Work Text:
The flicker of the lights painted the walls in dim, tired strokes—like an old heartbeat refusing to fade, pulsing in the bones of the cabin. Each buzz from the overhead bulb echoed faintly, a lullaby for ghosts. Shadows swayed on the worn wooden walls, stretching thin, then vanishing again like breath on glass.
Outside, the forest stretched wide and silent, dark limbs tangled against a sky too heavy for stars.
Trees stood like statues, unmoving. Time didn’t pass out there—it hovered, waiting. But in here, tucked in a cabin buried deep in the woods, the world held its breath. Still and suspended. As if even the wind had stopped to listen.
Elliot sat hunched on the edge of the couch. He held the battered tin of cocoa like something precious and cursed. With a soft twist, the lid came free, scraping against the rim with a metallic sigh. The scent hit him immediately—faint, dusty chocolate and something older, something like rust and attic air.
He tilted the tin carefully, watching as the last of the cocoa powder slid down in dry, silent clouds into the chipped enamel mug below. It fell like dirt onto a coffin—slow, reluctant, clinging to the sides as though it didn’t want to let go. The powder was stubborn, soft as ash, and he had to tap the tin against his palm a few times to free the last of it. Even then, it drifted like it mourned the descent, layering itself into the bottom of the mug in fragile heaps.
Elliot exhaled through his nose, then glanced toward the flickering light. “Well,” he murmured to no one in particular, “guess we’re down to the last.” He set the tin aside and reached for the thermos of lukewarm water, steam long since faded, and poured. The cocoa hissed faintly. A half-hearted attempt at warmth, but it would do.
He set the tin aside with a soft clink and reached for the cracked spoon, its handle worn smooth from use, and stirred slowly. The water was warm—not hot. The camp stove’s flame had flickered and danced the entire time, refusing to hold steady thanks to the unreliable sputtering of whatever keeps this cabin powered. He’d sat there for ten minutes watching the pot half-simmer, the bubbles forming and retreating in uncertain pulses. It never truly boiled, but it tried. That was something.
The cocoa clumped, reluctant to dissolve, but Elliot kept stirring. Patient. The smell rose up, subtle but sweet, and something in his chest softened.
He let the spoon circle the edges of the mug lazily, his other hand wrapped around the ceramic to soak in the gentle heat. As he moved, his mind wandered—without permission, but not unwelcome—to Taph.
Always Taph. He pictured him curled up on that couch, wings folded tight around him like armor. The way the golden ends of his feathers glowed faintly in the lamplight, like embers in a dying fire. The shape of his hands when he signed, delicate and sharp all at once. The silence he carried like a second language, full of meaning, full of presence.
Elliot felt his pulse slow, chest aching in that quiet, familiar way. Strange to learn the contours of love through touch, through gesture, through a shared look that lasted one second longer than expected and yet, with Taph… none of that silence ever felt empty.
He stirred again, watching the drink take shape. Every movement felt like a promise. Every clump of cocoa that melted into the water, every breath he took above the rising steam—it was all a tiny rebellion against what the Spectre tried to take from them. Comfort, warmth, and care.
Elliot wasn’t good at much anymore—most days he barely remembered how to breathe without looking over his shoulder—but he could do this. He could make Taph hot chocolate, even if the water never boiled, even if the power flickered and the night tried to press in through every crack in the walls.
He could offer him this. Something warm. Something gentle. Something real.
He picked up the mug, cradling it carefully in both hands as he stood. The warmth bled through the ceramic and into his fingers, slow and steady. Just like the way Taph made him feel nd without another thought, Elliot turned and walked back to him—quiet, steady, sure.
He glanced over his shoulder. Taph was curled up on the old couch in front of the cabin. Their black wings were drawn close, a protective shell of feathers, though the golden ends peeked out like autumn leaves. They were watching Elliot closely, eyes unreadable in the dim light, but present. Alive.
That was also something. Elliot walked over, the chipped mug cradled carefully between his hands. He sit next to Taph and held it out wordlessly. Taph blinked, then smiled—a small thing, barely there—but it hit like sunrise. He accepted the drink, fingers brushing Elliot’s for a moment too long.
[Thank you.]
Elliot smiled back, “Always.” Taph took a sip and winced, just slightly. The heat must have surprised him. Elliot chuckled. “Oh, come on. It’s barely lukewarm.” He leaned closer, nudging Taph playfully with his shoulder. “Don’t tell me after all the rounds we’ve been through, you still can’t handle a little heat.”
