Chapter Text
They ended up driving to Scotland. They’d debated taking the train, but between Martin’s lingering Loneliness and Jon’s wings, it seemed unwise. Jon drove the whole way up, keeping a constant point of contact between himself and Martin.
Daisy’s cabin, Martin found, wasn’t what he was expecting. He’d expected bare walls, maybe bloodstains on the furniture, a tin roof that screeched when the wind blew over it. Instead, it was nicely furnished, if a little dusty, with a fireplace and a small TV. It was nestled nicely amongst tall trees and windswept moors, not too far from the village to get supplies but completely private. It was really quite perfect. He was drawn from his examination of the meager book selection by Jon returning.
“I got the generator running,” he said. Jon was twitching his fingers, shoulders hunched and wings folded tightly against his back. His feathers (Feathers! Martin thought a little deliriously. He’d have to get used to that) were ruffled and sticking out at odd angles, not the sleek uniform plumage he saw on most birds.
Jon reached out a hand and flipped the light switch. With a slight buzz, the bulb came on, illuminating the cabin better than the setting sun had.
“I’ll let you take the bedroom, if you want to sleep,” Jon said hesitantly. “There’s only the one, so…”
Martin knew he was reluctant to let him out of his sight, and he appreciated the effort to give Martin his space. Everything felt like far too much. He was sure that the world hadn’t been quite so bright and loud before. The thought of being alone again was pleasant, but if it came with the consequence of losing the constant presence of Jon at his side, he wasn’t sure it was worth it.
“It’s… that is, if you wouldn’t mind…” Martin tried to put his thoughts into words. It would beeasier if he was sure what his thoughts were. “I’d prefer it if you… uh, stayed. With me. If that’s ok.”
“Oh.” Jon ruffled his feathers, taking a step towards Martin. His gaze was soft, ever patient. “Of course, whatever you need.”
Martin tentatively reached out his hand, and Jon immediately took it, a smile appearing on his face.
“Are you tired? If you’re up for it I can see if I can make us dinner,” Jon offered, squeezing his hand. “I don’t, uh, I doubt there’s going to be much in the pantry but I can forage. That sounds— I took a course on mushroom foraging, then I went off on my own and learned some more about it. It’s never been useful but uh…” he trailed off, running a hand through his hair. His awkward stuttering about foraging set off a fire in his heart he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Let’s check the pantry before we get the baskets out, ok?”
“Right, of course. Sorry.”
In the end, Jon was able to make pasta with a can of unopened tomato sauce. It wasn’t fancy, but the domesticity of watching Jon fumble to make pasta with the few things they had available was almost too much for him.
“So, uh.” Martin was usually the one with the most tact out of the two of them, but he didn’t have time to filter himself before asking, “what kind of bird are you?”
“Oh!” Jon looked up from his food, seemingly startled that Martin was initiating conversation. He worried for a moment that the question might have been too rude, but Jon smiled and flexed his wings a little. “An archangel pigeon, actually.”
That didn’t sound right. Jon was gorgeous and bright and so warm, nothing like what Martin thought of pigeons as being. “Aren’t pigeons…”
“Gray? Yeah. It’s really fascinating, actually.” He looked like he was about to go on one of those long, animated tangents Martin had loved when they worked together, before changing gear. “But, uh, archangel pigeons are domesticated pigeons, bred to look like… well not me but.”
Well if Jon wasn’t going to do it himself, Martin was going to prompt him to talk. “I didn’t know domesticated pigeons were a thing besides the ones that carried messages.”
“They were a symbol of status for a while, actually. People would show off their dovecotes — that’s what pigeons are kept in — to their guests to impress them. It was actually illegal, in feudal europe, for peasants to keep pigeons, it was restricted to the upper classes. But, um, archangel pigeons are interesting because, since people have been keeping pigeons for so long, no one really knows where they originated from, though they were, uh, refined in Germany. In fact, pigeons have been around for so long they share some traits with winged dinosaurs that most other birds lost, like the ability to grow feathers — most notably wing feathers — on their legs.” He rolled up his sleeves, displaying auburn feathers growing out of his skin. “See? I also got a few other traits like hollow bones — which are actually far from fragile, since they’re thicker than most mammals’ — different colored nails and multiple sets of lungs. I also obviously have the orange pigeon eyes and 360 view, and tail feathers. And, uh, the wings.”
“Your bones are hollow?” Martin wasn’t sure why he latched onto that particular fact.
“Well not all of them. Some of them are still filled with marrow and all that, but most of them are hollow to help air get everywhere it needs to be.”
