Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When John Truman Carter was born, the world tilted just a little. The nurses paused. The doctor swallowed hard. Eleanor Carter looked down at the child in her arms and saw everything she didn’t want.

A mistake.
A surprise.
A soft thing born into a hard world.

His wings were grey. Not silver, not storm-cloud powerful. Just grey. Pale, soft, with downy feathers more fitting for a mourning dove than the predator line from which he descended.

His father, Roland Carter, had wings like an eagle’s — bold and strong, feathers like steel razors. When he walked into a room, the very air bowed to him. His wingspan could shade a man from the sun. Could blot out judgment. Could issue it.

John’s wings didn’t cast shadows.
They fluttered when they should have soared.

By the time he could crawl, John learned to keep to corners. His wings dragged behind him, and sometimes Eleanor would scold him not because of the feathers — but because of the dust they stirred on her pristine floors.

“He’ll never fly,” Jack Carter had said, staring down at the boy during his christening. “Too soft.”

No one corrected him.

While his older brother Bobby was taken into the study for lessons with Jack and Eleanor — talk of legacy and leadership and how to keep the family name ironclad — John sat quietly in the hallway, small hands curled around books far too old for him. He never cried when they shut the door. Not once. He learned early that his tears were unwanted. And that crying only brought more shame.

The only warmth John ever truly knew in that house came from Alphonse, the butler. A kind-eyed, wingless man, born without the gift, who never once looked at John like he was broken. Alphonse preened his feathers when no one else would, gently untangling the knots and smoothing them down. He brewed warm tea with honey and lemon when John got the shakes. He told him stories about birds that mated for life and birds that flew across oceans just to find home.

Alphonse taught him how to stretch. How to flap. How to hope.

John learned to fly at six.

It wasn’t pretty. There was no elegant first launch, no gliding from cliff faces like the Carter men before him. No. John stood in the backyard, on the old stone bench Alphonse had used to prune the roses, and flapped his wings hard enough to rattle his ribs. He fell. More than once. But on the seventh try — the seventh, like a whisper from the Book of Genesis — he lifted.

It only lasted seconds. But it was flight.

He ran into the house to tell Alphonse, only to find him collapsed on the floor, teacup shattered, his eyes wide and empty.

John was six.

He didn’t fly again for two years.

Bobby died of cancer at ten. The strong one. The golden son. The one Jack and Eleanor had bet all their chips on. When he was gone, something feral cracked open in his parents.

John thought, just for a moment, that they might see him. Really see him. The last son. The only one left.

They saw him, all right.
And they hated what they saw.

Their grief was a weapon.

They didn’t ignore him anymore — they punished him. Jack drank more. Eleanor sharpened her words like knives. But it wasn’t until John was ten that they truly broke him.

It was late. The house was cold, quiet in the way all dying things are.

He had gone outside to stretch his wings. His feathers were longer now. Still soft, still grey, but fuller. The moonlight hit them just right, and for a heartbeat, he didn’t look like a mistake.

He looked like hope.

Then the hands came. Strong. Cold.
Jack.
And Grandfather Carter, older, crueler, blind to everything but family pride.

They dragged him inside.

No shouting. Just disgust.

“You think you’ll be anything?” his grandfather hissed, his breath reeking of brandy. “You think you’ll fly?”

The knife wasn’t serrated. Just sharp. Precise. Made for trimming hedges, not children.

They held him down.

John didn’t scream until the second wing.

They slashed through tendon, through feather and flesh. Tore the flight feathers, the long ones — the ones that gave him lift.

He bled. A lot.

Eleanor didn’t come downstairs. She didn’t ask why there were blood stains on the floorboards the next morning. She didn’t ask why the feathers were gone.

She never asked.

From that day on, his wings hung limp. Broken. Useless. The soft grey feathers that remained were mottled with scars. They never healed quite right. Flight was off the table. The air, once his dream, was now just another thing he couldn’t touch.

That’s when he learned the word pitying — a group of turtle doves. A whisper of grief. A gathering of softness. It sounded so gentle.

It wasn’t.

When he started school, he learned how to hide them. Baggy shirts. Then jackets. By college, he mastered the art of invisibility. If no one could see the wings, no one could laugh. No one could ask.

When he got into medical school, he wore a white coat like armor. Clinical. Pressed. Clean. When he walked into patient rooms, they didn’t see the bird boy. They saw Dr. Carter.

Most days, it was enough.

Some days, it wasn’t.

Because no matter how hard he worked, how much good he tried to do — he still remembered the sky. How it felt the one time he touched it.

And sometimes, he still heard Alphonse’s voice in his head:
"All wings are worthy, Master John. Even the soft ones."

Maybe… just maybe… a turtle dove wouldn’t always be a pitying.
Maybe one day, it would be a miracle.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

Carter startled awake to the sound of his name — sharp and familiar, cutting through the fog of hospital sleep like a scalpel.

“Carter!”

He jolted upright on the break room couch, the medical journal he’d been using as a blanket sliding to the floor with a thump. His heart skipped once, twice, then slammed back into rhythm.

“Coming!” he croaked, scrambling to his feet. His white coat twisted around him as he fumbled with his stethoscope and glasses, nearly tripping over a half-eaten banana on the floor. His shoes squeaked.

He followed the voice — that voice — down the corridor.

Dr. Peter Benton was waiting in the hallway, scowling like Carter had personally offended his ancestors.

“Did you not hear me the first three times?” Benton snapped.

Carter blinked, still catching up. “Uh… no, sir. I mean, yes. I mean—yes, I heard you, I just—didn’t process it? You know, cognitively—”

“Shut up and move.”

Benton turned, coat flaring behind him, wings unfolding just enough to command attention. And Carter, of course, looked.

He couldn’t help it.

Benton’s wings were enormous. Jet black. The kind of wings you’d expect an archangel to have if he moonlighted as a trauma surgeon. They were powerful, too — every movement controlled, efficient. Feathers neat, shining. No fluff. No fray. No mercy.

Carter’s own wings gave a pitiful twitch under his scrubs, instinctive and painful. They were bound down, pressed tight against his back, wrapped in gauze and medical tape. He’d become good at pretending he didn’t have them. It was like pretending not to breathe.

“Carter,” Benton barked, glancing over his shoulder. “You listening?”

“Yes,” Carter said, quickly. Then, sheepishly, “Wait, no.”

Benton rolled his eyes and pushed through the double doors to the trauma bay.

Inside, chaos. The kind that had rhythm. Purpose.

There was a man on the table. Mid-thirties, blackened blood soaking the sheets. Feathers everywhere — scattered like snow after a storm. His wings were a wreck. One of them was nearly gone, just a splintered joint and muscle pulp. The other twitched weakly, snapped at the shoulder.

Carter winced. His own feathers pulled reflexively.

Carol Hathaway was already gloved and assessing vitals. No wings — not unusual. Some people weren’t born with them. Some people were, but lost them. She moved with practiced calm, voice steady despite the gore.

Doug Ross burst in next, his flashy iridescent wings folded tight to avoid bumping the equipment. They shimmered under the fluorescent light, catching hues of peacock and storm-cloud. It was impossible not to look at them. Carter looked away.

“You gotta see the other guy,” Doug muttered as he grabbed the ambu bag.

“No time for jokes,” Carol snapped, but a ghost of a smile pulled at her mouth. “Pressure’s dropping.”

Dr. Greene arrived next, wings already out, fast and fluid. Pale brown, speckled. Like a hawk. He glanced once at the patient, then up at Susan Lewis as she entered behind him.

Susan’s wings were a soft cream with golden streaks, tucked neatly behind her like they belonged in an art gallery. She didn’t waste a second — snapping on gloves and leaning over the patient’s wing joint.

“This tear’s deep,” she said. “Like… this was personal.”

Doug made a high, warbling chirp in his throat.

Mark responded with a lower, answering whistle, short and sharp.

Carter’s ears perked. He tried to look like he wasn’t paying attention.

Chirping. They did that sometimes. Little bird-coded bursts of sound that passed for private language in the halls of County General. Short tones for “get this done,” warbles for “don’t argue,” a trill for “back me up.”

They used it in trauma, especially when there wasn’t time for words. But sometimes… sometimes Carter suspected they used it when he was around. Because, after all, he didn’t have wings. Right?

Right.

Doug let out another click — a half-song, fast and fluid. Mark responded with something guttural and low.

Carol gave them both a look. “You two done whispering in Pigeon?”

“It’s Avianglic,” Doug said, smugly.

“Still dumb,” Carol muttered, yanking a new set of gauze.

Carter stood near the foot of the table, hands awkward at his sides, waiting for an order. Watching the patient bleed feathers and fluid onto the floor.

He knew that pain. The way the man’s back arched. The way the wing muscles tried — in vain — to move. It was a specific kind of agony. And even now, years later, Carter could feel the ghost of it echo in his own body.

“Carter!” Benton’s voice yanked him out of it. “Two IVs, wide bore. And pay attention.”

“Yes, sir.”

He moved quickly, slipping past Doug’s wings and ducking under Mark’s outspread ones. He moved like someone who knew where wings were most fragile. Where not to bump. Where not to press.

It took only minutes. The trauma bay became a ballet of motion and feathers and blood. Susan shouting for O-neg. Carol cursing under her breath. Benton barking orders like a drill sergeant with talons. Doug cracking jokes while doing three things at once.

And Carter?

Carter moved like a ghost. Quiet. Focused. Obedient. He caught every chirp. Every coded trill. And pretended — like always — not to understand a word.

No one at County knew about his wings. Not a single soul. He’d kept it that way since day one. The bindings under his scrubs were tight, unforgiving. By the end of most shifts, he ached.

But better that than questions. Better that than judgment.

Because Carter’s wings weren’t powerful. They weren’t beautiful or shimmering. They weren’t impressive like Doug’s or commanding like Benton’s.

No.

They were soft.

Grey.

Feathers that curled and shed and still, even now, after years of trying to forget, hurt.

They had once been broken. Brutally. Intentionally.

And he would never let anyone see them again.

“Carter,” Greene said, stepping back. “You okay?”

Carter blinked. “Yes. Just… a lot of feathers.”

Doug exhaled, brushing his own with a careless hand. “You get used to it. Like glitter. Just kinda becomes part of the furniture.”

Susan snorted.

“You ever seen wings torn that bad?” Carol asked quietly, voice gentling. “It looked… personal.”

“Worse,” Carter said, before he could stop himself.

Everyone looked at him.

He blinked, realizing he’d spoken out loud.

“I mean—uh, on a rotation. In med school. Uh. Motorcycle crash,” he lied, poorly.

Doug raised an eyebrow. Mark looked at him a little too long.

Benton just huffed. “Focus.”

The patient groaned on the table.

And Carter bowed his head, shoulders curled, hiding his feathers.
Like always.

Because some birds fly.
Some soar.

And some just learn how to stay hidden in plain sight.

Chapter Text

The day had started bloody, loud, and exhausting. Standard County General fare. But somewhere between the feathers and the silence, something about John Carter had shifted.

Doug Ross leaned against the nurse’s station desk, arms crossed loosely, sipping lukewarm coffee that tasted like regret. The fluorescent lights above buzzed a little too loud. The floor still smelled faintly of iron and iodine.

And Carter?

Carter had vanished into the supply room fifteen minutes ago.

“Okay,” Doug said, setting his coffee down with a dramatic sigh. “So… are we just not gonna talk about the fact that our favorite intern has officially gone full twitchy ghost?”

Mark Greene, chart in hand, glanced up from his paperwork. His glasses were halfway down his nose. “He’s always twitchy.”

“This is new twitchy,” Doug replied, voice low. “Post-trauma bay twitchy. Like... feather flashback twitchy.”

“Doug—”

“I’m telling you, Mark. The guy hasn’t said a word in fifteen minutes. He’s reorganizing syringes by color. Not even by size. Color. You think that’s normal?”

Mark exhaled through his nose, set the chart down, and stepped away from the desk. His back popped as he stretched, and slowly, instinctively, his wings unfurled.

They were broad, elegant things — soft brown streaked with lighter tones, feathered with the quiet dignity of a hawk in retreat. He rolled his shoulders, letting them extend fully.

Doug followed suit.

With a sigh, he let his own wings out. They shimmered like oil-slicks — dark in the middle, catching rainbows at the edge. They were obnoxiously pretty, and he knew it. If Mark had the wings of a contemplative angel, Doug had the wings of a rock star who made out with the sun. And he wore them like it.

They stretched together in silence for a moment, wings brushing slightly — a quiet, habitual intimacy built from long nights and shared patients.

“You think he’s got them?” Doug asked suddenly.

Mark gave him a sideways look. “Wings?”

Doug nodded. “Yeah. I mean... statistically, one in every two hundred, right?”

“Rarer in the upper class,” Mark said, carefully. “They screen for the gene, sometimes. Carter’s family probably would’ve tested for it.”

Doug raised an eyebrow. “So if he had them, they’d have clipped ‘em early?”

Mark hesitated. “Not everyone believes in clipping. But… yeah. That’s the old way. Especially in families obsessed with image.”

Doug’s mouth twisted. “Man, I hate that.”

“I know.”

They stood there for a while, their wings shifting slightly with the air vents.

“He looked like he knew what that pain was,” Doug said eventually. “You saw the guy on the table. Those wings were... destroyed. Like someone did it slow. Mean. And Carter—he didn’t flinch like someone who was grossed out. He flinched like someone who’d felt it.”

Mark considered that.

“Think he was hiding it?” Doug asked.

Mark looked down the hall, toward the supply room door. “You ever really seen his back?”

Doug frowned. “Come to think of it... no. The guy showers in layers. Wears like, six shirts. Even in the summer. I thought it was just intern weirdness.”

“Maybe.”

They were quiet again. Somewhere down the hallway, a monitor beeped steadily. A nurse laughed. The chaos of the ER never truly stopped, only changed pitch.

Mark folded his wings in slowly, deliberately. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to hide them. Especially if they were… damaged.”

Doug glanced at him. “You mean physically or metaphorically?”

“Either,” Mark said. “Both.”

Doug sighed again, feathers fluttering a little as he tucked his wings away. “Poor kid. Can’t imagine not being able to fly. I mean, yeah, I don’t exactly use mine for commuting, but still—knowing I could if I needed to?”

“It’s not just the flight,” Mark said softly. “It’s the identity. The connection. You clip wings, you don’t just take away lift. You take away part of the soul.”

Doug blinked. “That was... weirdly poetic.”

“I’m tired.”

“No kidding.”

Just then, the supply room door creaked open.

Carter stepped out, his white coat buttoned tightly, stethoscope perfectly in place. His posture was rigid, jaw clenched like someone who’d just scrubbed a memory off his skin. His hair was a little more mussed than usual, and there was a fine layer of white powder on his sleeve — probably from a broken glove box. He moved like he was being watched. Which, of course, he was.

