Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sunday's night - or whatever passes for night on the Astral Express where the sun doesn't shine - begins as nonsensically as they all have, lately. With March waving at him as she exits the passenger's car, with a cheerful "bye guys, I'm clocking off!"

By this point, Dan Heng has usually retired to the Archives already, if he'd bothered to get out of them at all, and today is certainly no exception. Himeko is nursing a cup of coffee that seems to never run dry, and Welt is elsewhere doing... Whatever it is he does. Black holes. It's all within expectation by now.

And then Stelle comes in out of nowhere, fiddling with the Omni-synthetizer. She's fuming with anger from what Sunday can see from his sitting position. No, wait, that's literal smoke.

"Stelle, you're on fire," Himeko warns, eyeing the previously clean floor. Pom Pom will have her head.

"Again?" Stelle answers, more annoyed than alarmed, before hissing an "oh fuck!" and beating herself down to kill the flame.

That's... Also fairly normal, Sunday has come to realize. By Stelle standards.

The other passengers will certainly step up and help her whenever she manages to lug herself back to the Express with injuries, but they are otherwise unfazed by her general state. Just from his time being here, Sunday has seen her come back covered in fluorescent goo, with hair puffed up from electricity, with assortments of minor gashes and scratches, and with all sorts of oddities in her arms.

The cake-shaped cats had ripped a nervous "what the fuck" from him before he could catch himself, and the whole Express had fallen silent. Before everyone started cackling. Sunday will never outlive the shame.

Back to the present. Sunday comes back to himself just in time to see Stelle (now no longer on fire) move towards the Phonograph. He schools his wings perfectly in place to not betray anything, but he can't help the slight twitch they give when the first notes come on and he recognizes Robin's song.

"Had I not seen the Sun" was the only one he hadn't heard bits and pieces of before the album dropped. It makes sense, since it's such a soft song, and half as long as the others, but Sunday still feels regret.

It's lovely. And he'll never be able to tell Robin that in person.

Sunday sighs and leans back in his seat.

Honestly, he can't believe he's here. A Nameless. Though so far, his only work as a Nameless has consisted in moping around the train until someone (usually Himeko) starts getting annoyed with his aimless pacing and sends him out with March (or Stelle, when she's not off to god knows where) to stock up on amenities.

It's been... Something. Better than languishing in chains on a dark room, probably, though he couldn't really claim he was acting like it.

His wings twitch beneath his coat. He hasn't stretched them properly in days.

Sunday always takes care of his appearance. His wings, especially, and his halo, the most striking parts of his appearance as a Halovian. They always required accurate preening, not unlike the pruning of a Bonsai tree. Any feathers that sprung up the wrong way were promptly snagged out, guilty of the sin of having been imperfect.

But that never extended to the wings at the small of his back. How could it? They were lumpy, shameful, not even the right colour. All four of Robin's wings were white, like her hair, as was normal. As mother's were. And what do Sunday's look like? Dark purple. Like Ena's night. What a joke. To be shoved down under constricting clothes and treated as nonexistent, THAT was their just fate. The aches and pains that came with it were just proof that he was doing something right.

As the Head of the Oak family, it had been unthinkable for him to show himself in a disheveled state. For decency's sake, of course, but privately... Sunday could admit that the societal obligation had nothing to do with his fervour for order. Sunday used to feel that if he showed just a shred of sloppiness, everything around him would fall apart. Regardless of how true it was or wasn't at the moment, it had always been an internal feeling that he never managed to push down.

Sunday would go out in public with his pants lined up the the tips of his shoes and his shirt ironed to perfection, not a strand of hair out of order, and everything went perfectly well.

(Then, one day, he followed a Bloodhound into a Hotel room to see his sister's corpse, and nothing mattered anymore. He kept up the act for the sake of it, to have something to cling to. He'd put on his perfect outfit and his perfect voice, and smile placidly as a demon paraded around with his sister's likeness, and he would go back to his room and tug at the feathers until they fell off his wings. He'd claw at his face and clothes, and wring his hair like a man possessed.)

(His sister was DEAD.)

Now, Sunday is more relaxed in his approach to a pristine appearance. He gets to choose his own clothes after he burned the ones "father" bought for him years ago and he gets to style his hair in whichever manner he sees fit. It doesn't matter as long as it's in order. Lovely.