Taph narrowed his eyes and signed, [It’s not the heat. It’s the taste.] Elliot gasped, pressing a hand to his chest with theatrical offense. “Excuse you! That’s the only one we have, thank you very much. Probably expired in 2009 and full of mysterious particles that’ll make you sprout extra wings.” Taph raised a brow—and his wings twitched behind him, feathers rustling with the faint sound of shifting paper.
Elliot blinked at it. “Did… did your wing just sass me?” In response, Taph angled the wing slightly forward—just enough to flick one of the golden tips into Elliot’s cheek.
“Hey!” Elliot laughed, swatting at the feathers half-heartedly. “That’s assault. Winged assault.” Without thinking, he reached out and combed his fingers through the golden ends, where midnight bled into warm light. “Hmm,” he murmured. “Maybe I am right. You didn’t have this much gold last week, did you?”
Taph made a show of drawing the wing away—ruffling it like a cat fluffing its tail—but Elliot caught it before it left entirely and gave it a slow, deliberate stroke. They were softer than they looked. Downy, warm, alive. The feathers shivered under his touch.
“Seriously,” he murmured, quieter now. “How do you keep these so nice? Everyone else looks like they’ve been thrown through a dumpster, but you’re out here with feather conditioner or something.”
Taph shook his head slowly and signed: [They take care of themselves.] Elliot snorted. “Show-off,” but he was smiling. Taph, too, a ghost of amusement touching his face as he took another careful sip from the mug. His wings shifted, one curling subtly outward—an invitation. Elliot took it without hesitation, scooting closer and slipping under the curved wing. The feathers folded around his back, warm and shielding.
Taph noticed instantly. His wings puffed up slightly, catching more air, thickening the barrier between Elliot and the cold. One feather even flicked toward the window, as if offended it existed. [You’re cold.]
Elliot leaned his head against Taph’s, letting his hair brush the edge of his cheek. “A little. You always notice.” Taph didn’t answer. He just moved closer, wrapping both wings more firmly around Elliot.
Elliot snorted and twisted to flick the hair right back into Taph’s face. “I swear, you get more birdlike by the day,” Elliot muttered fondly.
Then the quiet settled again. The heat from Taph’s body soaked through their clothes. The wings held him close, feathers shifting now and then like breath. Every movement seemed to carry thought—intention. One feather brushed his jaw as if checking his pulse. Another curled near his hip and stilled there.
Elliot looked up at him, the still-alert flick of his feathers, the tired gleam in his posture that hadn’t dimmed even now. Taph leaned forward, and Elliot met him halfway. Their foreheads pressed together, his ponytail sliding forward again and brushing the side of Taph’s nose.
Taph’s eyes fluttered shut. He nudged the ponytail away with the crook of his finger, then leaned just slightly more, enough that one wingtip grazed down Elliot’s spine in a slow, tender sweep.
“You know they cuddle me back, right?” Elliot whispered. “That’s ridiculous.”
Taph pulled back just enough to give him a look—pure smugness—and signed, [Jealous?] Elliot grinned. “Maybe.”
Taph’s hand came up, brushing the tip of Elliot’s ponytail behind his ear with absent gentleness. The wing behind him ruffled again—more relaxed this time, like it was settling in for the night.
Taph’s fingers reached up and gently swept a few loose strands from Elliot’s face. Then, slowly, carefully, he shifted his other wing—the one not wrapped around Elliot—until it lightly touched his thigh. A light touch, deliberate. Grounding.
Elliot blinked, then placed his hand on the sleek upper curve of that wing, thumb tracing the smooth contour. “You know,” he murmured, “you could probably smother someone with these.”
Taph’s face twisted in a look of faux offense. [Romantic.] Elliot grinned. “I mean it lovingly. Protective smothering.” Taph’s chest shook with a silent laugh. He signed, [You’re hopeless.]
Elliot let his eyes close, a small smile curving at his lips. “Remind me,” he whispered, “to search for the marshmallows next time.” [Only if you let me do the stirring.]
“Oh, absolutely not,” Elliot said, eyes opening again. “You stir like someone trying to summon a demon.” Taph gave him a flat look. Elliot leaned forward and nosed gently against his temple.
Taph shifted again, nestling more completely into Elliot’s side. Their wings tangled naturally this time—his and Taph’s overlapping in a way that felt more like a seal than an accident.
The feathers rustled softly with each breath. The wind pressed against the cabin from outside, but it never quite reached them. Not through that barrier of warmth.
Their fingers brushed under the blanket. Their hearts slowed. Outside, the Spectre waited—inevitable, cruel, patient, but not yet. Right now, there was cocoa. Soft laughter. The hush of wings. And Taph’s golden-tipped feather curling over Elliot’s shoulder like a promise. You are not alone, at least not tonight.