Doug called out, casual as ever. “Hey, John. You reorganize the entire room alphabetically or just by pain threshold?”

Carter blinked. “Sorry?”

“You okay?” Mark asked, more gently.

“Yeah,” Carter said too quickly. “Yeah, just… just got a little lightheaded. I didn’t eat.”

“You sure?” Doug asked. “You looked a little... haunted back there.”

Carter laughed, brittle and not at all convincing. “Sorry. I guess mangled wings aren’t exactly... standard fare.”

Mark tilted his head slightly. “You seemed like you’d seen it before.”

Carter paused. For one heartbeat too long.

“Med school rotation,” he said again. Same lie. Same shaky voice. “Motorcycle crash.”

Doug and Mark exchanged a glance.

“I’m fine,” Carter said. “Really. I’ll grab something from the lounge and be back in a few minutes.”

And then he walked away. Brisk. Measured. Hunched.

His coat flared slightly as he turned a corner — and Doug, always observant when he pretended not to be, caught a glimpse of something under the collar. Just a flash of grey. A single downy feather, curled slightly at the edge, like it had been pressed too long against skin.

Doug whistled softly. Not a bird call. Just a low, human exhale of realization.

Mark didn’t say anything.

“Guess we know the answer now,” Doug murmured.

Mark’s voice was quiet. “Yeah. We just don’t know the whole story.”

They watched the hallway long after Carter had vanished from sight.

And behind the nurse’s station, caught in the draft from the overhead vent, a single grey feather drifted slowly to the floor.

Chapter Text

The hospital moved around Carter like a living thing — clattering carts, trailing IV lines, clipped shouts echoing from trauma bays and surgical theaters. Nurses passed briskly, doctors called for labs, and someone spilled a tray of instruments down by Curtain 3, causing a crash and a very colorful string of curses. It was just another day in County.

But Carter was moving through it like his ears were underwater. Everything sounded like cotton. Dull. Hollow.

He spotted Benton finally — down by the surgical board, one hand braced on his hip, the other scribbling something on a chart with surgeon-perfect penmanship. His wings were folded neatly, immaculately, feathers in line as always. Jet black, like ink soaked in judgment.

Carter approached slowly. Measured steps. His hands were in the pockets of his coat, fingers twisted tight in the fabric.

“Dr. Benton?”

Benton didn’t look up.

Carter swallowed. “Sir. I, um—how’d the surgery go? With the, uh…”

Benton glanced over, brows raised.

“The patient from earlier,” Carter clarified. “With the… wing injuries.”

For half a second, Benton didn’t respond. Then he exhaled sharply — not a sigh, just a release of air that seemed to come from somewhere buried.

“He died.”

Carter’s shoulders curled slightly. He nodded. “Oh.”

“Lost too much blood,” Benton said bluntly. “Multiple compound fractures to the scapulohumeral joint, ruptured radial artery, thoracic damage. And the right wing was... shredded. There wasn’t anything left to save.”

Carter nodded again. He didn’t trust his voice.

Benton turned toward him, crossing his arms. “You ever seen a broken wing like that before?”

Carter shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Hmph.” Benton’s tone was skeptical. “You looked like you had.”

Carter said nothing.

Benton leaned against the board, wings shifting behind him. “You know what happens when an avian breaks a wing, Carter? I mean really breaks one?”

Carter hesitated. “Pain. Blood loss. Potential paralysis depending on nerve damage—”

“I’m not talking about the checklist.” Benton cut in. “I’m talking about the reality.”

Carter nodded, quiet again.

Benton stepped forward, his voice low but sharp — the kind of tone he used to carve into you with facts. “You break a human arm, you immobilize it. It hurts like hell, sure, but the muscle memory’s still intact. Wings are different. They’re vascular, integrated into respiratory rhythm. The humerus isn’t just bone — it’s a flight stabilizer. You snap it, and the body panics. Muscles seize, the lungs restrict, blood pressure drops. A bad break can cause arrhythmia. You ever seen someone’s heart stop because their wings got tangled in a car door?”

Carter flinched. “No, sir.”

“Well, I have.” Benton didn’t sound angry. Just tired. “There’s a reason we train in avian anatomy separately. Because if you don’t know how the blood flow works around the scapula, or how to position the wing during chest compressions, you’re going to kill someone.”

Carter nodded. “That’s... good to know.”

Benton squinted at him. “You know the three primary bones of the wing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on.”

“Scapula, humerus, and—uh—ulna. Though in flight-borns, the ulna is extended and fused in parts, and the radius is shortened. It’s more flexible proximally, more rigid distally, to support secondary feathers.”

Benton stared.

“…I read a lot,” Carter added quickly, ears turning red.

Benton grunted. “Hmph.”

He turned and wrote something on the chart. Then he tore off a paper and handed it to Carter. “Here. Study these joints. Especially the innervation around the axillary arch. You want to work in trauma, you better understand what rips and what bleeds.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t fumble it like you fumble your coffee orders.”

“I only messed up once—”

“Go help Susan.”

Carter didn’t argue. He turned and hurried off, clutching the paper like a lifeline.

Benton watched him go.

“Kid’s weird,” he muttered.

But not without admiration.

Ten minutes later, Doug and Mark intercepted him.

Benton had barely cleared the corner when Doug stepped in front of him, coffee in hand, smiling like he hadn’t been plotting.

“Peter,” Doug said with exaggerated innocence. “Got a sec?”

“No.”

“Great, come on.”

Before Benton could object, Mark appeared behind him, hand on his shoulder, guiding him — firmly — into the nearest open exam room. Doug shut the door behind them.

Benton turned slowly. “What the hell is going on?”

“We want to ask you something,” Doug said.

“No.”

“Too late,” Mark said. “You already said yes by walking in.”

“You shoved me in here—”

“We need to talk about Carter,” Doug interrupted.

Benton’s brow lifted. “What about him?”

Mark leaned against the counter. “You noticed anything... off?”

“More than usual?” Benton said flatly.

Doug gave him a look.

Benton sighed. “He asked about the wing trauma case. He was weird about it, sure. But he’s always like that.”

Doug shook his head. “Not like that. He looked—rattled. Spooked.”

“Guilty,” Mark added. “Or like he’d seen a ghost.”

“Or like he was the ghost,” Doug muttered.

Benton narrowed his eyes. “You think he had something to do with it?”

“No, nothing like that,” Mark said. “We think… he knows more than he’s saying. About wings.”

Benton folded his arms. “You think he’s a flight-born?”

Doug and Mark exchanged a glance.

Mark said, “We’re not sure.”

“But if he is,” Doug added, “he’s hiding it. Carefully. Too carefully.”

Benton said nothing.

Doug leaned forward. “You’re good at reading people, Peter. You’ve seen him scrub in. Help you suture. You ever see his back? Ever see feathers under that coat?”

Benton didn’t answer right away. He thought about Carter, always perfectly put together. Always buttoned high, collared tight. Always hunched forward just slightly.

“I don’t know,” Benton admitted. “But…”

“But?”

Benton exhaled. “There’s something in the way he looks at broken wings. Like he feels it.”

Mark nodded slowly. “Exactly.”

Doug tilted his head. “So what do we do?”

There was a long pause.

Then Benton said, “Nothing.”

Doug blinked. “Nothing?”

“He’s hiding them for a reason,” Benton said, voice firm. “It’s not our job to drag it out. He wants to talk, he’ll talk.”

Mark studied him. “And if he never does?”

“Then we still train him. We still teach him. We keep an eye out.”

Doug’s expression softened. “You like the kid.”

“I tolerate the kid,” Benton corrected immediately.

Mark smirked. “You made him flash cards.”

“I made him better.”

Doug grinned, feathers fluffing slightly in satisfaction. “All right, tough guy. But if I see another grey feather floating down the hallway, I’m not pretending I didn’t.”

Benton was already walking toward the door. “Do whatever you want. But keep your wings out of my surgery.”

Doug opened the door with a flourish. “As always.”

And as Benton walked out, they both watched him go — wings taut, movements sharp, but just a touch slower than before.

Because now they weren’t just watching Carter.

They were protecting him.

Chapter Text

Carter was in pain.

Not the “I skipped lunch and my stomach hates me” kind of pain. Not even the “I’ve been on my feet for eighteen hours and I think my spine is folding in on itself like origami” kind of pain. No. This was different. Deeper. Wrong.

His back had locked up halfway through a conversation with Haleh, and he barely managed to excuse himself without grimacing. He smiled, nodded, said something about charting, and slipped into the nearest bathroom like a ghost with a stethoscope.

Now he was hunched over a porcelain sink, gripping the edges so tightly the metal creaked beneath his fingers. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck.

His wings—hidden, bound, gagged beneath layers of white coat, cotton, and surgical tape—were spasming under the pressure. One flexed uselessly, feathers trying to fan, restrained by compression and pain.

He breathed through his nose, slow and tight. The nausea rolled again, sharp and burning. He turned toward the stall, dropped to his knees, and vomited.

It hurt all the way down his spine. Every retch pulled at his wing roots, deep under the shoulder blades where human anatomy blurred into something far more ancient.

Avion anatomy was a marvel—complex, beautiful, and, in his case, ruined.

Carter’s scapulohumeral arches had been damaged when he was ten. The tendons that supported lift had been severed; the radial nerves crushed under blunt trauma and blade. The humerus bones within the wings—thin, hollow, once meant to carry him into the sky—had been broken, then cauterized.

By medical standards, he should’ve died. Most avians didn’t survive full bilateral trauma. The shock alone usually stopped the heart. The body knew when flight was no longer possible.

But somehow, Carter had survived.
Or at least, part of him had.

The rest was just feathers and memory.

His fingers twitched. His breath hitched.

The bindings under his shirt were digging into a raw spot again. The infection always simmered just under the surface—one wound in particular, where the scar tissue met bone, never fully healed. It wept when stressed.

He should’ve gotten it looked at. Years ago.

But how do you walk into a hospital and say, “Hi, yes, can someone please check the place where my wings were once slashed open by my grandfather?”

Exactly.

The door creaked behind him.

He flinched.

Susan’s voice called gently, “Carter?”

He didn’t answer.

He wiped his mouth, flushed the toilet, stood—too fast—and stumbled toward the sink again. He ran cold water. Splash. Rinse. Breathe.

Susan knocked once. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice cracked. He coughed to cover it. “Just, uh… something I ate.”

The door creaked again. She stepped in—hesitant but kind. She had that face she wore when she was worried but trying to pretend she wasn’t.

“You sure?” she asked. “You’re pale. Even for you.”

“I’m fine.”

She stepped forward, smiled gently, and—without warning—reached out to pat his back.

“Let me—”

Her hand landed right on the festering wound.

Pain exploded like a flare.

Carter jerked forward with a hiss, breath punching out of him like he’d been shot. His whole back spasmed. His wings twitched violently beneath their prison.

Susan blinked, startled. “Oh my God—did I—?”

“I’m okay,” Carter wheezed, already moving. “Really—I gotta—sorry—”

He shoved past her before she could see the stain blooming through his undershirt. Not blood—clear fluid, from the abscess that refused to heal. He didn’t look back. Didn’t breathe until he was halfway down the corridor.

He ducked into a storage closet. Closed the door. Pressed his forehead to the metal shelf.

And closed his eyes.

He thought of Benton.

A month ago, they’d been between surgeries, standing in the OR locker room. Benton was scrubbing out, hands stained with antiseptic, wings half-tucked behind him. Carter had asked something simple. Something safe. Something like, “What do you do if the wings are too damaged to repair?”

And Benton, ever direct, had said, “You amputate.”

Simple. Clinical.

But then he’d paused. Looked down. Something in his voice shifted.

“You amputate… if they don’t die first.”

“What do you mean?” Carter had asked, quietly.

“You take the wings off, most of the time, the body shuts down. Not from blood loss. From identity loss. Wings aren’t just limbs. They’re… structure. The muscles of the back, the chest—they’re made to move with the wings. And the brain—” he tapped his temple, “—the brain knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That you’re not whole anymore.”

Carter hadn’t responded. But he’d felt it. In his bones.

And now, crouched alone in a dark closet, he wondered:

Did his father and grandfather know?
Did they want him dead?
Or did they just want him… grounded?

It was hard to say what was worse.

Some birds are born to soar.
Others, to nest.
And some are broken so young, they never learn which they were meant to be.

Carter rolled his shoulder slowly, grimacing as something pulled inside the muscle. His wings gave a pathetic twitch under the bandages.

There was a time, once, when they’d lifted him. Once. For maybe ten glorious seconds. The wind had caught, and he’d been weightless.

And then it was gone.

He bit down on his knuckle to keep from making noise. He hated the sound his pain made. It made people look at him. It made them ask things.

He couldn’t bear it.

Doug had asked once, jokingly, “Hey Carter, if you had wings, what do you think they’d look like?”

And Carter had laughed, cool and dry, and said, “Probably dorky. Like pigeon wings or something.”

And everyone laughed. Because of course Carter didn’t have wings.

Right?

He stayed in that closet for another five minutes. Listening to the hum of the fluorescent light. The shift of air vents. The distant murmur of overhead pages.

Then he stood. Adjusted his coat. Wiped his face.

And walked out like nothing had happened.

Chapter Text

County General didn’t pause for personal problems. That was an unspoken rule. Broken hearts, burning muscles, dislocated dreams? They were all background noise to the symphony of blood pressure cuffs hissing, call lights buzzing, and trauma codes screaming through intercoms.

But Susan Lewis moved like a woman on a mission. White coat flaring behind her, clipboard abandoned somewhere back in Curtain 4, her steps quick, heels echoing through the hallway like gunshots.

She found Dr. Mark Greene by the admit desk, where he was half-listening to a case presentation while surreptitiously finishing a granola bar.

“Mark,” she said, breathless. “Something’s wrong with Carter.”

Mark straightened, granola bar instantly forgotten. “What do you mean?”

Doug Ross, leaning against the counter nearby, eyebrows arched in interest. “Wait, what’s wrong with Carter?”

Carol Hathaway, seated at a nearby computer station, stopped typing mid-note and looked up. “What happened?”

Susan glanced at all of them, scanning faces. She hadn’t meant to draw attention—but too late now.

“I—he was in the bathroom,” she started. “I thought he was puking, so I went in to check on him. You know, basic human decency.”

“Very unlike you,” Doug teased, but his voice was mild, concerned under the grin.

Susan rolled her eyes. “I patted him on the back… and he jumped. Like I’d stuck him with a cattle prod.”

Mark frowned. “Jumped how?”

Susan’s face shifted into something uncomfortable. “Pain. The kind you don’t fake. Like I’d hit an open wound.”

Doug pushed off the counter. “Was there blood?”

“No,” she said. “But I think… I think there was something leaking under his shirt.”

Carol blinked. “Leaking?”

