Chapter Text
Though none of them would know it, Mickey had been to this tavern before.
He had drunk the shitty, cheap ale that the bartender insists is top-notch. He had overheard the same names telling the same stories to every pretty newcomer that stopped by, never bothering to change their old routine. He had met many a one-night-stand there, buying strangers drinks on someone else’s tab and charming them with his sharp wit and sharper looks. He had sung his songs there, gathered a crowd that fell silent the moment he opened his mouth and cheered loud enough to wake the stars once he was finished. He knew this tavern well. But most of its tenants couldn’t say the same for him.
It used to be fun, meeting old friends for the first time. He treated it like a game, playing with their sense of déja vu in a way only he could; dancing around that sense of familiarity that they could never quite place with the grace and talent of a trained acrobat. There had been no fear of being found out, then—with a mere wave of his hand and a wink, he could be anyone he wanted. He could’ve been anything.
Right now, he was boring traveler Mickey Smith, just stopping by for a quick drink. Judging by the unimpressed stare he got from the human man across the bar, Mickey Smith looked every bit as pathetic as he felt on the inside of his skin, sitting there nursing a beer and sulking. He made a mental note of that: Make his face a little less pathetic for tomorrow. He huffed a humorless laugh at his own joke, catching the attention of a dwarven man a few seats down.
The dwarf had been watching him since he came in, Mickey was sure of it. He’d done his best to avoid eye contact and keep his head down, but apparently it hadn’t been enough as the paunchy town blacksmith climbed onto the stool next to him, not even pretending not to stare. Mickey sighed and carefully set down his beer.
”Well, well. Look here, Yonda, it’s the sneaky bastard tha’ thought it would be fun to wear my face around town like it’s his to take.” His thickly-accented voice addressed the bartender, who looked back over and fixed the bard with a calculating stare. Mickey’s jaw ticked, knee bouncing as he tried his best to look innocuous.
Slowly, torturously, the man’s eyes traveled across his face. He scanned over his tanned skin, his narrow nose, the curve of his jawline, the greasy dark hair that fell just above his eyebrow... and finally, his gaze locked directly onto the place his right eye used to be. For the millionth time this week, Mickey cursed the eye patch that had been making his life difficult ever since he got it.
The bartender’s natural bitter features darkened considerably. He stalked over to the side of the bar opposite Mickey and grabbed his collar, yanking him close enough to practically taste his breath. His calloused musician’s hands scrambled against the wooden bar in his effort not to fall off of the stool.
“I thought I told you not to show your face around here again, freak.”
He tried not to gag at the smell of alcohol and fish that wafted over him, but the larger part of the sickened feeling in his gut was from the contempt in the other man’s tone. Whatever he’d done to piss this guy off, it was probably a little worse than scamming for some free drinks. He racked his brain to try and remember what the case was this time around, but his mind came up empty and the bartender was getting redder by the second. It looked like his time to think of a response was up.
Now, a smart man would have turned tail and left. That man would have apologized for his prior offense, bowed his head, and went to a different tavern for the rest of the night. That man would assuredly outlive Mickey by at least a century. Maybe two.
Because Mickey was not that man.
”Well, I considered coming in with your face, but your forehead gets bigger every time I see you, so I have a really hard time keeping track.”
As if that wasn’t enough to seal his fate, the changeling closed his eye and morphed his face into an impressive caricature of the livid bartender to emphasize his point—red face and receding hairline included. The only thing that remained unchanged was his right eye.
He only got about halfway to scrunching up his face to mock the man’s furious expression before the first punch landed.
For a second, everything went dark. He could hear a high-pitched ringing in his ears, and then suddenly the world came into focus and he was laying on the ground. When did that happen? He moved to sit up, but an agonizing blow to the ribs knocked him flat on his back again. He let out a choked gasp and curled in on himself, waiting for the next kick. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He panted there for a moment, not loosening his position in fear of more hits. When none came, a small seed of hope bloomed in his battered head.