Stelle looks at him, and then at Himeko. They communicate with their eyes, lest Sunday take notice and think they're gossiping. Himeko shrugs helplessly.

It's worrisome, they think. Sunday is always quiet, but he gets even more so when Stelle puts on Robin's songs. She's considered stopping, but she caught his smile the first time she changed the music to "Sway to My Beat" after he boarded, and March told her he spends half of his time looking longingly at the Phonograph when there's a different song on, and she can't really help herself.

It's pretty clear by now that Sunday thinks he has not right to comfort. Not in front of them at least, and they can only hope he allows himself some at least when alone. So Stelle figured she could do this small thing for him, and change the music when he was in the Passenger's car. But now she wonders if she's not secretly putting a finger in his wounds.

Why are people so complicated?

"Mh? Did you say something?"

Stelle turns to Himeko at the question, but Himeko isn't looking at her. Sunday shakes out of his reverie to look back, shaking his head, "not at all, Miss Himeko," he replies, stiff as always.

Now that Stelle is looking at him... Isn't he looking a little sickly? More pale and gaunt than usual? She hasn't been seeing him at breakfast lately, but surely he must have eaten after, right?

"Well, I'd better go. I need my beauty sleep," Himeko gets up and walks towards the door. She exchanges a meaningful glance with Stelle as she walks past, and Stelle nods minutely.

She sits down in the couch opposite to Sunday, "so, how did the day go?"

Sunday blinks himself out of another stupor, utterly thrown off by the fact that someone is engaging in conversation to him. Here. Where he makes a point to be a wall flower.

"Oh, the usual. I just..." he looks around, uncomfortable, "hung around."

It's shameful to admit out loud, even though he has no obligation to be doing anything. But surely, it must look strange. Everyone does something, even when there's nothing to do. March 7th has her pictures, Dan Heng has the Data Bank, Himeko has her coffee - it's not much, but it's better than nothing. Welt has.... well, Welt doesn't seem to have anything going on either, but he doesn't look pathetic while doing nothing. He has a lot to say if you approach him first.

Sunday can't even manage that. He just wants to disappear. But he can't, not after Robin made a deal with that woman to free him. So Sunday is stuck here.

A Nameless.

What a joke.

Stelle hums, observing the way his eyes glaze over again. This guy dissociates an awful lot, doesn't he?

Then, he twitches. It's a sharp thing, his head tilts to one side 20 degrees, in a crude imitation to a puppet, and Stelle gives a full body shudder.

"Um. Sunday?"

His eyes do this thing where they close a fraction before returning normal, "yes?"

Stelle is officially horrified. If Sunday crawls on all 4 and starts moving towards her like a spider, Stelle WILL take out her spear and impale him.

"Are you. Er. Are you okay?"

"Certainly" he answers more quickly this time, and gets up.

Please don't turn into a biblically accurate angel. Pleeeease Don't Turn Into A Biblically Accurate Angel!

His lower wings twitch. It must be a severe movement for her to be able to see it through his coat.

PLEASE DON'T HAVE A TRANSFORMATION VINCENT EDGEWORTH STYLE!!!!!!

Sunday takes a single step towards the door-

--and promptly falls on his face, passing out.

Chapter Text

Sunday comes to unwillingly, immediately regretting the fact that he's awake and alive when he feels his whole being get enveloped in a painful haze. Everything hurts. His head, his back. His wings.

He feels a small pressure between his wingbones, and can't help the moan of pain that comes out. Fuck. Fuck. He feels his wings flutter helplessly, and only then does he realize that they have been unfurled from their original position tucked around his waist.

Followed by the awareness of how he's laying on a black skirt, with a blue thigh garter visible from the slit-

Sunday pushes himself up like a frightened animal, only to fall back down in pain as his back muscles cry out from the movement. Please. Please no.

"Calm down," Stelle clicks her tongue at him, hand smoothing out the fabric between his shoulder blades, "what's wrong? Where's the pain? Scratch that actually, I know where it is. What's wrong with your back?"