Susan shrugged helplessly. “It was clear. Like fluid. He bolted before I could get a good look. Didn’t say a word. Just said he was fine and vanished.”

Doug looked at Mark. “That sound like ‘fine’ to you?”

“Not even close,” Mark muttered.

Carol stood. “Where is he now?”

“I don’t know,” Susan admitted. “I checked the lounge, storage closets, the break room. I even checked Radiology. I don’t think he’s answering his pager.”

Doug tapped his fingers on the desk. “He’s hiding.”

“Why would Carter be hiding?” Carol asked gently.

The question lingered.

Mark rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Because he’s hurt. And he doesn’t want us to know.”

Doug snapped his fingers, suddenly animated. “Okay, hold up—remember that guy from Trauma Bay Two yesterday? The one with the mangled wings?”

Carol winced. “Hard to forget.”

Doug pointed between them. “Carter looked like he’d seen a ghost when he saw him. And later? I swear I saw a feather on the ground when he left.”

Susan blinked. “Wait—are you saying Carter has wings?”

Doug held up a hand. “I’m saying that something about that trauma case rattled him to his bone marrow, and now he’s hiding, possibly injured, and nobody can find him.”

Mark sighed. “This is Carter we’re talking about. He’s allergic to asking for help.”

Carol nodded. “So we help without asking.”

“Where’s Benton?” Susan asked.

“Up in surgery,” Mark said. “He had that liver repair. Won’t be down for an hour.”

Doug grinned. “Then we’re flying solo.”

“Pun not appreciated,” Susan muttered.

“Speak for yourself,” Carol said with a smirk. “I thought it was clever.”

Mark held up a hand. “All right. We split up. Doug, check the locker rooms and the OR lounge. Carol, hit the on-call rooms and exam rooms down Hall C. Susan and I will check the storage closets again.”

“Should we page him?” Carol asked.

“If he’s hiding,” Susan said, “he’s not answering.”

Doug was already halfway down the hallway. “If I find him curled under a gurney like a sick kitten, I’m making fun of him forever.”

“Doug!” Mark called.

“Gently!”

Doug waved a hand without turning.

Mark sighed. “God help that boy if Doug finds him first.”

Carter was under the stairwell.

Not intentionally, not at first. He had wandered through two sets of empty corridors, eyes glassy, body moving on instinct. The pain had peaked and dropped again, leaving a hollow throb that made his limbs feel heavy and surreal.

He found the utility stairwell, slipped behind the metal risers, and slumped to the floor.

The quiet felt like drowning.

His back spasmed again. Sweat soaked through his undershirt. His wings twitched under the bindings, desperate for release. For breath. He clenched his jaw, digging fingernails into his palm until the pain there gave him something to focus on.

He couldn’t keep this up.

But he couldn’t stop either.

He thought again of Benton. “You amputate… if they don’t die first.”

Maybe that was the miracle: that he was still here at all.

Though he didn’t feel alive. He felt… shelled. Like a bird skeleton dried in the sun — fragile, brittle, hollow-boned and full of ache. Something a predator would pick apart without even realizing what it had once been.

His feathers itched. His scars ached.

And worst of all… he wanted someone to find him.

He just didn’t think he deserved it.

Doug found him first.

Which meant, unfortunately, that Carter’s first moment of exposure came not with gentleness… but with,

“Oh hell.”

Carter flinched as the stairwell door slammed open. Doug’s head popped around the riser like a nosy, iridescent meerkat.

“Jesus, Carter,” Doug muttered, crouching. “You look like someone stuffed you into a microwave.”

“Go away,” Carter rasped, voice dry and cracked.

“Yeah, see, no,” Doug said, settling beside him with a sigh. “I got yelled at by three different nurses and my attending, so you don’t get to just hide under the stairs like a sad gremlin.”

“I’m fine.”

Doug looked at him. Really looked. His eyes flicked to the sweat, the pale skin, the way Carter’s shoulders were hunched as if guarding something.

“You’re really not.”

Carter closed his eyes.

Doug leaned closer, voice softening. “Is this about the patient yesterday?”

Carter didn’t answer.

Doug didn’t press. He just sat beside him, wings twitching a little.

After a long pause, Carter murmured, “He reminded me of someone.”

Doug tilted his head. “Someone you knew?”

Carter’s voice was a whisper. “Me.”

Doug didn’t speak. Just let the silence hang.

Finally, Carter said, “You ever see a bird fall out of a nest? Not because it’s too young to fly. But because someone pushed it?”

Doug’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Once.”

Carter didn’t say anything after that.

But he didn’t flinch when Doug gently rested a hand on his shoulder.

And when Mark and Susan found them ten minutes later, Carter didn’t run.

He just let them stay.

Chapter Text

The stairwell was still quiet.

The cold cement walls muffled most of the ER’s chaos—no alarms, no shouts, no beeping machines. Just the occasional distant overhead page and the steady breath of two men seated under the stairs.

Doug Ross wasn’t usually quiet. It went against his entire nature. But right now, quiet seemed to be what John Carter needed most.

And so he stayed. Leaned against the wall, legs stretched out, watching Carter hunched beside him, pale and trembling, clearly trying not to pass out from pain, shame, or both.

Carter hadn’t spoken in several minutes.

Doug noticed how stiff his posture was, how his arms wrapped around himself like a brace. He was trying so hard to be small. To disappear. The coat pulled around his body like a fortress.

And still—still—something in him shook.

Doug hesitated… then unfurled one of his wings.

He’d only ever done it a few times outside of flight or instinct: once for a child who couldn’t sleep, once for a dying patient in Pediatrics, and once for Mark after a grueling 48-hour shift when neither of them could talk but both needed to be human again.

Now he reached, slowly, like approaching a spooked bird, and curved the outer half of his wing over Carter’s shoulders.

The feathers—dark and soft, edged with that tell-tale iridescence—folded around the younger man in a loose cocoon.

Carter went completely still.

Doug braced himself for protest. Or discomfort. Or just a muttered “Please don’t.”

Instead, Carter made a sound.

It was soft. Instinctive. The smallest coo, so quiet it was almost inaudible—like a sigh caught in the throat of something winged and very, very young.

Doug’s heart stopped.

It wasn’t just the vulnerability of it. It was what it was.

Carter had chirped.

Avion children, especially before puberty, made small, instinctual vocalizations—soft whistles, coos, chirps—when comforted or when bonding with a parent. It wasn’t language. It was biology. Warm skin, wings wrapped tight, the sound escaping like a breath from a soul that didn’t know it could speak.

But after adolescence, that capacity faded. The vocal cords changed. The instincts dulled. Teenagers stopped making those sounds around the age of thirteen or fourteen. Avion culture even had a small ceremony for it—like molting, like outgrowing the nest.

But Carter… Carter had just made one.

Doug’s throat tightened. He recognized it immediately.

Because he was a pediatrician. And he’d heard it before—from small kids clinging to their parents in exam rooms, from babies too young to speak, too old to cry.

And from neglected children, who never learned when to stop.

Carter didn’t realize he’d done it.

His eyes were closed, head tilted slightly. The tension in his shoulders unwound just a fraction. His breathing slowed, no longer panicked, just… careful.

Doug, with infinite gentleness, wrapped his wing a little tighter. Enough to press Carter against his side.

A moment later, Carter’s head rested on Doug’s shoulder.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t even sigh. But he didn’t pull away.

And that was enough.

At the top of the stairs, Carol and Susan had found them.

They were halfway down the steps when Carol stopped abruptly, blinking at the sight.

“Is Doug… cuddling him?”

Susan frowned. “That’s… not even the weird part. Did you hear that?”

Carol nodded slowly. “Was that a… chirp?”

“A baby chirp.”

They looked at each other.

Susan whispered, “Carter’s not a kid.”

“Definitely not.”

“He’s what? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-six.”

They stared.

Down below, Carter was nestled into Doug’s side like a sick bird finally given somewhere to land. Doug wasn’t saying anything, just watching Carter quietly, wing still wrapped protectively around him.

Mark stepped up beside them, quiet as a ghost.

He followed their gaze. Then, softly: “He made the chick sound, didn’t he?”

Carol blinked at him. “You know what that was?”

Mark nodded.

Susan whispered, “I thought they stopped doing that after puberty?”

“They do.”

They waited.

Mark took off his glasses and cleaned them slowly.

“It’s a developmental behavior. Avion children are born with the ability to chirp when touched, comforted, or in distress. It’s not taught—it’s a bonding reflex. Most lose it as they age. Unless…”

Susan tilted her head. “Unless what?”

“Unless they never got to use it,” Mark said, voice soft. “The brain… doesn’t turn off what it never got to practice.”

Carol’s mouth parted, horrified. “You mean—”

“He never got held,” Mark said simply.

They were silent. The implications hit hard.

Doug looked up at them, catching their expressions.

Mark held his gaze. No words were needed.

Doug looked back down at Carter.

The kid—no, the man—was still barely there. Still shivering under the coat and stress and whatever centuries of trauma had wrapped itself around his bones.

Doug slowly raised his other wing and tucked it closer, forming a fuller cocoon around Carter, like a nest closing in for warmth.

And Carter made that sound again.

Smaller this time. Less instinct, more exhausted vulnerability.

Doug didn’t flinch.

He simply leaned his head back against the wall and said softly, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

And this time, Carter—without realizing—shifted closer. Let out a breath like he’d been waiting twenty-six years to exhale.

Carol pressed her hand to her chest.

Susan looked away, biting her lip.

Mark whispered, “Poor kid never got a nest.”

And now, finally, under a stairwell and a pair of wings not his own… maybe he did.

Chapter Text

Doug Ross had been accused of many things in his time—arrogant, smug, flighty (he always found that one a bit on the nose). But no one could say he wasn’t observant. Especially when it came to kids, or anyone with the fragile twitch of someone who had been failed by the people meant to protect them.

John Carter had been unraveling for days now.

It started with the way he froze at the sight of that poor guy with the mangled wings. Then came the sudden absences, the twitchy posture, the bathroom incident, the hidden fluid seeping through his shirt, and—of course—the sound.

That sound still echoed in Doug’s ears: that quiet, accidental chirp Carter had made when Doug folded a wing around him. A chick’s call. A baby's sound. Not something any twenty-six-year-old should still be able to make unless something had gone very wrong growing up.

Doug didn’t say anything that night. He just held the kid, let him lean in, let the silence do the work.

But now? Now he had a theory. And Doug Ross, despite all his impulse and chaos, knew how to test a theory.

Carefully. Quietly. Casually.

It was midmorning, and County General was humming at its usual frantic pace—triage was swamped, Luka was yelling in Croatian about missing chart signatures, and Mark had already scowled at Doug twice before finishing his first cup of coffee.

Carter, as usual, was moving like a ghost. Smiling on cue. Laughing when prompted. But he was hunched again. Too stiff. His coat buttoned high, too many layers beneath. Not one feather out of place. Not that anyone had ever seen a feather.

Doug spotted him grabbing coffee in the lounge—alone—and figured that was his chance.

He walked in casually, wings loosely folded, his movement relaxed in that “I’m-not-a-threat-but-you-should-still-probably-be-impressed” kind of way.

Carter didn’t even look up. He was focused on stirring cream into his coffee like it had personally offended him.

“Morning,” Doug said.

“Hey,” Carter replied. Still quiet. Still polite.

Doug plopped down across from him, stretched his legs out, and gave Carter a lazy smile. “You sleep at all?”

Carter shrugged. “A few hours.”

Doug nodded. “So. Funny thing. You know how with Avions, wings are kind of… emotionally reactive?”

Carter blinked. Froze slightly. “Uh… yeah. I guess.”

Doug sipped his coffee. “It’s a biological instinct. Muscle memory. Like how cats purr when they’re safe, or how babies lean toward warmth.”

“I didn’t know that about cats,” Carter said, trying for dry humor.

Doug smirked. “Trust me, it tracks.”

A pause.

“Why bring it up?” Carter asked cautiously.

“Just thinking,” Doug said lightly, “about how wings can be… kind of honest. Even when the person isn’t.”

Carter tensed. That was it. A millimeter of tightening at his shoulders.

Doug took a slow breath.

Then he leaned forward slightly and dropped his voice. “Would you mind if I tried something?”

Carter blinked, guarded now. “Like… what?”

“I want to test a theory,” Doug said. “Just go with it. You trust me, right?”

“…Yeah?”

Doug shifted his chair closer and, slowly, unfurled one wing.

Not dramatically. Not showy. Just open. Warm. Inviting. Like he had when they were in the stairwell. Except now—he watched.

And Carter froze.

His fingers tightened around the coffee cup. His whole body stilled.

Doug moved just close enough that the edge of his wing brushed Carter’s shoulder.

Carter flinched… but didn’t pull away.

And then, slowly, instinctively—impossibly—his shoulder tipped into the touch.

There. That was the proof.

Because no fully mature Avion should respond like that.

And then Carter made the sound again. So soft. Like the whimper of a nestling recognizing warmth.

Doug’s chest ached.

He pulled the wing around Carter again, casually but securely. “There it is.”

Carter looked up, confused and a little dazed. “What… what is?”

Doug smiled sadly. “You’re imprinting.”

Carter blinked. “What?”

“It’s a developmental reflex,” Doug said gently. “Chicks bond to the first warm, safe presence after trauma. It’s rare in humans. Even rarer in Avions post-adolescence. But it happens. If someone’s been… denied enough, and suddenly they get the tiniest taste of comfort?” He shrugged. “Their biology clings to it.”

Carter stared at him.

“You’re not broken, Carter,” Doug said softly. “You’re just underfed. Not in the stomach. In here.” He tapped his chest. “Emotionally. Physiologically.”

Carter opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

“You were never held, were you?” Doug asked. “Not properly. Not wrapped in wings. No one let you nest.”

Carter swallowed hard. His throat worked. “Not since I was a baby.”

Doug tilted his head. “You remember?”

Carter nodded once. “Only once. My mom. It was warm. I think… I think that was the last time I felt safe.”

Doug’s heart cracked clean in half.

Behind him, the lounge door creaked open, and Mark stepped in, pausing when he saw the two of them.

“Everything okay?” Mark asked gently.

Doug glanced up. “Yeah. Just… running a test.”

Mark gave a small nod. “How’d it go?”

Doug looked at Carter. Who was leaning fully into his side now, coffee cup abandoned on the table. Eyes glassy. Exhausted.

Doug wrapped his wing tighter.

“It’s positive,” he said. “Kid never got to fledge.”

Mark’s eyes softened with quiet understanding.

Carter’s voice was so quiet, it barely counted as a whisper.

“Is that bad?”

Doug didn’t hesitate.

“No, kid,” he said, resting his chin lightly on top of Carter’s head. “It just means you get to learn now. And we’ll be right here when you do.”

Mark stepped back out, giving them space.

And Carter… closed his eyes.

For the first time in years, he didn’t brace for impact.