…maybe one kick and a solid right hook was enough for them?
It didn’t come until after he tried again to sit up; this time catching him hard against the jaw and slamming his head against the wood floor. His body went limp, and it took twice as long for his vision to return.
The men were taunting him, he figured, but he couldn’t hear their jeers over his pulse rushing in his ears. He wrapped his arms around his head to defend from the next assault. However, instead of a punch, he felt a pair of burly hands grabbing onto him. He struggled against the grip for a moment before he realized he was being dragged towards the door. If he had any air in his lungs to speak of, he would have sighed with relief.
The ground outside was still damp from the storm earlier in the day. He hadn’t noticed it when he walked in, but the fact became strikingly clear to him once his face was so kindly acquainted with the wet cobblestone path in front of the tavern.
”—and stay out!” the bartender called behind him as the dwarf stomped back through the swinging doors, cackling with a voice like sandpaper. A few more voices joined in after him, followed by a handful of cheers for good measure. Since when was he public enemy #1?
I guess this could be worse, the bard thought, limbs unmoving as he struggled to breathe. They could’ve done a lot more than get a few good swings in. At least whatever I did to them wasn’t worth killing me over. He coughed up blood and watched it congeal on the stone walkway. The situation felt uncomfortably familiar.
At least they didn’t cut out my eye for it.
As if the gods heard his thoughts and decided to send him even more bad luck as punishment for his optimism, another set of heavy boots tromped over to his location, coming from the nearby food stall. A hand gripped the hair at the back of his head and pulled, painfully forcing him to look up at his next tormentor. Tymora’s light, another one? I need to get the fuck out of this city.
This one, however, he recognized. An old friend, his thoughts supplied, though he couldn’t quite recall the name. He took in the much younger human’s sneer with exhausted resignation. An old enemy, too, apparently. Gods, I can’t catch a break.
He couldn’t fight in his condition. There was no way. He could hardly keep his breathing under control, and his hands had gone numb the moment he’d hit the floor. More people, reduced to moving shadows by his wounded head, were starting to surround him. It had gotten late, later than he’d planned to be out alone. His one good eye swept across the rooftops, desperate, and his blurred vision focused on the beauty of the setting sun against the skyline. He was too enamored to notice the dark figure darting through the shadows in his periphery.
Right, he recalled, delirium setting in. That’s what it was. I came back here for the sunsets.
The small group was shouting things at him. It was hard to make out any individual word, but he got the gist of it. The young man yanked against his hair, attempting to haul him into the nearby alley. The others were reaching down to help when there was a sudden spray of blood, streaking across Mickey’s face.
For a moment, he considered the option that it might be his own. After all, he was most certainly bleeding, but didn’t new injuries usually come with pain? He pondered this mystery as one of the attackers fell to the ground beside him. Oh. Nice of him to join me.
The first guy—Tommas, his brain belatedly realized—finally let go of his hair. He felt the vibration of those heavy footsteps as his old partner attempted to flee the scene, followed by a large thump as he likely met the same fate as the other.
Two more people fell to the ground in short succession. Blood was starting to pool on the ground around him, and Mickey was beginning to think it might not have been his after all. Huh. That’s unusual. I feel like I’m missing something important here.
He flinched when a clawed hand was placed on his shoulder, gently trying to shake him back to full consciousness. He weakly lifted his head up to look at his saviour, but his eyes couldn’t seem to focus properly. He… looks like a bird? Shit, I must have really hit my head.
The not-bird man looked him over, concerned, before rummaging around in his cloak and begrudgingly pulling out a vial. He popped it open and leaned over his body, saying something Mickey couldn’t make out. Making sure not to cut him with his claws (—or talons?), he tilted Mickey’s head back and poured the red liquid down his throat.