Sunday's words die in his throat. Nothing's wrong he wants to say, but he knows what a desperate situation looks like. Stelle prattles on and on when he doesn't stop, asking if this is like the back pain Himeko gets because her boobs are too big for her shoulders to carry comfortably, and Sunday needs her to shut up before his migraine decides to join in the fun.

"I'm- I don't need your help," he gets out, because he's a fool, "I'll be fine on my own. You may go."

There's a moment of silence where, he can't see, but he's certain Stelle is blinking down at him like he's a particularly idiotic mushroom.

"Sunday, when did you last eat?" she asks. Sunday flinches like she struck him.

"When did you last take a walk? Drink? By Akivili, I don't think I've ever even seen you sleep! When I go to bed, you're here. When I wake up, leave and come back, you're always here. Do you think we can't see it? We're not stupid nor blind, we just want to show you some trust, give you space, because we want you to realize you need help. Or maybe you know, and you're trying to waste away. But I won't let you."

Stelle's hand settles on his ribs. He can feel it through his clothes. Just how much weight has he lost lately?

"Sunday, you need help. We can get you to a doctor or a therapist or what have you, but that's LATER and you need help NOW." her hand presses down harder, but her voice softens just so, "can you trust me? To help?"

To take care of you?

Of course not, Sunday wants to scoff. A former enemy, taking his life in her hands? When he'd never even been able to trust his allies? Unthinkable.

His back muscles clench as if on cue, and Sunday's breaths are reduced to frenzied panting, shaking in pain all over.

And yet, he's never had a flare-up this bad. Even if, by some small miracle, Sunday managed to get Stelle to drop him off to his room (and isn't THAT something, Sunday's room. Feels like just another layer of mockery from that woman and the entire Cosmos) he wouldn't be able to move past this alone. His wings need to be stretched, and he fears he may pass out from the pain before he gets through one exercise.

When it comes down to it, what Stelle asks of him isn't really that outrageous (isn't it?) and really, what could she do to harm him? (his clipped feathers itch. You know what, You Know What) and-

Sunday's fingers press on his own throat, 1-2-1, intermittently, 2-1-2. He lets out a deep breath, wills his thoughts to still.

"Sunday?"

Sunday cannot fathom the idea of this causing him anything other than pain. But Xipe, have mercy. Stelle is right. He needs help. Badly.

And yet- a flash of fear comes back - everyone will see.

If they stay here, anyone of the Express will be able to walk in and see Sunday in all his disheveled glory. His useless wings - one with clipped talons, and the other straining against the couch. Useless. A useless bird that can't fly. His eyes feel dangerously hot at the thought.

No, whatever Stelle does to him, let him at least have the comfort of privacy.

"Not... Not here," his voice croaks horribly at last, yet another sign of just how far he's fallen, and he doesn't care to see what Stelle makes of that response. It's entirely possible that she will ignore his plea and just do this here. Why should she listen?

Sunday's thoughts turn darker. Will she shove him on the floor? Cut up his skin? No, surely a bat to break his bones would be more her style. His wings. She'll start there, his wings. They feel so flimsy that he would half expect them to fall away at the slightest touch, but he knows that's wishful thinking. If they did, his life would be so much easier. These wings have brought him nothing but misery.

If he could, he would cut them off with a kitchen knife. But he can't, he knows he can't, and he can hear Robin's panicked cries whenever he thinks of attempting it again. Would Stelle do it if he asked her to?

No, no, Robin-

Would Robin still care?

A jolt of pain takes him out of his thoughts abruptly, having him heave a breathless gasp before his world shifts.

Warm. It's unexpectedly warm.

"Sorry... Jostle..." his ears pick up on a few muffled words through the pained haze, but he has to screw his eyes shut just to keep from passing out. Vertigo and pain are a terrible combo. He can't breathe.

His world is reduced to darkness. A noisy, shaking darkness. Everything hurts. He can feel all the liquid in his body course through him with the gentleness of molten lava.

"H... we go." Sunday gets set in an upright position again.

He promptly crumples to the ground, retching. Of course, nothing comes up with it other than bile. He's been skipping meals, and the Conductor has been kind enough to not point it out.

Sunday wishes he had eaten something. Then, maybe, he'd feel some relief. As it stands, he's stuck in limbo, waiting until his body realizes its stupid master didn't bother to shove anything inside of it, and that this won't get any better.