“Right, from your multiple sets of lungs.” Martin must’ve said it too sharply, because the light flickered out from Jon’s eyes and he dropped his hands, which had been gesticulating while he talked.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up, I’m sorry,” he said. “Melanie told me to stop talking about it, that it was weird but I…”
“No, I’m genuinely interested,” Martin said hastily. It has been nice to listen to Jon talk without having to find a way to chime in.
“Ok. Well, uh… you’ll tell me if you’re bored? I can’t really, uh, tell, so. I don’t want to, to overwhelm you or anything.”
“I’ll tell you,” Martin assured him, though he was sure he wouldn’t have to. “You were saying, about the lungs…”
“R-right. Well, uh, pigeons have multiple air sacs, so their lungs are never empty of oxygenated air. When they breath in the fresh air goes to the back air sacs and the used air goes to the front air sacs, and when they exhale the used air exits their body and the oxygenated stuff comes back to the lungs.” He pointed at his body, slightly below his rib cage. “I’m missing some of the back ones, but I think that’s because I’m not the right… shape for all of them. Birds are designed largely for flight, but, uh, it just means I’m a very oxygenated… person.”
“Do you know how to fly?”
Jon shook his head. “Not much of an opportunity to learn, in a basement. I haven’t been outside in… a while.”
“You should learn.” Martin isn’t sure what prompts him to say it, but it seems sad that Jon’s body has mutated for flight and he can’t even do it. It made him think of birds with their wings clipped, unable to do the one thing they were made for. “We’re all alone out here, no one will see you.”
“I… uh.”
“If-if you don’t want to, that’s fine. I don’t want to push or anything,” he amended. “I just thought it might be nice, to make something of our situation.”
Jon smiled at him and he remembered exactly why he’d gone through all of this for him. “I’ll think about it.” He grabbed his and Martin’s plates and utensils and set them in the sink, not bothering to clean them. “I’ll do it tomorrow,” he said, making his way to the bedroom.
They’d stopped by Martin’s flat to grab the few belongings of his he felt like he needed. He would’ve felt self-conscious that it all fit in two bags if it wasn’t for the fact that Jon had one messenger bag in the back, claiming it contained all of his possessions. Martin reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of pajamas, gesturing vaguely at the bathroom.
When he made it back to the bedroom after getting changed, brushing his teeth and staring at himself in the mirror for a while, Jon was wearing soft flannel trousers, his tail feathers splayed out behind him. His torso was a mess of bony arms, feathers and shirt. He looked up when he heard Martin come in.
“’M stuck,” he mumbled, tugging on the shirt. It had two rips in the back, an accommodation for his wings, but it had gotten stuck on the feathered appendages.
Martin couldn’t help but laugh, largely to hide the bright red blush that came with seeing Jon with his shirt (partially) off.
There was a rip and Jon let the shirt fall to tatters around him. “Fuck,” he commented, reaching behind him for a short-sleeved shirt that would clearly be far too large on him. He slipped his wings into the tears with some struggle. At least Martin understood why he had so few clothes now.
“Sorry about that,” Jon said, a dark blush coloring his cheeks that only made Martin turn a darker shade of crimson. “I’m still… getting used to them.”
“Tearing holes in your clothes doesn’t seem like the most effective way of doing things.”
“Well I’m sort of limited for options. I can’t exactly stop by a drugstore and pick up wing-specific shirts.”
Martin felt the urge to ask him for his measurements to knit him something nice he could actually wear, but he tamped it down. He hadn’t knit since the Unknowing and he certainly didn’t want to seem to forward.
Both men realized at the same time that they were lingering, unsure quite what to do. Jon spoke first, getting off the bed. Martin noticed that he left a brown feather behind on the quilt.
“Have you changed your mind? I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“Uh, n-no. I haven’t changed my mind, no.”
“Oh.” Jon didn’t sit back down, clearly waiting for Martin to make the first move. He did, slowly sitting down on the bed. Jon followed his lead immediately, stretching out across one half of the bed. He was so close to the edge that Martin was convinced if he so much as breathed wrong he’d fall off, but he didn’t say anything.
“Do you want a blanket?” Martin asked, noticing that Jon’s only layer was his clothes.
“No I have, uh, these.” He fluffed up his feathers and tucked his wings around him. It was frankly adorable, and Martin wished he was close enough to hold. His feathers looked so incredibly soft.
Martin fell asleep with one hand outstretched across the bed, clutched tightly by the man he loved again, who feared he’d disappear during the night.