He just rested.

Chapter Text

County General thrummed with the low-level chaos that never quite broke the surface. The trauma board flickered. Nurses hustled like a flock of startled starlings. Patients moaned. Radios buzzed. Phones rang. And somewhere beneath it all, John Carter floated through the noise like a ghost in a white coat.

He was still hiding, but not very well.

Not when Doug kept “just happening” to bring him coffee.
Not when Carol began brushing lint off his shoulders like a nervous hen.
Not when Susan kept feeding him protein bars with mock sternness.
And not when Mark started calling him “kiddo” in the same tone he used on anxious med students and small birds caught in vents.

None of them said it out loud, of course. No one pointed at him and screamed, “WINGS!”
But they didn’t have to.

Carter hadn’t admitted anything. He still wore those same heavy undershirts, still moved like his coat was armor, still flinched when anyone touched his back. But after the stairwell incident—and the chirp—his instincts were giving him away faster than his mouth ever could.

Like now.

It was a rare lull in the shift, and he was in the breakroom pretending to chart while Doug lounged nearby, tossing pretzels into his mouth like popcorn. Carol was knitting something unidentifiable. Susan was holding a medical journal upside-down because she was too busy watching Carter out of the corner of her eye.

“Did you eat yet?” Doug asked, voice casual.

Carter shrugged.

“That’s not an answer,” Carol said, not looking up from her yarn.

“Technically it is,” Susan offered, flipping a page in her upside-down journal.

Doug tossed a pretzel at Carter’s head.

It bounced off and hit the floor. Carter blinked. “Was that necessary?”

“Yes,” Doug said solemnly. “Because it’s been four hours since you’ve had protein and you’re starting to look like an underfed gosling again.”

“I’m fine.”

“You chirped at me last night.”

Carter flushed a color that could only be described as “emergency code red.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” Carol chimed in. “You were sleepy and I gave you my muffin and you made the noise.”

“That was… I was clearing my throat.”

Doug leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. “It’s okay. You’re nesting. It’s adorable.”

“I’m not nesting,” Carter mumbled.

“You curled up under my wing.”

“I was cold.”

“I brought you a blanket and you cooed.”

“I had something in my throat!”

Susan laughed. “Yeah. It was emotional trauma, sweetheart.”

Carter slumped. “I hate all of you.”

Carol grinned. “That means we’re doing it right.”

The chirps had become more frequent. Soft sounds, accidental, triggered by comfort or food or the rare moment when someone rubbed his back gently and he forgot to flinch. It was like his body had finally been given permission to speak the language it had suppressed for twenty-six years—and now it didn’t want to shut up.

He was imprinting on them.

The problem? They knew.

The bigger problem? So did someone else.

Peter Benton wasn’t the type to eavesdrop.

He didn’t need to. People usually shut up when he entered the room.

But that morning, walking past the staff lounge, he heard it.

A soft, involuntary chirp.

He stopped.

It wasn’t loud. Barely audible over the hum of the hallway. But his ears—trained for the operating room, for the catch in a patient’s breath before something went wrong—picked it up instantly.

It was the sound of a young Avion. Very young.

And it had come from Carter.

He blinked, startled. Took a step closer, silent as a shadow. Leaned just enough to see into the room.

Carter was half-dozing on the couch, head on Doug’s shoulder, Doug’s wing loosely wrapped around him like a blanket. Susan was tossing a granola bar toward him from the armchair. Carol was tucking a scarf around his neck.

Carter chirped again.

Peter’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t say a word.

He turned, walked down the hallway, and waited until he got to the OR stairwell before letting out a slow breath.

Damn it, kid.

He wasn’t mad. Not really. Just blindsided.

He should have known. The signs had been there. The pain, the stiffness, the ghosting around trauma cases with wing injuries. The way Carter hunched. The sound he made when Benton clapped him on the back a few weeks ago and Carter twitched like he’d been tasered.

And now… chirping.

Subconscious imprinting was rare in adult Avions. Rarer still in those who were supposedly past the developmental stage.

But Carter? Carter was stuck somewhere between a grounded chick and a fledgling who never got to fly.

And now he was imprinting.

On them.

Doug, Carol, Susan, Mark.

Benton should have been surprised. But he wasn’t.

Carter had been adrift for years, wings damaged, instincts frozen. And now, finally given warmth, safety, affection—he was gluing himself to the first people who offered him even a fraction of what he missed.

And it broke Benton’s heart in a quiet, slow way that made him want to punch drywall and also bring the kid soup.

Later that evening, Benton cornered Doug outside the staff lounge.

“Ross.”

Doug blinked. “Oh no, what’d I do?”

“You know what’s going on with Carter?”

Doug looked wary. “Define what’s going on.”

“You know,” Benton said, voice low, “he’s imprinting.”

Doug nodded. “Yeah.”

“You know why he’s imprinting?”

Doug met his eyes. “Yeah.”

Benton folded his arms. “And you’re… okay with that?”

Doug tilted his head. “You ever see a chick try to survive without a parent? They don’t know how to feed themselves. Or clean their wings. Or even regulate their temperature.”

“I’m aware,” Benton said flatly.

Doug smiled faintly. “We’re not coddling him, Peter. We’re giving him what he missed. So maybe someday, he won’t need us the way he does now.”

Benton was silent for a moment. Then: “You gonna tell him we know?”

Doug looked back toward the lounge, where Carter’s laugh echoed faintly. “Not yet. Let him come to it on his own. He needs to feel safe first.”

Benton gave a quiet grunt.

And for once… didn’t argue.

That night, Carter stayed late.

He pretended it was paperwork. Said he needed to catch up on charting. But really, he just didn’t want to go home. Not when the lounge lights were soft, and someone had left him soup, and Carol had fluffed the couch pillows without saying anything.

Doug passed by, wing brushing his shoulder. Mark handed him a fresh cup of tea. Susan gave him half her muffin without a word.

And Carter, without thinking, chirped.

No one teased him.

No one flinched.

Carol just smiled, soft and warm, and said, “Sleep, baby bird.”

And he did.

Chapter Text

County General had seen its fair share of the strange and surreal—exploding meth labs, impaled cyclists, a woman who tried to mail her placenta—but none of it quite prepared the staff for the quiet storm that was John Truman Carter becoming a fledgling in the middle of the ER.

Not metaphorically.

Biologically.

Emotionally.

Instinctually.

He wasn’t trying to imprint on half the hospital. It just… happened.

And after some initial alarm, confusion, and heartfelt “wait, is this a medical emergency or a hug emergency?” discussions—everyone had simply let it happen.

Except for Carter, who still pretended it wasn’t happening.

Which only made it more obvious.

He was quieter now, but not withdrawn. No longer ghosting through hallways like a forgotten chart. Instead, he hovered. Orbiting around Mark Greene, following Susan like a duckling, sitting beside Doug without ever quite making eye contact, and perking up every time Benton walked into the room like he might chirp again at any second.

Benton had definitely noticed.

Benton hadn’t said anything, of course.

Not directly.

But his rounds became suspiciously synchronized with Carter’s. His eyes lingered just a little longer than usual on Carter’s shoulders, subtly checking his posture, the way he held himself, whether he was favoring one side or struggling to breathe without twitching in pain.

And Carter, to his credit, was doing better—physically, emotionally. There was color in his face again. He ate. He laughed. He stopped bracing every time someone touched his back.

He also started making that damn fledgling sound more often.

One morning, Benton walked into the lounge to find Carter perched on the arm of the couch—actual couch, not metaphor—eating a muffin and chirping under his breath because Carol had made him tea and rubbed his back while he charted. The noise was soft, involuntary, and so ridiculously young that Benton nearly dropped his clipboard.

“You’re chirping again,” Benton grunted.

Carter blinked up at him, wide-eyed, like a kid caught sticking his fingers in the frosting.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

Doug strolled in behind him. “Oh, he definitely is. Did it yesterday when Susan adjusted his coat collar. It’s practically Pavlovian.”

“I don’t chirp,” Carter muttered, wings twitching beneath his layers.

“You do,” Mark said from behind his coffee cup, entering just in time. “You also follow Susan around like a baby penguin.”

Susan gave a smug shrug. “He likes my energy.”

“I don’t—” Carter started.

“You do,” Carol said, breezing past with a fresh muffin. “And it’s adorable. Honestly, it’s like having a therapy duck in a lab coat.”

“I’m a doctor!”

“You’re a fledgling,” Doug countered, tapping Carter’s nose like he was a toddler. “Own it.”

Carter flushed. “I’m not—”

He chirped again.

Doug, Mark, Susan, and even Benton—Benton!—turned in unison.

That was the moment it became clear:

The Avion instincts had kicked in.

Mark’s wings ruffled protectively. Susan’s shoulders relaxed, her eyes softening. Doug leaned closer without realizing it, body tilted just enough to signal comfort and presence. Even Benton’s jaw ticked, the tension in his wings betraying the part of him that wanted to tuck Carter beneath one.

It was hilarious—if also weirdly touching.

Carol leaned against the doorframe, watching the bizarre ballet unfold with the giddy amusement of someone who’d won front-row tickets to a soap opera starring emotionally stunted birds.

“Look at you guys,” she teased. “All fluffed up like protective roosters.”

Susan grinned. “I’m a swan, thank you very much.”

Doug folded his wings dramatically. “I am grace incarnate.”

Mark muttered, “I have feathers in my coffee,” brushing them off.

Carter was now pressed between Susan and Doug on the couch, sandwich-style, looking like someone who wasn’t entirely sure how he got there but wasn’t moving either.

“You guys are treating me like I’m five,” he mumbled.

“You’re not five,” Doug said. “You’re like… ten. Emotionally. In Avion years.”

Susan elbowed him. “That’s not helpful.”

“I’m just saying, he’s not a baby chick. He’s a juvenile. Like a gangly little crow that fell out of a tree and landed in Pediatrics.”

“I hate everything you’re saying,” Carter said into his muffin.

Carol cackled.

Benton rolled his eyes and grumbled, “You’re coddling him.”

“You say that like it’s not the exact thing his biology wants,” Mark said.

Benton scowled.

Carter peeked up at him.

There was a beat.

Then a chirp.

Tiny.

Hopeful.

Doug smirked. “Oh, he likes you.”

“I don’t like him,” Carter blurted, and then immediately winced. “Wait, I didn’t mean it like that—”

Benton raised a brow. “You don’t have to like me.”

Carter looked down, embarrassed.

Benton added, softer than expected, “You just have to listen when I tell you to eat, sleep, and stop being an idiot.”

Carter chirped again.

Benton sighed, deeply, as if he could feel all the others grinning behind him.

“Great,” he muttered. “Now I’ve got a damn duckling, too.”

“You always had a duckling,” Doug said. “You were just pretending you didn’t.”

Carol added, “And it’s not like he’s going anywhere now. He’s imprinted.”

“I can hear you all,” Carter said into his coffee.

Susan handed him a blanket. “Shhh. Time for your nap.”

“I’m going to set something on fire.”

Doug tucked a wing lightly over Carter’s shoulders. “After your nap.”

And that was how it went, from then on.

Carter chirped. The others responded. Instincts pulled forward by something ancient and soft and overdue.

Mark brought him tea.

Susan reminded him to preen.

Doug swore loudly at anyone who bumped him too hard.

Carol smuggled him snacks and pretended she wasn’t watching his posture.

And Benton? Benton started scheduling Carter’s shifts next to his.

Didn’t say why.

Didn’t have to.

He just kept an eye on his duckling. Because even fledglings, eventually… need to learn how to fly.

But until then?

They’d all keep the nest warm.

Chapter Text

John Carter didn’t know how it happened—
But it did.

One minute he was quietly reviewing labs with Carol in Exam 3, and the next, they were pulling a violent psych patient out of an ambulance, blood on his hands, feathers in his teeth.

Avion, male. Mid-thirties. Barefoot. Wings like a street pigeon—tattered, crusted in filth, half-molted. He screamed and fought and cursed everyone in sight, flailing and flapping with desperate, manic energy.

Security barely got him into a gurney before he tried biting through the restraints.

Doug ducked a wild wing flap. “Guy’s feral.”

Mark was already prepping Ativan. “Has he had anything at all?”

“No,” Haleh replied. “He refuses to let anyone near him.”

The man thrashed. “Get away from me! You’re demons!”

Doug stepped back just slightly. His iridescent wings shifted with the movement—elegant, polished, well-groomed.

The man screamed louder. “DEMONS! You’ve got flashy feathers! You think you’re better than us! BETTER!”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Mark said firmly. “He’s delusional. He needs Haldol on board—”

But the man was already fixated again.

Benton entered.

Six feet of coiled authority, wings folded tight—black as a starless night. Power and shadow in every stride.

The man lost it.

“NO! NO! DEMON! I SEE YOU! BLACK WINGS! YOU DRAGGED ME DOWN! YOU TOOK ME FROM HEAVEN!”

“Great,” Doug muttered, “he’s theological.”

“Don’t go near him,” Mark said to Benton.

“Didn’t plan on it.”

The patient screamed again. “The flashy ones! The demons with oil-slick lies! And where is SHE?! The white wing! The pure one!”

Susan, of course, was nowhere to be found.

So that was how it happened—how Carter and Carol got left in the room when no one else could go in.

Carol gave him a look.

“I’m not even cleared for psych evals,” Carter whispered.

“You’re quiet. Calming. Your wings are… well… hidden.”

Carter winced.

They stepped inside. The man stopped flailing. Just stared.

Carol smiled, steady and warm. “Hi there. I’m Carol. This is Dr. Carter.”

“You’re wingless,” the man said to her. “Safe. Empty.”

Carter cleared his throat. “We’re here to help you, sir.”

The man stared at him.

Something in his gaze shifted.

“You,” he said.

Carter’s stomach flipped.

The man stood up so fast the restraints tore off the bedframe. “You…”

“Sir—please sit down—”

“You fell,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You’re one of them. A broken one. A fallen thing.”

“I’m not—”

Carol stepped out just briefly—to hand off blood work.

It took five seconds.

That’s when the patient lunged.

The door slammed shut. The lock clicked.

Carter backed up. “Don’t—”

Too late.

The man grabbed him. Threw him down hard enough that the breath was knocked from Carter’s chest. His coat rode up as he struggled, and before he could twist free—

The man yanked his shirt down.

Feathers. Blood. Old scars. White-grey broken wings, mangled from base to tip, bound in years of pain.

Carter screamed.

It was sharp and terrified and young—an Avion in distress.

Across the ER, Doug heard it first. His head snapped up like a hawk.

Mark dropped his chart. Benton’s wings flared wide.

“That was Carter,” Doug breathed.

Benton was already moving.

They didn’t wait for keys. Benton kicked the door open with a sound like thunder. Security barreled in behind him.

The patient turned, wild-eyed. “He FELL! Don’t you see?! He FELL!”