He's played this waiting game so many times before. He should have gotten used to it, but it never gets better.

Awareness comes back to him in bits and pieces. First, sight. His hands are braced on the ground, shaking as violently as the rest of him must be. There's a puddle of translucent liquid. He'll mop that up later.

Then, feeling. But just saying 'feeling' is too broad, there's a lot that Sunday's brain receptors are becoming aware of. First, he feels the fever. His face is hot, but that doesn't compare to the burning under his armpits, along his neck. That's also a familiar feeling, of course, with how Sunday usually dresses, but it never gets easier to handle.

Then, his limbs, his face. He's indeed shaking. He's also crying, tears joining the puddle of bile like they're best buds. He feels some noise leave his mouth, belatedly. Probably some sickly, pitiful sob. Normal Sunday stuff.

And then, he registers the things outside his body. Like the weight holding steadily onto his shoulder, or the (hand? Is it a hand?) pushing back his bangs, holding his hair at the base of his neck so spit doesn't get on them. How considerate. The person holding him is saying something, something that sounds vaguely like reassurances, and he's itching to lean in that warmth.

"Robin," he whimpers, leaning into the touch, because certainly no one other than his sister would ever afford him this humane treatment. Robin is the only one he can trust.

The voice falls silent. Then,

"Sunday," shaky and uncertain.

Sunday remembers suddenly. He can always trust Robin, but Robin can never again trust him. Not after what he's done. Not after he- he--

The feeling of his wings comes back next, and he hunches back over himself. Right. He's hyperventilating. He needs to retch again. He sobs openly, a compound of dread and misery finally pushing him to his limit.

It hurts! He wants to say, but his throat works against him. His throat. His fingers press on his neck again, more viciously. If he could, he'd rip it out and be done with it.

His sight goes black at the edges. He can't breathe.

He can't breathe.

"SUNDAY!" the shout startles him enough to make all the other voices fall quiet. The hand is wrenched away from his neck.

Sunday doesn't quite understand what happens next. The hands are moving across his body, coiling like a snake. He's pushed backwards, sideways, on his hunches, and-

Oh. This is... A hug, right?

A hug.

He blinks blankly at the revelation. A hug. The last time he got one, it was in the dream. It was- it was the last time he'd seen his sister.

"Are you back with me?"

It sounds oddly crisp now.

"....yeah," he answers shakily, then grimaces. His mouth feels terrible, both sticky and slimy, not to mention the acidic taste.

"How do you wanna do this? Work with me on this, I've got no first-hand experience."

This? What is this?

Ow, fuck. His wings. Right.

"I... I don't know, I don't think I can stand. Or sit, for that matter," that's how he usually stretched, but now he was utterly incapable of managing his own body, "I can't control them. Mn-my wings."

"Then I'll give you a massage to start with. I'll lay you down on the bed and... Um." Stelle's hands brace up higher on his body on impulse, "I'll have to take your coat and shirt off. I can't feel your muscles if you're covered."

Right.

"R-right." A new chill of dread goes down his spine. He'd forgotten how scared he was for a moment, due to all the physical pain he was in, but the fear is back now.

Taking his acknowledgement as consent, Stelle sits him on the bed, and starts to work over his frankly offensive amount of buttons. Seriously, buttons on his overcoat AND shirt? Not to mention his corset, or what passes as a corset. There's so much purely decorative stuff that she cannot tell what is supposed to let it open. She has half a mind to cut it all off with her pocket knife, but she figures Sunday wouldn't appreciate that.

After what feels like forever, she manages to get the last of the offending garments off, and triumphantly throws it in the heap with the rest to be washed later.

And then realizes she's got a half naked Halovian nearly in her lap. Oh. Oh boy.

"Right. So. Um. I'm going to lay you on your front, alright?"

Sunday nods stiffly in response. Stelle isn't really in the position to be saying this, but she gets a feeling Sunday is going through traumatic flashbacks during this, and she's read that making someone with PTSD aware of what you're doing is useful. He probably can't handle surprises right now.

(And it's not hard to infer where that trauma came from. Just from what little she'd seen of him, Stelle got the distinct impression that Gopher Wood had not made Sunday's life an easy one. Deliberately.)

