anyone ever be ready for this?” She shakes her head and wriggles her way out of Dario's arms, turns to face him. “I'm going to give the robes back. Get someone else to do it. I can't.”

“Khalila.” The rare use of her name and not some nickname has her full attention. “Would the rest of the Curia have voted for you if they didn't think you could do it? Would they have voted for you again? You can do this. And you won't be doing it alone, querida.”

Khalila sniffs and turns to look at the throne again. It still looms impossibly huge above her, but with Dario at her shoulder, saying sweet reassurances in her ear, it seems almost to shrink, become less intimidating. She'd been playing before, but now she unfurls her wings again and takes a seat on her throne, and now the metal and wood seems to envelope her, welcoming her. Dario drops to one knee, bows his head, lets his wing tips brush the floor.

“Archivist.”