Doug grabbed the man, Mark wrestled his arms, and Benton yanked him off Carter like he weighed nothing. Security took over, dragging him out of the room, still screaming about broken angels and pitiful wings.

The silence after was deafening.

Carter had crawled to the corner, behind the overturned gurney, curled into himself.

His wings—

Doug froze.

So did Mark.

Bent, ragged, improperly healed. Feathers askew. One wing half-twisted under itself. Muscle visibly atrophied. Blood crusted where scar tissue had cracked open. Flight feathers shredded. They looked more like relics of violence than anything God ever designed for flight.

Doug whispered, “Oh my God.”

Mark didn’t move.

Benton knelt.

Carter was shaking violently, arms around his head, wings trembling.

“Kid,” Benton said softly. “It’s okay.”

Carter didn’t respond.

He was gone. Somewhere deep. Inside himself. Terrified.

Doug stepped closer, slowly unfurling his wings—soft and shimmering. Not to show off. To soothe.

Mark joined him, crouching beside Carter. “Hey. Carter. It’s us.”

The fledgling instincts hit them like a gut punch.

Their baby bird was in danger.

Benton reached out, just barely brushing Carter’s shoulder.

Carter flinched.

Then chirped.

A weak, broken thing. A plea.

Doug dropped to his knees and, without thinking, wrapped his wing around Carter again.

Mark followed, folding his own over Doug’s.

A human nest. A cocoon of soft, warm feathers.

Carter whimpered.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean… I wasn’t… I didn’t want…”

“Shh,” Doug murmured. “You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

Mark’s voice was low. “He didn’t break you. You’re not fallen.”

Benton didn’t speak. He just placed a hand on the uninjured base of Carter’s left wing. Steady. Grounding.

Carol returned just in time to see the pile of wings and feathers and three fully-grown doctors shielding one trembling resident like he was a nestling in a storm.

Her eyes went wide.

“Oh…” she whispered. “Oh, Carter.”

He was still shaking. But the chirping slowed.

The worst had passed.

But the truth?

The truth had burst out of him like feathers torn free in the wind.

He had wings.

And now they all knew.

But more than that—

Now they understood.

Their fledgling had fallen long ago.

But he wasn’t alone anymore.

And now?

Now he’d be lifted.

Chapter Text

They didn’t move Carter.

Not at first.

No one spoke loudly. No one barked orders or called for a gurney. There was no yelling, no scrambling for vitals. There was just a kind of stillness—a reverent, aching silence.

Because some pain demanded silence.

Because some heartbreaks could only be honored in whispers and warm wings.

Carter was curled in the corner like something small and once-winged that had fallen from too high and landed wrong. Again. And again. And again. His coat was torn down the back, his shirt hanging in shreds, and those wings—those wrecked wings—lay across the tile like broken branches after a storm.

Doug hadn’t let go. His wing was still wrapped around Carter’s trembling form, sheltering him like a canopy. Mark was kneeling nearby, one wing over Doug’s, as if to say: I’m here. We’re here. You’re not alone anymore.

And Benton—

Benton knelt stiffly, jaw locked, his hands hovering just inches above Carter’s ruined wings.

He couldn’t help it.

He had to look.

It was instinctual for Avions—especially older ones—to tend to the young. And now, now that Carter’s secret was out, now that the layers had been stripped away, now that they could see—

Benton finally understood just how much pain the kid had been carrying.

The wings were… horrific.

They were dove-gray, or had been once. Soft feathers twisted with blood and grime, many snapped off at the shaft. There were jagged tears in the flesh beneath the plumage. Scars from old cuts. Some slashes so deep they’d nearly severed tendon. The base of the wings—where they met the shoulder blades—was the worst of it. Torn, inflamed skin, swollen with infection, as if Carter had tried, over and over, to hide the damage under too-tight shirts, ignoring the festering rot growing beneath.

There were signs of untreated nerve damage. Feather shafts improperly regrown. Scar tissue so thick it distorted the natural muscle.

Benton had seen wing injuries before. A snapped humerus from a bad fall. A bruised shoulder joint. Even a partial amputation in the military once.

But this…

These were the wings of someone who had been tortured.
And left to rot.

“These injuries…” Benton murmured under his breath to Greene, his voice low and disbelieving. “This kind of damage… it should’ve killed him.”

Mark nodded slowly, his throat tight. “But he survived.”

“Yeah,” Benton said, eyes burning. “But at what cost?”

Carter shifted slightly. Not away. Toward. Toward Doug’s chest, toward warmth, toward the shelter of wings he never got growing up.

And Doug, ever the healer of broken things, just held him tighter.

“Hey,” Doug said softly, brushing Carter’s curls from his damp forehead. “You’re okay. You’re with us now.”

Carter let out a small noise. Not a chirp, not quite. But something softer. A breathless little sound of sorrow.

“I didn’t mean for you to see,” he whispered.

Carol had slipped in quietly. She stood back at first, watching, eyes wide, hand to her mouth. But now she stepped forward. Sat next to Doug and reached out to gently stroke Carter’s arm.

“Honey,” she said, her voice trembling, “you’ve been hiding this?”

Carter didn’t answer. His head stayed tucked under Doug’s jaw.

“Since when?” she asked gently. “How long have you had injuries like this?”

Carter’s voice was barely audible. “Since I was ten.”

Doug froze.

Carol’s hand stilled. “Ten?”

“My father and grandfather…” Carter choked. “They—they didn’t want a weak Avion. They said I was a pitying.”

Doug swallowed hard.

“That’s the word for a group of turtle doves,” Carter said brokenly. “A pitying. Because they’re soft. Weak. Small. I was too small. My wings weren’t right. My brother—he had hawk wings. Big. Golden. I had these.”

He shifted slightly, revealing more of the tattered mess beneath him.

Doug made a sound that was halfway between a breath and a sob. “Jesus.”

“They held me down,” Carter continued, eyes unfocused, voice cracking. “Said they were going to cut them off. Said they’d make me better. But they didn’t finish. They just…” He paused. “Broke them.”

Carol had tears in her eyes. She wiped them away quickly, like they were getting in the way.

“You survived that?” she asked softly.

“I think so,” Carter whispered. “But… it never stopped hurting.”

Benton gently parted the feathers near the left scapula. A sharp breath hissed through his teeth.

“There’s necrotic tissue here,” he said quietly. “He needs wound care. Antibiotics. Maybe surgery.”

Carter flinched.

Doug tucked him closer. “We’ll go slow, kid. We’ll fix what we can. No one’s touching you unless you say it’s okay.”

“I don’t want to go to a hospital bed,” Carter said quickly. “I don’t want to be locked in. I just… I didn’t want you to see.”

Doug looked down at him, eyes kind and wet. “Carter. We don’t care that you’re hurt. We care that you tried to hide it. That you thought you had to.”

“I was scared you’d send me away.”

Mark leaned closer, wings slightly open. “We’re not sending you anywhere. You hear me? You are ours now. Wings and all.”

Benton’s hand finally settled against Carter’s back, warm and strong. “You’re not fallen,” he said firmly. “You were pushed.”

And for once—Carter didn’t argue.

He didn’t flinch.

He just melted.

Doug wrapped his wing tighter. Carol reached for his hand. Mark stayed near, anchoring the space with quiet strength. Benton kept one hand steady at his shoulder blade, not quite cradling, but close.

They didn’t move him.

They just held him.

They would clean the wounds. They would prune the feathers. They would help him molt the pain if they had to.

Because this fledgling—
This dove with broken wings—
Deserved to fly.

Chapter Text

Carter had always been good at disappearing.

Even when he was right in front of you, even when he smiled and nodded and made self-deprecating jokes, there was a part of him that pulled back, that stayed far away, that never let anyone all the way in.

Until now.

Now his wings were out in the open—his history torn wide like the wreckage it was.

They’d seen the damage. The rot. The scars. They’d heard the truth from his trembling mouth and felt the bones jutting wrong beneath ruined feathers.

But Carter wasn’t ready for what came after.

He wasn’t ready for the tenderness. The care. The terrifying weight of being seen and still being held.

He especially wasn’t ready for Benton and Greene to treat him like he mattered. Like his wings weren’t something shameful—but something worth saving.

Even if they were broken.

Even if they’d always been.

They waited until the ER slowed—2 a.m., that liminal hour when most traumas were sleeping or dead, and the board had finally quieted down.

Mark, Doug, and Benton were gathered in Curtain 3 with Carol on the sidelines, surgical kits nearby. Carter sat on the exam table, his coat folded neatly beside him like armor he’d been forced to shed.

His wings hung low, one partially unfurled, the other stiff and tense.

Doug was the one who stayed closest. He sat beside Carter, one wing loosely draped around his back like a weighted blanket. A calming pressure. A quiet anchor.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Mark asked gently, checking gloves.

“I said yes,” Carter murmured, though he looked anything but relaxed.

“You can tell us to stop anytime,” Carol said. “No pressure.”

He nodded.

Benton moved first—methodical, calm, gloved hands hovering just above the base of Carter’s left wing, the one most inflamed.

And Carter flinched like he’d been shot.

Doug’s wing immediately folded tighter. “Easy. Easy, buddy. We got you.”

Carter’s eyes darted wildly. His breath hitched.

“It’s okay,” Mark said, stepping closer. “Peter’s not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” Carter said, voice shaking. “I know, it’s just—it’s reflex, okay?”

“We’re going to flush the open wounds,” Benton explained gently, voice low. “Nothing sharp. Just saline and antiseptic. No cutting. You’ll feel pressure, but that’s all.”

“I’m fine,” Carter muttered. “Just—do it quick.”

Carol exchanged a look with Doug.

Doug leaned closer, resting his hand lightly over Carter’s forearm. “Can I do something?”

Carter looked at him, startled. “What?”

“Just… hold you a little tighter.”

“I’m not a chick,” Carter snapped, defensive.

“No,” Doug agreed. “But you’re a fledgling. And fledglings need comfort when they’re scared. So. You want the wing or not?”

Carter hesitated.

Then: a tiny nod.

Doug opened his wings fully, both of them, and wrapped them around Carter like a cocoon. Soft. Warm. Protective. He leaned his forehead gently against Carter’s temple and murmured, “You’re okay. You’re okay. We’ve got you.”

Mark cleaned the first wound with slow, deliberate movements. Benton followed, inspecting for signs of necrosis.

And Carter—despite the tremors in his back, despite the flinching, despite the instinct to run—held still.

Mostly.

Until Benton touched a deeper lesion.

Then Carter yelled.

He jerked forward, almost toppling off the table.

Doug caught him instantly.

“Nope. You’re not going anywhere, little bird.”

Carter was panting now, wings spasming, pain spiraling.

“I’m sorry,” he said, over and over. “I can’t—I’m trying—I’m not trying to fight you—”

“I know,” Benton said quickly. “I know. It’s okay.”

“I just—I hate this. I hate how it feels. I hate how it makes me look—”

Mark put a hand on Carter’s arm. “Carter, we’ve seen it. We’ve seen you. And we’re still here.”

“Why?” Carter choked. “Why would you want to help something that looks like this?”

Doug touched his chin gently, turning Carter’s face to his.

“Because you’re ours,” he said. “You think birds leave behind the ones with bent wings? They don’t. They tuck them in tighter. They make space. That’s what we’re doing.”

Carter stared at him.

And then made the tiniest sound—
Not quite a chirp. Not quite a sob. Something between a hatchling and heartbreak.

Doug just held him closer.

Benton cleaned more gently now, adjusting angle and pressure with a kind of care that felt surgical in its precision—not just medical, but emotional.

Mark packed the open wound at the base of the scapula. “This isn’t permanent damage. Not all of it. But some of these tendons… you’re going to need rehab. Maybe even reconstruction.”

Carter didn’t answer.

Doug stroked his arm. “One step at a time.”

“I don’t know how to heal from this,” Carter whispered. “I don’t even know how to be held.”

“You’ll learn,” Carol said softly, brushing his curls back. “You’re already learning.”

“You’ll be flying again,” Doug added. “Not tomorrow. Not next week. But someday.”

“And we’ll be there when you do,” Mark said.

Benton gave a soft grunt. “When—not if.”

Carter let out a long, shaky breath.

And for the first time… he didn’t pull away.

He let Doug keep his wings around him.

He let Benton and Mark tend to him.

He let Carol wipe the tears from his cheek without brushing her off.

He let himself be small.

And for once, that wasn’t weakness.

It was the beginning of healing.

Hours later, when the lights dimmed and the ER slipped back into routine, Carter sat curled on a cot in the lounge, wings finally bandaged, feathers clean.

Doug was beside him, still wing-wrapped.

Mark leaned in the doorway, sipping coffee.

Benton hovered by the med cabinet, pretending not to watch.

Carol brought in soup she swore wasn’t from the cafeteria.

And Carter?

He looked up.

Tired. Raw. But safe.

And murmured, barely audible:

“Thanks for not letting me fly away.”

Doug smiled.

“We never would’ve let you.”

Chapter Text

County General had settled into its usual midnight rhythm—dim lights, tired coffee, and a kind of chaotic peace that only existed between the last trauma and the next disaster. Nurses charted. Monitors beeped. Somewhere down the hall, someone was yelling about pudding.

And in the lounge, beneath the low hum of fluorescent lights, Carter sat across from Dr. Peter Benton.

His wings were tucked in tight beneath a soft hoodie, his posture careful. Cautious. Tired.

Benton, for his part, looked exactly as he always did—composed, alert, jaw set with that immovable, granite stillness that made surgical interns tremble. But there was something softer in his eyes tonight. Something that didn’t quite match the scalpel-sharp edge of his voice.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

Then Carter finally said, “You don’t have to stay.”

Benton didn’t move. “I know.”

“You’re off-shift.”

“I know that too.”

Carter exhaled, shoulders curling slightly. “Then why are you here?”

Benton leaned back in his chair. “You ever see a bird try to fly with a shattered wing?”

Carter’s face twisted. “Yeah. I was that bird.”

Benton nodded. “Exactly.”

They sat in silence again.

Somewhere in the hall, Doug Ross shouted, “Mark! Did you drink the last coffee or do I have to pluck you like a rotisserie chicken?!”

Carter smiled faintly.

Benton sighed. “You know… you scared the hell out of us.”

Carter looked down. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Well, I am.”

“That’s part of the problem.”

Carter rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I didn’t want you to see. My wings. What they… what they are.”

“And yet here we are.”

Carter met his eyes. “And you haven’t said anything.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.” He looked away. “That they’re disgusting. That I’m not really one of you. That I don’t belong with you guys, with your perfect wings and—”

Benton’s voice cut him off—quiet, but sharp. “Carter.”

He looked up.

“Do you think flight makes an Avion?”

Carter blinked.

Benton leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Flight’s a function. It’s not an identity. Wings don’t make you who you are. It’s what you do with them. Even broken ones.”