Stelle manhandles him gently (she's come so far, Dan Heng would be impressed) and slowly lays him on the bed. Turning him around is a little more difficult, and guilt nips at her heels with every hiss and whimper that Sunday lets out, but they manage.

"Are you comfortable?," she observes the prone figure carefully for signs of discomfort, "need a pillow to support your hips?"

The question makes Sunday break his self-imposed silence, just out of sheer confusion. "A pillow for my... What?"

Stelle blinks. Oh, wait, no. That's a sex thing, isn't it? She says something like "nevermind, figured you'd need the wing support" or some other bullshit before he can realize she accidentally propositioned to him, absentminded while she looks around the room.

"Do you have any oils?"

Damn it, that also sounds suggestive.

"Oils? I... Mh, Miss Himeko did gift me something like that, I believe."

Oh thank the Aeons, he didn't notice.

"Great, where is it?"

Where is it indeed. Sunday flushes with mortification at the thought, "in that drawer," he points to the bedside table, not mentioning that he just put it there and forgot about it out of a sense of self deprecation.

Sunday can sometimes be self-aware enough to see what exactly is wrong with him. He hadn't seen any problem with it at the time, but he does now, with the gift of time, and he hates it.

Stelle is blissfully unaware of his thought process, simply rummaging through his stuff without a care for his personal order, and comes back with a white container with smoothened edges.

"Is this it? Coconut scented body lotion? ...cream? Whatever this is?"

Why are you asking me, he wants to say, when you're the one who's holding it?

"Yes, I do believe that's it," Sunday lies through his teeth, not even being able to turn his head far enough to see the container properly. What difference could it make.

"Perfect!"

Stelle crawls on the bed on her knees, making Sunday's heart skip a beat before she remembers herself, "oh, yeah, I'm gonna... There's no way to escape from the double entendre on this. I'm gonna crawl up there and sit in your legs so I can uh. Reach. Your back. So. Prepare yourself?"

Sunday's idea of "preparing himself" consists of becoming even stiffer. Stelle can't really blame him, he doesn't look like he's ever felt the touch of a woman. Or a man. Or anything other than the damn Charmony dove.

If they were in a more favourable situation - not that Stelle is a hopelessly horny degenerate or anything - Stelle would take a few minutes to appreciate how Sunday looks right now. Sprawled on his stomach, wings unfurled. To any onlooker, the way he hides his face could be mistaken for demure bashfulness, and the tremble in his wings could pass off as excitement or anticipation.

As it stands, Stelle knows he's feeling hopelessly trapped. Showing one's back is supposed to be a beautiful act of trust, but the situation forced their hand on this, and it makes her mouth twist angrily.

Stelle slaps her hands on her face. Just do what you came here for.

"What was that?"

Stelle feels bad for the barely suppressed panic she hears, "just psyching myself up! Don't worry."

Sunday is very worried.

Above him, Stelle takes her time to unscrew the bottle (is this a bottle? A box?) and dip her hands in the untouched cream. It's like taking the first spoonful of Nutella from a fresh jar, the happiness of breaking something perfect (oh, it's a jar, not a glass.)

She spreads it on her whole palms and rubs, even blowing hot hair on it to lessen the shock of the cold, and is finally ready.

"I'm gonna start now."

She waits for Sunday's acknowledgment before going ahead, starting from right above his sacral bone, and slowly working her way up.

Sunday hisses instantly when she gets close to his wing muscles.

"It starts here?"

He nods, she lessens her touch. Figures she can get his body relaxed with some light petting before she actually starts working on where he needs it most.

Sunday, for his part, realizes that relaxing might actually help him here. He still can't bring himself to trust the woman above him, but it'd be foolish to aid her in hurting himself. Surprisingly, when he would expect her touch to roughen up at an exposed weakness, it gets softer instead. Her hands glide up and down the expanse of his back, leaving every now and then to put more cream on him. It continues this way for- he doesn't know, loses sense of time. Before he knows it, his back is slick and oily, and calloused hands are working out knots in his shoulder, far above where he expected them to be.

It's almost... Nice.