The taste was possibly the worst he had ever experienced. If he hadn’t been so weak from pain and internal bleeding, he would have spat it out. Mickey’s pain dulled from a loud pounding to a gentle hum, and he could feel the drink burn on the way down like a shot of whiskey. When it reached his stomach, he let out a pained cry as his broken ribs snapped back into place on their own accord. His rescuer drained the last of the vial’s contents and made sure he swallowed it before finally releasing him.
Head no longer pinned, Mickey turned on his side and practically coughed up a lung. The hand patted his back gently through it, waiting for him to regain his composure before speaking up.
”I don’t know what the fuck you did to them, but you should probably be more careful walking around this late when so many people want you dead.”
And wow, that was not what Mickey had expected him to sound like. The nasally, high-pitched voice came completely out of left field. He wiped the blood from his eye and looked back up to the man, confident his vision would be straighter now that he’d drunk the disgusting potion.
The two made eye contact.
Aaaaaand, that’s a bird. He’s fully just a bird. I got saved by a hawk wearing sunglasses.
”First of all, motherfucker, I’m part eagle. Not hawk. Second of all, you’re lying next to a pile of dead bodies and nobody else is around, so you should probably get a move on. Y’know what I’m sayin’?”
Did he just read my mind?
”You’re talking out loud.”
They sat there for a minute as Mickey got his bearings. He tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but apparently the potion clearly hadn't healed everything because the attempt was both excruciating and unsuccessful. The birdman—an eagle aarakocra, Mickey realized after a better look at him—could only watch him struggle for so long before he reached over and grabbed him under the armpits.
”Look, let me take you somewhere where they have doctors or some shit,” he prompted, shifting his cloak around anxiously. He kept glancing up at the tavern a few yards away, still filled with people that could come out any moment.
Mickey shrugged him off, biting his tongue to contain the yelp of pain that the movement caused. “I’m okay. Thank you, but I can handle it from here.” His voice was still hoarse from coughing, and the aarakocra fixed him with a blank stare.
”I’m not so sure you can, buddy.”
”Well, I can, so…” Mickey made a small ’shoo’ gesture with his hand. The birdman sighed quietly and opened up his wings, taking off into the now-darkening sky. In the corner of his eye, Mickey watched him perch on the roof of a nearby house, clearly doubtful of his ability to get out of there on his own. The bird’s ridiculous little windsor sunglasses glinted in the dying light. He huffed indignantly and went back to slowly pushing himself to a sitting position.
He surprisingly managed to do so without passing out from the pain, which was a good sign. Growing overconfident in how healed his body was, he pulled his legs toward him and tried to stand.
The whole world tipped over to one side, and suddenly he was back on the ground, groaning in pain. The figure on the roof didn’t budge.
It took three more failed attempts after that for Mickey to finally get over his pride and call out to him; “Fine. Can you get me to the Firebrook Inn?”
Within seconds, the aarakocra was back on the ground next to him, carefully wrapping his talons around his shoulders. “Sure thing. We’ll be there in no time. The name’s Tony, by the way. Since we’re getting to know each other.”
Mickey let out a scoff. “Mickey S,” he responded, in a tone not unlike a child reluctantly giving a fake apology.
With no further ado, Tony stretched out his wings once more and took to the sky with a powerful thrust, taking them both out of the pool of blood and into the open air. Mickey couldn’t contain his yelp this time, crying out fearfully as they raced past the rooftops with unnatural speed. Past the rushing wind and his own screams, he could hear a nasally snicker, amused by his terror.
”Just enjoy the ride, Mickey!” Tony shouted to him, sounding insultingly delighted.
He was going to snap back at him, but the clouds above them cleared just enough for the shapeshifter to see the unobstructed sun as it completed its descent over the horizon, and it was suddenly hard to feel anything but awe.
Deciding it was maybe okay to take Tony’s advice just a little, he relaxed from his tensed position and allowed the floating sensation to rise in his chest, staring out at the violet sky.
Yeah, he thought to himself. Definitely the sunsets.