Carter scoffed. “Easy for you to say. Yours work.”

“You think that means I didn’t have to fight for that?”

Carter hesitated.

“I trained in hospitals that didn’t want black doctors with black wings,” Benton said flatly. “I kept them tied down for most of my residency because every time I stretched them, someone assumed I was trying to start a fight. I’ve had security called on me in my own OR. You think it’s easy just because they look powerful?”

Carter looked down at his hands.

“I know what it’s like to be judged for something you didn’t choose,” Benton said. “But what I don’t know is what it’s like to survive what you did—and still come in here every day and try to help people.”

Doug’s voice echoed from the hallway: “MARK, YOUR WINGS ARE IN THE WAY OF THE MICROWAVE AGAIN.”

Mark’s dry tone floated back: “You say that like it’s my fault for having shoulders.”

Benton rolled his eyes.

Carter chuckled despite himself.

Then, quieter: “When I was little, I used to wish they’d just… cut them off.”

Benton said nothing for a long moment.

Then: “That would’ve killed you.”

“I know that now.”

“They’re part of your spine,” Benton said. “Part of your ribs. Your nervous system wraps around them. Losing them isn’t just like losing arms—it’s like ripping out your lungs. That’s why so many Avion don’t survive amputations. It’s not just physical. It’s…” He paused. “Soul-deep.”

Carter nodded slowly.

“I didn’t get wings like my brother,” he murmured. “He was the golden one. His were huge. Strong. Everyone said he looked like he was made to lead. And me? I had turtle dove wings. Soft. Quiet. Weak. My family treated me like an embarrassment. A mistake.”

Benton’s voice was soft. “You’re not a mistake.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Because every time I think you’re going to break, you don’t. You bend. You get back up. You walk back in. You crack jokes you probably shouldn’t. You care too much. That’s not weakness. That’s survival.”

Carter looked away, blinking fast.

Benton sat back again. “You’re not your wings. You’re not your past. You’re Carter.”

A pause.

Then Doug appeared in the doorway, holding a cup of what might have once been coffee and now resembled something closer to despair.

“Okay,” he said. “I know this is a moment, but Mark made tea.”

“God help us all,” Carter muttered.

Doug stepped in and flopped dramatically into a chair. “He said, and I quote, ‘This is jasmine-scented serenity.’ I think it’s fermented pond water.”

Mark appeared behind him, looking smug. “I boiled it properly.”

“You boiled it like it owed you money,” Doug retorted.

Carter couldn’t help it. He snorted.

“See?” Doug gestured. “He’s laughing. Healing accomplished. You’re welcome.”

Benton rolled his eyes. “We’re having a conversation.”

“You were having a moment,” Doug said. “Now it’s an intervention.”

“Wing-flavored group therapy,” Mark offered.

“Why are you like this?” Benton muttered.

“Because we’re emotionally mature,” Doug said. “And Carter is our baby bird. We’re obligated to annoy him until he feels better.”

Carter was laughing now, wiping his eyes.

“I hate all of you,” he said.

Doug patted his knee. “We love you too, fledgling.”

Mark leaned against the counter. “Next time you hide life-threatening injuries, though, we’re duct-taping you to the floor.”

“Also,” Doug added, “you’re on wing rest. No lifting, no flapping, no dramatic gestures.”

Carter raised a brow. “Have you met me?”

Mark smirked. “Exactly.”

Benton stood. “You’re due for a bandage change in six hours.”

Carter nodded. “Thanks. For… you know. Everything.”

Benton hesitated. Then nodded back. “Get some sleep, Carter.”

As Benton walked out, Doug leaned in, lowering his voice.

“He totally loves you.”

Carter groaned. “Doug…”

“He’s like the grumpiest eagle dad in history.”

“Please stop.”

Mark sipped his tea. “Also,” he added, “if you ever want someone to teach you how to preen properly, I do a full conditioning regimen every third day.”

Doug made a face. “You would.”

And as the teasing spiraled, Carter leaned back, hoodie soft against his skin, wings gently tucked, a real smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

He was still healing.

Still aching.

But maybe…

Just maybe…

He wasn’t falling anymore.

Maybe now—
He was learning how to rise.

Chapter Text

Benton stared at the X-rays like he could will the bones to realign.

But they didn’t.

They never would.

The films were still warm from processing, the grayscale images clipped neatly against the light board in the dim hush of the radiology room. He hadn’t turned on the overheads. Too harsh. The low hum of the machine, the steady click of the light panel, and the muffled footsteps from the hall outside were the only sounds in the world.

Carter’s wings stretched across three sets of X-rays. The left wing had the worst damage—fragmented flight bones, bone spurs, partial ossification in the joint, and multiple unhealed fractures that had fused at wrong angles. The right was marginally better, but there were signs of old crush trauma and extensive scar tissue that made natural rotation impossible.

The base of both wings—where the major tendon groups met the scapular plate—was… ruined.

Benton had done trauma rotations. He’d worked in combat hospitals. He’d seen Avions come in after ejection-seat malfunctions and high-speed crashes, wings so mangled they looked like twisted sculptures of bone and tendon.

But this?

This had been done on purpose.

And it was a miracle Carter was alive at all.

Benton exhaled slowly and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

He didn’t curse often. Not unless he meant it.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

Doug poked his head in, coffee in hand. “Hey. You disappeared.”

Benton didn’t look back. “Looking at the damage.”

Mark followed behind Doug, holding a folder of Carter’s labs. “Any ideas?”

“No,” Benton said. “None that’ll help.”

Doug stepped in, lowering his voice as he looked at the images. “These are… bad.”

Benton nodded. “These bones… they never set properly. At some point, whoever broke them decided healing wasn’t the goal. They just wanted him grounded.”

Mark frowned, flipping through notes. “Any salvageable tissue?”

Benton hesitated. “Maybe. Some. The right wing’s muscle group is thin, but not necrotic. If we got him on a neuro-rehab protocol—electrical stimulation, targeted therapy—he might regain limited mobility. But…”

“But flight?” Mark asked gently.

Benton shook his head.

Doug leaned against the wall, unusually quiet.

Mark finally spoke. “We tell him?”

“I don’t think we can yet,” Benton said. “He’s still healing from infection. From exposure. From the damn trauma. Emotionally, he’s not ready.”

Doug looked at the screen. “You’re right. He’s… a kid.”

“He’s not a kid,” Benton said. “He’s a grown man. He’s a med student. He’s smart. Focused. He’s not a child.”

Doug raised an eyebrow. “He chirps, Peter.”

Benton opened his mouth. Closed it. Grunted.

Mark smiled faintly. “He’s still a fledgling in some ways.”

Doug added softly, “Especially in how much he wants to be held.”

There was a pause. Something thick and human in the air.

Then Benton said, “There’s a wingbed infection at the left base. Deep. It’s been festering for years. He never got treatment. I don’t even know how he’s not septic.”

Mark sighed. “He’s tough.”

“Stupid,” Benton said. “But tough.”

“Survival isn’t stupid,” Doug said.

“No,” Benton agreed. “But hiding this for ten years is.”

Doug shrugged. “Would you have told anyone if you were him?”

And that stopped Benton cold.

He turned away from the screen and folded his arms. “He should’ve said something when he got to med school.”

“He should’ve,” Mark agreed. “But he didn’t. And now we’re here.”

Doug sipped his coffee. “How do we help?”

Benton glanced at them both, then back at the screen. “We stabilize the infection. We manage the pain. We get him into physical therapy. And eventually, we tell him that he’ll never fly again.”

Doug grimaced. “God.”

Mark closed the file in his hands, voice quiet. “How do you tell someone they’ll never fly again?”

“You don’t sugarcoat it,” Benton said. “You don’t lie. But you remind him he’s still here. And he’s not alone.”

A beat passed.

Then Doug said, “I’m calling dibs on being the one who tells him he gets to pick his own wing conditioners.”

Benton glanced at him. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” Doug said with a grin. “He’s gonna need good oils. Special soft-feather balm. Maybe a nice comb. I have a guy.”

Mark smirked. “Let him finish healing before you drag him into wing care group chat.”

“I’m not saying I’m gonna force it,” Doug said. “I’m just gonna offer. With gentle, nurturing guilt.”

Benton exhaled sharply—something that wasn’t quite a laugh, but wasn’t irritation either.

Behind them, the phone at the desk buzzed softly, then went silent.

Doug leaned in closer to the screen. “You know… even if he doesn’t fly again, he’s still got those wings.”

“They’re not just ornaments,” Benton said.

“I didn’t say they were. But he’s going to need to learn how to have them again. Not just hide them.”

Mark added, “We can help with that.”

Benton was quiet a long moment.

Then: “He slept through a full shift. You think he’s okay?”

“He was running on fumes and trauma,” Doug said. “He’s not used to being safe.”

Mark nodded. “Let him sleep. He’s not a resident right now. He’s just Carter.”

Doug smiled. “Our very clingy, very feather-covered baby Carter.”

Benton turned back to the film. He stared a moment longer.

Then finally said, so quietly it was barely audible:
“He deserved better than this.”

And neither Doug nor Mark argued.

Because they knew.

He did.

Chapter Text

Carter wasn’t dumb.

He’d survived med school, after all. Survived Benton, which was arguably harder. He knew how to read vitals, lab results, subtext, and body language—especially the body language of his pseudo-family pretending nothing was wrong.

Which, of course, meant everything was.

Doug had brought him coffee without his usual sarcastic commentary.
Mark had asked him twice if he wanted to sit down.
Carol had ruffled his hair like he was six.
Susan kept glancing at him like he might disintegrate.

And Benton? Benton had been quiet.

Too quiet.

Which was almost worse than Doug trying to wrap both wings around him like some overprotective blanket monster.

Carter sat in the lounge, wings tucked close, hoodie pulled up, eyes scanning the room like a chess player waiting for the next move. The others were clustered nearby—talking, laughing, pretending they weren’t orbiting him.

On the table in front of him, someone had left a book. Hardbound. Slightly worn. Hospital library stamp on the inside flap. The title caught his eye:

Myths of Flight: From Icarus to Angels.

He stared at it for a long minute, then picked it up and flipped it open with one hand. The others didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.

Doug was rambling about something—probably the last trauma case or how Mark ruined the microwave again. Carol was mock-threatening to braid his wing feathers in his sleep. Susan was smiling, but there was a worried line between her brows.

And Benton stood at the window, arms crossed, eyes on the horizon.

Carter turned the page.

The illustration was simple. Ink and watercolor.

Icarus.

Falling.

The sun a bright coin in the sky. Feathers scattering. Wings melting.

But he was smiling.

Carter snorted softly.

“Something funny?” Doug asked, instantly looking over.

Carter closed the book. “Not really.”

“What are you reading?” Susan asked.

He held it up. “Icarus. Or, rather, a collection of winged metaphors pretending to be mythology.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Carter shrugged. “He smiled when he fell.”

Doug tilted his head. “Who?”

“Icarus.”

There was a pause.

Carol glanced at the book. “That’s one way to read it.”

“He got too close to the sun,” Mark added. “Pride. Hubris. The usual.”

Carter gave a bitter laugh. “Or maybe he just wanted to know what it felt like.”

That caught Benton’s attention.

Carter stood up, moving slowly, stretching his back out of habit. He walked a few steps, wings still hidden under soft fabric, posture hunched as always.

“I think people always read Icarus wrong,” he said, voice light, distant. “They say it was about pride. But maybe it was just about freedom. Maybe he wanted to feel the sun on his wings. Just once. Maybe the fall was worth it.”

Doug opened his mouth. Closed it.

Mark leaned forward, watching.

Carter glanced back at the picture.

“I didn’t get to smile when I fell,” he said quietly. “I didn’t get to feel the sun on my face. Or the wind. Or the weightlessness. I didn’t choose to fall. I just hit the ground one day and realized my wings were already gone.”

Silence.

Then:

“Jesus, kid,” Doug said softly.

Carter looked at him. “What? Too dark for your wing-brunch conversation?”

Doug stood slowly. “You think we don’t get it?”

“No,” Carter said. “I think you do. And that’s the problem.”

Benton stepped forward finally, voice quiet but unyielding. “We don’t pity you, Carter.”

“Don’t you?” Carter asked.

“No,” Benton said. “We mourn what you lost. That’s not the same thing.”

Mark added gently, “You were robbed of something sacred. Of choice. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you survivor-class tough.”

Susan nodded. “You’re not Icarus. You didn’t fly too close to the sun.”

“I didn’t even get off the ground,” Carter said.

Carol stood, walking over, brushing his arm lightly. “But you’re still here.”

Carter exhaled slowly. “It’s weird. I always thought I’d feel better if I could just hide them forever. If I never had to see my reflection and be reminded of what they did to me.”

He looked at Benton. “But the X-rays don’t lie, do they?”

“No,” Benton said. “They don’t.”

“So that’s it then,” Carter said. “No flight. No miracle surgery. Just… ground.”

Doug crossed the room and rested his hand on Carter’s shoulder. “Flight’s not the only way to be free.”

Mark added, “Some of us fly. Some of us carry others. Some of us just stand steady so someone else can.”

Carter swallowed.

“I didn’t get to smile,” he said again, quieter now. “Not when it happened.”

Doug’s voice dropped to a hush. “Maybe not then.”

“But maybe…” Carol started, eyes kind, “maybe you still can.”

And just like that, the silence settled again—warm, not heavy.

Carter looked around. At the people around him. These strange, chaotic, bird-brained doctors who had somehow decided he was theirs.

Doug bumped his shoulder playfully. “You know, if you start quoting Greek mythology more often, I’m going to have to revoke your fledgling status.”

Carter snorted. “Too late. I already know all your snack hiding spots.”

“Don’t test me,” Doug said. “I will nest in your locker.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “And I thought I was the weird one.”

Benton muttered, “You all are.”

Carter smiled.

Not the full, sunshine-kind yet.
But the start of one.

He didn’t feel the sun on his wings.

But for the first time, maybe…
He felt something like warmth.

Chapter Text

It was one of those days.

The kind of day when the chaos that usually danced just beneath the surface of County General decided to march right into the waiting room, throw glitter and broken feathers everywhere, and remind everyone that life—especially for Avions—was complicated, messy, and absolutely unpredictable.

Carter woke up feeling… off.

Not physically. No new wounds or infections. No fever. Just a tightness in his chest, a flutter of unease that had nothing to do with his routine rounds or studies.

He tried to shrug it off. Tried to pretend he was just tired. That he was fine.

But the moment he stepped into the ER, the old instincts bubbled up—nervous pacing, restless fingers, an inexplicable urge to hide, to retreat, to curl in on himself like a fledgling chick.

It was subtle at first. A twitch of the shoulder where his wings hid beneath his hoodie. A quick glance over his shoulder. A stutter in his voice when Dr. Greene greeted him in passing.

Then it grew.