"Feeling relaxed?" a soft voice whispers, as if to avoid breaking the atmosphere. Sunday is still aware of what's going on, of course, but he feels pleasantly boneless. Pliant. He lets out a "mhh-mmh" that brings a chuckle out of his companion. It would have been mortifying any other time, but now it's nice.

"I'd feel bad ruining this for you, but I know your wings still hurt, and I imagine you'll be very cross with me if I condemn you to more pain in favour of momentary relief."

Sunday catches the words, processes them. He's loathe having to agree, but beggars can't be choosers.

"Quite..."

He can't let go of the edge of dreaminess to his voice. Stelle apologizes under her breath as she straightens her back.

"I'm moving down."

The first touch, brings pain again. It's not all-consuming, Sunday doesn't feel like he's dying, but it's very unpleasant. It burns. He wonders if it'll burn forever. And then Stelle moves on from there, to another muscle, and the previous one starts easing up while pain blossoms there instead. It goes like that, a trail of discomfort down his back as Stelle moves quickly to avoid any zone hurting unbearably.

Sunday brought this upon himself, he thinks bitterly. He has no right to resent her, he knows.

Stelle interrupts his furious thoughts with a focused voice, "you're doing well."

Sunday blinks. "What?"

"You're doing great. It's already much better, isn't it?"

Sunday takes a moment to check, moves his wing slightly. She's right! It still hurts like hell, but it's less harrowing. He's... Getting better.

It feels like a miracle, even though he know it isn't. When he gets like this, Sunday has a hard time remembering that he wasn't always in pain. He could cry with relief.

"Shhh," Stelle shushes him gently, and Sunday realizes he is, in fact, crying. And maybe he never stopped.

"Don't cry," her hands move down, pressing on a particularly stubborn bundle of nerves, then- "you're doing so well. What a good boy."

Sunday freezes.

What a good boy.

At the next press of fingers, Sunday moans, and it's not all pain.

Wait. He has the mind to feel horror in the midst of the haze. It's not all pain?

"Yes, just like that." Stelle's hands continue, completely unaware of the sort of reaction she just incited in him, and this is. Bad. Very bad.

"How do you feel? Feels like I can start preening now?"

"Yes!" Sunday jumps at the chance to get her hands off his back and forget all about the sound he just made. He sighs in relief as her hands leave his back.

His mouth clamps shut when her hips move her further up, so she's sitting on his ass. Putting pressure on-

Xipe, have mercy.

"Alright, I read a few articles on this. Even watched some videos," Stelle wonders if she's not giving away too much information, making it too blatant that everyone had been eager for the chance to help Sunday with his wing upkeep, "so just relax and leave it to me. Oh, tell me if I knock a feather askew though, okay?"

"Okay," Sunday sounds like he's had the wind knocked out of him, but he doesn't tell her to stop, so she's not too worried.

She takes a moment to deliberate where to start. Mmm... Top should be more sensitive, so it's better to start from the bottom. She brushes against his secondaries, encouraging the wing to unfurl a with her as she moves out to his primaries. She looks up. No averse reaction so far. Good. And there are no feathers out of place, which means none of them were disturbed by her manhandling earlier.

Moving up, she can already see that everything above wasn't as fortunate, though that's probably due to being shoved under a coat for hours, rather than anything else. There are so many feathers knocked askew that Stelle has a hard time telling what side they're even supposed to be facing.

She studies the wing, hand hovering over each and every one in a count, and huffs in resignation. There's no way she'll be able to take out all of them, not without hurting Sunday. She'd just give priority to the bent and damaged feathers, and go as far down the others are Sunday can manage.

She begins by plucking one that's falling apart right at the middle, and Sunday stiffens.

Coldly, "what are you doing."

Oh, right, Stelle should have probably warned him, "your feathers are damaged, so I'm taking some out."

His wings shake unhappily, holding themselves closer to him, "I don't recall asking you to do that."

Yikes. Clearly, there's a can of worms here that Stelle nudged with her foot. Should she just let it go?

...nah, not her style.

"Sunday," she tries to keep her tone level and even like Himeko's, smoothing her hand over his skin, "I'm sorry if it makes you uncofmy, but it's necessary for your health. Those askew and bent wings are causing you pain, and ignoring them is only going to make it worse. I promise you'll feel so much better once I preen you properly."