He started muttering under his breath again, the soft chirps and clicks that he’d spent so long hiding.

He shuffled his feet, avoided eye contact, and when someone offered coffee, he shook his head, murmuring something about feeling sick.

Susan caught the change first.

“Carter?” she asked gently as she found him hovering near the nurses’ station, fingers tangled in his hair. “You okay?”

He froze.

Then let out a small, almost birdlike chirp.

She blinked.

“Do you want to sit down? Take a break?”

He nodded, eyes wide.

Doug sauntered over, raising an eyebrow. “Hey, kiddo, you look like you just saw a ghost—or worse, a paperwork deadline.”

Carter managed a tiny squeak.

Mark appeared beside them, folding his wings with practiced ease. “What’s going on with you?”

Before Carter could answer, Benton walked in, catching the low murmur of the group.

He eyed Carter carefully, recognizing the signs—the fluttering anxiety, the subtle wing tension, the flicker of vulnerable fledgling beneath the surface.

“Well,” Benton said quietly, “looks like our baby bird’s having a rough day.”

No judgment. Just observation.

Doug gave Carter a gentle nudge. “You want to come sit with me? I promise not to bite.”

Carter hesitated, then nodded, allowing Doug to wrap one wing lightly around his shoulders.

Mark and Susan exchanged knowing looks but stayed close, ready to step in if needed.

Carol arrived with a fresh cup of tea, setting it in front of Carter. “This might help settle the nerves. Chamomile. Works better than a lorazepam, and no side effects. Unless you count ‘calm and occasionally singing’ as a side effect.”

Carter cracked a small smile.

“See?” Doug said. “You’re already improving.”

The hours passed slowly, with Carter slipping in and out of his usual shy, reserved self and the more vulnerable fledgling version—whimpering softly when startled, seeking comfort in the quiet touch of Doug’s wing, and occasionally making those tiny, involuntary chirps that tugged at everyone’s hearts.

Benton kept a watchful eye, quietly adjusting Carter’s schedule, ensuring he wasn’t overloaded.

Mark joked that if Carter’s wings ever got tired, they’d set up a swing for him in the lounge.

“Like a nest for a wounded bird,” Carol added, smiling softly.

Carter listened, feeling the warmth of belonging—the strange, fractured family that had gathered around him, wings wide and ready.

By the end of the shift, Carter was tired but calmer.

He looked up at Doug, who ruffled his hair with a grin.

“You know,” Doug said, “even fledglings get days like this. It’s part of growing up.”

Carter nodded, the tightness easing just a little.

“I don’t mind being a fledgling sometimes,” Carter admitted quietly.

Doug winked. “Good. Because you’re stuck with us. And we’re stuck with you.”

Mark laughed. “Welcome to the flock, kid.”

Benton added with a rare smile, “We’ll help you learn to fly again. One day.”

And in that crowded, hectic ER, among the beeping monitors and hurried footsteps, Carter felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.

The wind was blowing.
And maybe, just maybe, so was he.

Chapter Text

County General midday calm shattered as Carter moved between patient rooms—his wings still hidden, bandages carefully tucked under his coat. The adrenaline from treating a bleeding trauma had subsided, his hands now steady, actions practiced. He was beginning to feel like himself again.

Until he saw them.

His parents.

Roland Carter, your father’s name flashed in his mind—stern, eagle-winged, harsh. Beside him, Eleanor Carter, her posture as rigid as polished marble.

They stood in the hallway, framed by the automatic doors, their gazes scanning the cafeteria like predators sighting prey.

Carter froze mid-step.

His father’s glacial eyes found him immediately.

Slow. Calculated.

John swallowed.

The ER staff fluttered past him like ghosts—no one stopped. Carol passed with bed linens. Doug escorted a hurt cyclist. Mark scribbled a note, unaware.

Carter’s heart pounded. He tried to slip past them, to round the corner into the supply room… but his mother’s voice stopped him.

“John.”

It was soft. Mocking.

He turned, chest tight, fight-or-flight kicking in.

His father took a step forward, wings tucked but shoulders rigid. "There you are."

Carter backed up reflexively. "I… what are you doing here?"

His mother smiled coldly. "We came to see how our little dove was doing."

A laugh, cruel and hollow.

"And?” his father asked. "Are you serving patients, or just hiding?"

Shame washed over him like a tidal wave.

Before Carter could answer, Roland advanced—and grabbed Carter’s arm in a grip like iron.

Pain rippled down his shoulder.

"You’re weak," his father hissed. "You look pathetic."

John gasped. "Let go—"

His mother stepped forward. "Oh, be quiet."

Roland twisted his injury further.

Pain exploded.

Carter collapsed to his knees, head spinning.

“He’s damaged,” Eleanor said softly. “Exactly what we told you he was.”

John groaned, vision flashing.

———

He woke.

Panicked. Heart racing. Eyes darting.

He was in the staff lounge, on a cot. Wing-wrapped. Hot tears clung to his cheeks.

He inhaled sharply—and let out a tiny, desperate chirp.

A baby’s bird sound.

It sounded like fear.

Seconds later, footsteps at high speed.

Maria barreled in. Doug followed, running. Carol and Susan hot on their heels. Even Benton’s stern face filled with alarm as he emerged.

“John?” Susan said softly, voice cracked. “John, what’s wrong?”

Doug knelt beside him. “Kid, you okay?”

Carter panted, breath coming hard. He looked at them—wide-eyed, shaking. His hands gripped the blanket like talons.

“I…” he whispered. “It was… my dad…”

“Shh,” Benton said, rumbling. “You had a nightmare.”

Mark slid next to Carter, sliding an arm across his shoulders. “You’re safe.”

Carter’s voice shook. “I thought he was going to hurt me again—”

Carol rested a hand on his back. “You’re not a kid anymore.”

“But I felt like one,” Carter said, voice tiny. “And I made it.”

Doug squeezed his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re supposed to let that out.”

Susan brought him a glass of water without speaking.

Silent warmth surrounded him.

He pressed his forehead against Doug’s shoulder, eyelids fluttering with leftover dread.

“This… doesn’t just go away, does it?” he whispered.

“We didn’t expect it would,” Benton said gently. “But you don't have to face it alone.”

And in the quiet that settled—broken by his ragged breaths and the soft shuffle of wings—their fledgling found solace.

He wasn’t alone.

Even when the predators in his mind returned, the doctors—his found family—were there.

They would stand guard.

Always.

Chapter Text

It started in the small things.

Benton noticed.

Carter still showed up early. Still clocked in. Still wore his white coat and buried himself in paperwork and sutures and discharges. He smiled at patients. Nodded when Doug teased him. Laughed, even, when Susan called him a walking clipboard.

But it was all… muted. Like someone had pressed the volume down on his soul.

His wings never flared anymore. He kept them tucked so tightly that even Benton could see the ache in his shoulders. The softness that had crept in when Carter started healing—when he let Doug wrap him in his wings, when he napped in the lounge under Mark’s coat, when he chirped like some ridiculous nestling—was gone.

Replaced with stillness.

Not peace. Just… still.

Dangerous still.

The kind of still that Benton recognized from soldiers who’d been through hell and stopped believing they deserved to come back.

He found Carter in the on-call room. Lights off, curtain drawn, one wing slightly twitching as if it dreamed of escape but didn’t dare try. Carter sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on knees, staring at the wall.

“You planning on sleeping through the rest of your shift?” Benton asked bluntly.

Carter didn’t look up. “I’m on break.”

“You’ve been on break for forty-five minutes.”

Silence.

Benton stepped in, closed the door. The room was dim and quiet and too cold.

“Carter.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been off since the nightmare.”

“Guess so.”

“You barely looked at a wing chart this morning.”

“I memorized it already.”

Benton frowned. “You’re shutting down.”

Carter gave a slow, bitter smile. “You’ve been saying that since med school.”

“And I was right then, too.”

A beat.

Then: “I know what they did to you.”

Carter stiffened.

“I know they broke your wings. That they held you down. Cut you up. I know you didn’t get medical treatment. I know you didn’t heal. I saw the X-rays, Carter. I know.”

“I know you know,” Carter snapped suddenly, looking up, eyes rimmed red. “You don’t have to remind me. I live with it. Every. Day.”

“Then why are you acting like it’s your fault?”

Carter flinched.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not!”

Benton stepped forward. “What they did to you wasn’t your fault.”

“I know that.”

Benton’s voice rose. “It’s not your fault.”

“I said I know!”

“It's not your goddamn fault, Carter.”

Carter stood, face flushed. “Stop saying that! Stop acting like you understand—”

“I do understand!”

“You don’t know what it was like!” Carter yelled, voice cracking. “You don’t know what it’s like to wake up every morning and feel the brokenness in your back. To know you’ll never fly. That people looked at you and decided you weren’t worth healing!”

Benton’s jaw tightened.

“You think I wanted to give up?” Carter said. “I tried for years to pretend I could be normal. I hid the pain, I did the job, I followed the rules—”

“And now you’re sitting here acting like you should’ve done more,” Benton snapped. “Like it was your responsibility to survive better. Like if you’d just flapped harder, maybe they wouldn’t have broken you.”

Carter turned away, shoulders shaking.

Benton stepped forward and grabbed him—firmly, not cruelly. He turned Carter to face him. Carter tried to pull away, but Benton didn’t let go.

“It’s. Not. Your. Fault.”

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“Let me go!”

Carter shoved at him—weakly, trembling. “Stop—just stop—”

Benton didn’t stop.

He pulled Carter into him, wrapped both arms around the younger man and held tight even as Carter struggled, even as he sobbed.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Benton said again, softer now. “It never was.”

Carter finally collapsed.

All the fight drained out of him like water down a drain. His knees gave, and Benton followed him to the floor, one hand bracing Carter’s neck, the other shielding his wings as Carter crumbled.

The sobs came like waves—wet, hiccupping, painful. His wings twitched, shuddered, and finally drooped open across the floor like shattered sails.

“I didn’t want to die,” Carter choked out. “But sometimes I didn’t want to live, either. And I hated myself for that.”

“I know,” Benton said.

“I wanted to fly so bad.”

“I know.”

“I wanted someone to stop them.”

“I know.”

“And no one did.”

Benton held him tighter. “But I’m here now.”

Silence, except for Carter’s quiet weeping and Benton’s slow, steady breath.

Somewhere outside, a trauma call buzzed through the intercom. Nurses moved past the door, voices soft, unaware.

In the cocoon of the on-call room, Carter let go—for real this time.

And Benton didn’t let him fall.

Not this time

Chapter Text

County General had its rhythm—chaotic and loud, but rhythmic. The beeping of monitors, the steady rush of gurneys, the drone of intercom announcements, and the constant hum of fluorescent lights created a kind of music only ER staff could dance to.

But within that rhythm, Carter had fallen out of step.

After the confrontation with Benton, something inside Carter had fractured and mended in the same breath. The cracks were still visible—fresh, raw, painful—but at least now there was light getting through them.

Doug Ross, pediatrician, winged flirt, avowed chaos agent, and secretly the ER’s most observant guardian, had noticed something Carter hadn’t.

The kid was fragile.

And not just in the metaphorical way. No, Carter looked like someone had scooped the stuffing out of him and replaced it with air and too many memories. His eyes were too wide, too tired. His movements—once sharp and eager—were sluggish, dulled. His wings dragged a little when he thought no one noticed.

Doug noticed.

He always noticed.

So, when Benton grumbled something about rounds and a neuro consult and then very pointedly said, “He needs rest. I mean it, Ross,” Doug caught the you-break-it-you-bought-it subtext loud and clear.

He found Carter at the nurses’ station, trying to hide behind a clipboard that was blank.

“Hey, Fledgling,” Doug said, too casually.

Carter flinched. “Hi, Dr. Ross.”

Doug winced. “Carter. You know we’re past the formality now.”

Carter gave him a look that was somewhere between exhausted and fondly annoyed. “Right. Doug.”

“There we go.” Doug clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Come with me.”

“I’m on shift,” Carter said quickly.

“Shift’s over. You’ve been here for fourteen hours.”

“I—”

Doug didn’t wait. He just draped a wing over Carter’s back and steered him down the hall, ignoring the nurse at the desk laughing under her breath.

Carter blinked up at him, unsure. “Where are we going?”

“Nap time.”

“I don’t—”

“You look like you got hit by a bus carrying unresolved childhood trauma and zero sleep. So yes, nap time.”

“Is that a medical diagnosis?”

“I’m a pediatrician. My diagnosis is always nap, juice, and emotional honesty.”

Carter huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh.

Doug led him to one of the unused observation rooms, already prepped with a spare cot, fresh sheets, and—Doug was proud to say—a blanket he’d definitely “borrowed” from Pediatrics that had cartoon owls all over it.

“You expect me to sleep under that?” Carter asked, eyeing the blanket.

Doug tilted his head. “They’re birds. It’s thematic.”

Carter stared at it.

Doug softened. “It’s warm. And it doesn’t judge.”

Carter hesitated, then sat. His wings twitched a little before relaxing over the edge of the bed. They still looked rough. Scarred and under-preened. But better than before. Cleaner.

Doug crouched down in front of him. “Listen, I know you’re not good at this part.”

“What part?”

“The part where people take care of you.”

Carter looked away. “I don’t need—”

“You do,” Doug said gently. “And that’s okay. Look, you’re not a kid, I get that. But fledgling behavior doesn’t just vanish because you hit twenty. You didn’t get this when you needed it, so your instincts are all over the place.”

Carter looked like he wanted to argue.

So Doug added, “You made the chirp again last night.”

Carter flushed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t have to apologize for instinct.”

Carter went quiet.

Doug stood, walked around the bed, and gently tugged Carter’s hoodie down to get a better look at his wings.

“I’m not gonna touch unless you say so,” he said. “But I’m gonna sit here while you rest.”

“Why?” Carter asked.

Doug shrugged. “Because that’s what caretakers do.”

Carter blinked fast. “I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me. Not really.”

Doug smiled. “Then I guess we’re setting a new precedent.”

Carter hesitated a moment longer, then—slowly—let himself lie back. He tugged the owl blanket over his legs, then pulled it up to his chin with surprising reverence.

Doug sat in the chair beside him, wings tucked, posture relaxed.

Carter mumbled, “You’re not gonna try to groom my feathers, are you?”

“Only if you start looking like a moulting goose again.”

Carter chuckled softly.

Doug watched him for a moment.

The kid—no, the man—was still healing. Still flinching at shadows. Still learning how to be safe in his own skin. But he was letting them in, inch by inch.

And Doug would be there for every inch.

“Sleep, Fledgling,” he whispered.

Carter, finally, did.

Doug leaned back, wings shifting just enough to create a barrier between Carter and the rest of the world.

If anyone tried to hurt their chick again, they'd have to go through all of them.

And Doug?
Doug Ross had never lost a fight worth winning.