Sunday listens to her, but his instincts still get in the way. "I can preen myself just fine," he sniffs

"Really? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you've been neglecting it."

A low blow. But one he cannot argue against.

He used to have an excuse at the ready when someone (Robin) nagged at him about his wings. As the family head, he was far too busy to keep up with it every single day, mostly keeping to what would peek out of his vest.

Now, Sunday isn't the head of anything, so that excuse is gone. What a pity.

"You can tell me if I'm hurting you, and I'll stop. But we should get the worst out before we start stretching. You do want to feel good, don't you?"

Stelle's voice is not duplicitous in any manner, but Sunday cannot help his blush. Does she truly not realize what her words seem to suggest?

Ugh, no matter, "yes."

What follows is some... Very interesting 40 minutes of Sunday's life. Most of it was spent in uneventful silence, only the prick of heat from the careful feather-picking to fire at Sunday's synapses. Of course, his body seemed to get excited about it sometimes, because being Sunday was suffering, but he managed to keep his noises at bay by biting on his arm.

He did register a few eventful things happening throughout. Every now and then, Stelle would start humming some songs - not just Robin's, but also ones Sunday had only heard in passing while sitting on the couch. Her voice was a bit musky, rich. With a bit of polish, she might have been able to perform opera, judging by the way she lingered on low notes. She would seem to stop for a few minutes just to hum, and Sunday's wings were grateful for the reprieve.

He wonders if it was a silent invitation to sing along. But no, certainly not.

Another thing worthy of note was the way her hands lingered over the severed talons of his left wing. Neatly severed, all in a straight line. He didn't register what she was looking at until she brushed, and he couldn't even bring himself to care.

She'd already seen him at his worst. This couldn't lower him further.

But she moved on quietly without asking anything, just going back to her work.

After those 40 minutes passed, Stelle was ready to brush along his plumage to get any dirt out (not that it could have gathered any, hidden under his garments) and started going through stretching motions- which he took over halfway through, when he realized it was actually something he was supposed to be doing himself.

Still, Stelle leaned back and watched as he sat back up, with his back to her, and flexed his wings this way and that. He finished his session by rolling them at the base slowly, grimacing at every crack of his empty bones.

They sat in silence together for a few minutes, waiting to be comfortable enough to break it.

"So, how do you feel?"

"... Better."

Thank you.

The words get stuck in his throat, and he clears it bashfully in an attempt to get them out. But Stelle seems to get it, clapping her hands on her knees cheerfully, "I'm glad."

He feels her shuffle off the bed, padding around to his bedside table, and barely has the mind to cover his front with a pillow. It wouldn't do for her to see his scars and ruin what fragile understanding they managed to build in these few hours.

He watches her grasp onto her gloves and fumble to get her boots back on. He feels a bit chilly.

"You keep stretching," she says while tapping the toes on the floor, "and I get you something to fill up on. I'm sure I can annoy Pom Pom into giving me the kitchen keys if I tell him the circumstances."

She turns towards the door, makes to leave. Hesitates. Turns back around, shoving a finger at his face with a scowl, "and just to be clear, this is not a one time thing. We're gonna help you preen twice a week, and you're not skipping any more meals under my watch. So you might as well get used to it, mkay?"

Sunday blinks in shock. He nods slowly, jerking his head up and down haltingly, and witnesses Stelle's scowl ease with a relieved, if tired, sigh. And then-

-into a warm smile.

"Good. I'll be back with the food in a bit- do your stretches! For real!"

....aaand she's gone.

Sunday heaves a sigh of relief. Slowly, he feels away the pillow to his front.

Good quick thinking on his part. It wouldn't do for Stelle to get the wrong idea in the situation.

"....what am I supposed to do with you now?"

His boner, obviously, can't answer.

"Why am I talking like you're a person? How foolish."

He lays down on his pillow once more. The day really has wrung him out. Mmm, no, actually, it would be more accurate to say that he's been in the process of wringing himself to full exhaustion for weeks. He's really exhausted.

Stelle could be back at any moment, and he really would prefer not running the risk of any diplomatic accidents happening. His little friend down there is certainly capable of calming down on it's own, he's sure.

"Alright," he pushes himself back up. Stretches.

He's ready to do better.