Chapter Text

Hello Everybody!

Hope you all are having an amazing day! Sorry for this post but I’m ganna take a break from writing for a bit. Probably a couple days or so! Not long I promise!

I want to thank you all! Your support and comments have been amazing and they made my day! Thank you to maisiec33 for messaging me and pointing out some things I was not aware. Still not aware of some but I appreciate it nonetheless!

Also I love your fics !

Anyway! I wanted to talk a little about my writing process. So you can understand it a little better! Because it’s kinda weird and all over the place lol!

And to remind people to be kind. That people write differently and that’s okay! Some people, like myself, put my heart and soul into every work I do. I want them to be the best they can be. Write the best I can write.

Most of my fic are pre written. Most are from when I was in high school and bored so I wrote. They are written in notes then pasted into Gramerly and other tools to catch spelling errors or punctuation errors.

I’m horrible with spelling and get embarrassed by misspelling words. Or having weird sentences structures.

Now that my fics are coming into the light and I feel as though it was a bad idea. I only ever showed my fics to one of my high school teachers and a professor from college. I was embarrassed and scared to share them. I used to write a lot but stopped for a while. I’m trying to get back into it. I thought Writing Fan fiction would help.

Someone on AO3 inspired me to post. I look up to them so much. So I did. And I still have mixed emotions because of what some people say.

However they message me and said something’s and now… I don’t know.

I have a very hard job. A rough job. A emotional draining job. And writing has helped me lot. However there are some individuals who are attacking me about my fics.

And that’s okay! Everyone has the right to their opinion. And their own experiences. People have been saying they are dumb. That they don’t stay true to ER. That they seem AI because I use “dashes and write to much”. But that’s okay! Because we all have different writing styles. Abilities. So I thought it might help to share it 😁

But, remember to be kind to others. Say what you want, but don’t be cruel.

I’ve been through a lot these past two years. If you don’t know I’m currently in the military. I have a stressful job. But stressful does not mean busy. There are time that I do nothing to 5 hours, then work my butt off for 10. I don’t sleep. There are days I work 24 hours. I struggle mentally. And writing has always been my outlet. I can be manic at times and write and write and write. And I think it overwhelms people because I have no life outside the office lol 🤣

When I write it’s messy and fucked and odd and cheesey and dumb. Because that’s what makes me smile. Dumb jokes. Dumb plot. Because life to to serious to write supper real shit. I do. But still. Life’s to short. And my real shit will always have a happy ending because there’s to many sad ones in the world.

When I post my fics, I take the time to rewrite them. Edit them. Adjust them accordingly. Most of my fics, before I even write them, have 10- 20 chapters before hand.

I get overwhelmed with large structured paragraphs so that might be why they are so short lol. But if you want more meaty paragraphs let me know. Longer sentences tell me. I want to learn. So teach me!!!

In my fics I try to be punctual and engaging. I’ve read fics that I spent years not having a second chapter and I hate it. So I decided I would make sure or try to update as much as possible. That could be my fault. If you think it’s too much or I’m inconsistent please let me know.

This is my first time using AO3. I used to write on Wattpad and most of these were on there. So I’m kinda just moving them and making them more personal. More adjusted to what you all want to see. Because that’s what I want to see in a fic. Just me personally!

But Ive been told that it’s weird— that it’s unusual and I’m sorry for that. I don’t want to turn anyone off from a fic because they think “it’s too much”.

Yes, I have like 6 fics being written at the same time, I know. It’s chaos. But I can’t mentally stay on one fic for to long or I lose it lol. Hence why there’s so many.

I write how I’m comfortable with. I use en dash to try and get rid of filler words and fan boys. I always did this in my writing at school. I still use it in college. I felt like it be more professional to use them lol. More dignified I guess. But I know it’s odd seeing someone use them. Because they aren’t used often.

I know my writing style is kinda odd. And I’m all over the place. I appreciate the support I have been given, so thank you, thank you, thank 😄

I want to learn! I want to get better, be better! So if you have helpful criticism please feel free to share!

I love hearing what people think. Even if I don’t agree with it or if it’s mean or rude. Everyone’s opinion is valid regardless.

So thank you for the good comments. And the bad! I appreciate all of them.

I hope this helps. Even if it’s a little bit. I think I it’s cool learning how people write, personally.

So thank you for listening to my Ted talk! I love all of you and thank you so much. I hope to see you all in a couple days!!!

—Badger666

Chapter Text

Carter’s wings were dragging again.

It wasn’t subtle.

The long, pale feathers trailed behind him like deflated kites after a storm, collecting the gray gunk of hospital floors, nearly getting caught in elevator doors, and making small children point and whisper things like, “Mommy, that man’s wings are sad.”

Carter knew.
God, he knew.

But lifting them?
Holding them up like he was proud of them?
That took strength he just didn’t have right now.

Physically? His wings were still broken.
Emotionally? His whole soul felt like one of those bruises that never quite fades.

He told himself it was fine. He could walk. He could work. His scrubs were only mildly wrinkled. The coffee machine in the lounge hadn’t burst into flames lately. That counted as a good day.

Still. He hadn’t thought about flying.

Because what was the point?

It was the end of a long shift. Twelve hours, no real break, three traumas, one kid he couldn’t save, and one woman who spat on him after he stopped her bleeding.

He was exhausted.

So when he turned the corner by curtain three and his left wing caught the edge of a rolling gurney—
—and he tripped over the right one trying to step forward—
—and then both wings tangled in his own damn legs—

He fell.

Hard.

Face-first into the floor.

Right in the middle of the ER.
In front of Doug, Benton, and Mark.

For a moment, all was silent.

And then Carter groaned, face still on the tile.

“…I meant to do that.”

Doug blinked. “Did you just trip over your own wings?”

Benton blinked. “Is that… common?”

Mark blinked. “I think he’s nesting.”

“Shut up,” came Carter’s muffled voice from the floor.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t move. His arms were pinned under one wing, his knees were crunched under his torso, and the top half of him just… gave up.

It was humiliating.

But also kind of warm.

The floor was warm.
Maybe he would stay here.
Live here.
Become one with the linoleum.
They could write “Dr. Carter” on a plaque and just step over him during trauma codes.

But then—hands.

Warm, real, human hands.

Benton was already crouching beside him with a sigh, undoing the tangle of feathers and limbs.

Mark bent down on the other side, casually checking his pulse like this was a normal Thursday. “No concussion, but your pride might be terminal.”

“Ha ha,” Carter muttered.

And then Doug—bless his chaotic heart—walked over, crouched in front of Carter’s face, and said with genuine concern, “Okay, baby bird. Let’s get you back up.”

“I’m not a baby bird,” Carter said, glaring with all the menace of a newborn duckling.

Doug smirked. “You’re literally face-down in your own feathers.”

“Not my fault they’re heavy.”

“They weren’t this heavy when you were flapping them around chasing that cute respiratory tech last month.”

“Yeah, well, that was before the existential dread hit like a train.”

Mark snorted.

Doug winked. “Mood.”

Benton finally got one wing untangled and gently pulled Carter up under the arms like a parent lifting a cranky toddler.

“There we go,” Benton muttered. “Christ, how are you this tall and still this easy to knock over?”

“I have the constitution of a Victorian orphan,” Carter muttered back, feathers drooping.

Doug supported his other side. “Come on, Oliver Twist. We’re going to the lounge. You need electrolytes and a cookie.”

“I don’t need—” Carter began.

“Do not argue with the cookie,” Mark said sternly, already halfway down the hall to grab one.

They walked him—well, guided him, because Carter was more noodle than man—down the corridor.

“I can walk,” Carter protested weakly.

“Nope,” Doug said.

“I’m fine,” Carter added.

“You fell on your face,” Benton replied. “Again.”

“It was only the third time this week,” Carter mumbled.

“Which is exactly three times too many,” Doug pointed out.

Carter’s wings drooped further, tips dragging behind him like a mop. “I can’t hold them up. They won’t lift.”

Doug looked at him, quieter now. “Then don’t. That’s what we’re for.”

Carter looked up. All three of them were still holding onto him, guiding him forward like a very tired parade float. And… none of them looked annoyed. Not really. They looked like they expected this. Like this wasn’t the first time they’d helped one of their own crash-land through a shift.

They got him to the lounge.

Mark returned with a cookie the size of Carter’s face and a bottle of Gatorade.

Doug tossed a warm blanket over Carter’s shoulders—smelled faintly like lavender and something distinctly Doug.

Benton sat next to him and preened one of his feathers absently, like it was just another Tuesday.

Carter blinked.

Then blinked again.

“…You guys are weird.”

Doug grinned. “Weird is how we survive.”

“Speak for yourself,” Benton muttered.

“Don’t worry,” Mark added, sipping his coffee. “If you fall on your face again, we’ll just scoop you up like a sad little pancake.”

“Not a baby bird. Not a pancake.”

“Fledgling flapjack,” Doug offered.

Carter covered his face with one hand and groaned.

But under the blanket, under the cookie crumbs and quiet breathing, one of his wings gave the smallest twitch. The tiniest lift. Not much. But it was something.

Maybe he couldn’t fly yet.

But he wasn’t alone.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Carter was definitely not nesting.

Nope.

Sure, he’d dragged three extra hospital blankets into the on-call room. And maybe he'd shoved two under the cot and curled the edges like a sort of sad bird cave. And maybe, just maybe, he’d collected every pillow from the lounge, the call room next door, and possibly raided pediatrics because theirs were softer and smelled like apple juice and security.

But this wasn’t nesting.

It was… insulation.

Necessary thermal regulation.

Totally rational behavior.

Not at all related to the fact that it was the anniversary of the worst week of his life.

The week his brother died.

The week his father and grandfather “clipped his wings” because he “wasn’t using them right.”

Because flapping instead of flying wasn’t proper for a Carter.
Because wings were ornamental, not functional.
Because God forbid John Truman Carter III do anything that wasn't painfully dignified.

So they broke him.
Tore the feathers clean.
Pulled ligaments.
Smiled through it.

And Carter said thank you.

That was a long time ago.

And he was fine.
Totally fine.

Except that he wasn’t.

Not really.

And that’s why he was in the call room, under a pile of stolen blankets and pillows, his wings wrapped around him like a security burrito, and his nose pressed into a sweatshirt that smelled suspiciously like Doug Ross.

Wait.

Wait.

Was that actually Doug Ross’s sweatshirt?

Carter squinted down at the navy blue fabric in his hands. It had a coffee stain on the cuff, a rip in the collar, and—yep—one of Doug’s feathers stuck to the inside of the hood.

“Crap,” he muttered.

He buried his face back into it anyway.

Doug was warm. Doug always smelled like sleep and shampoo and that expensive cologne he claimed was a “gift” but probably bought himself.

And Doug… was safe.

God help him, Doug was safe.

So yeah. Maybe he had swiped it. Maybe he had curled up with it like a freshly hatched gremlin. And maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t moved for three hours and now resembled a very sad down comforter with a residency badge.

The knock on the door came soft, hesitant.

Carter immediately hissed and flattened his wings over his body like a panicked pigeon.

He did not want to be seen like this. He did not want—

“Carter?” Doug’s voice came through gently. “You in there?”

Carter didn’t answer.
Mostly because his mouth was full of hoodie.

The door creaked open.

Doug stepped in halfway, holding two cups of coffee and a bag that definitely had cookies in it.

He paused.

Took in the blanket cave.

The pillows.

The feathers.

The sweatshirt.

Doug blinked. “…Are you nesting?”

“No,” Carter replied immediately, voice muffled. “Shut up.”

Doug smiled, not unkindly. He set the coffees down and crossed the room with practiced ease.

“Because it really looks like nesting.”

“It’s not. It’s… it’s therapeutic compression.”

Doug crouched. “Is that my hoodie?”

Carter refused to meet his gaze. “No.”

Doug gently plucked a corner of it. “It’s got my blood on the sleeve from that night in trauma 2.”

“…Still no.”

Doug huffed a laugh and sat down beside the nest. “Alright. It’s not nesting.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re just… insulating. Right?”

“Exactly.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Doug looked around. “Pretty cozy in here. How’s the humidity?”

“Optimal,” Carter muttered.

“You know,” Doug said, very casually, “I’ve been told my wings make excellent blankets.”

Carter didn’t respond.

Doug reached back, shook out his wings—dark, soft, almost velvety in texture—and gently eased one over Carter’s shoulder.

Carter tensed. Froze.

Then—slowly—melted.

Doug’s wing was warm. Insanely warm. Like heated mattress pad meets hug.

“Don’t smother me,” Carter grumbled weakly.

“I’m just insulating you more efficiently.”

“Rude.”

Doug smiled.

The room was quiet again. The only sound was the rustle of feathers and the soft hum of the vents overhead.

After a minute, Carter mumbled, “It’s the anniversary.”

Doug didn’t ask of what.

He didn’t need to.

He just tucked the other wing around him too and leaned back.

Carter shifted a little, angling himself to tuck closer to Doug’s side.

Doug let him.

No jokes.

No teasing.

Just quiet, gentle pressure.

Safe weight.

After a while, Carter whispered, “They broke them. My wings. Said I didn’t deserve them.”

Doug tilted his head. “They were wrong.”

“I couldn’t fly for years.”

Doug’s wing curled tighter. “And now?”

“I can… move them. Kinda. Not long.”

“That’s more than nothing.”

Carter nodded.

Doug nudged the coffee toward him. “Drink. You’re dehydrated.”

“I’m nesting.”

“Exactly. Nesting birds need fluids.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too, baby bird.”

Carter groaned, but he took the coffee.

And as he sipped, still wrapped in warmth and softness, he allowed himself—for the first time in a long time—to be.

Not perform.
Not pretend.
Not power through.

Just be.

Curled in his nest.

Next to the only person who ever saw it and stayed anyway.

And yeah. Maybe it was nesting.

But it was his nest.

And he was safe in it.

Chapter Text

It was 6:12 AM.

The ER had survived another night of unrelenting chaos, minor fires (literal and metaphorical), one raccoon-related incident involving Jerry and the vending machine, and a failed attempt by Malik to microwave a burrito that probably predated the Carter administration.
(As in Jimmy, not John.)

Mark Greene was tired. His tie was inside out. His coffee was cold. His last patient had tried to bite him.

Susan Lewis, beside him, was covered in what she hoped was pudding. She wasn’t going to ask.

And Peter Benton? Peter Benton was pissed.

Which meant all was right in the world, mostly.

“Where the hell is Carter?” Benton barked, flipping through the chart rack like it had personally insulted his surgical schedule.

Mark blinked. “Didn’t he have overnight admit duty?”

Susan checked the board. “He signed out four hours ago, but… he never left.”

“Maybe he fell asleep in the lounge,” Mark offered.

“He better not have,” Benton grumbled, “or I’m making him run his post-op labs twice.”

Susan smirked. “You say that like it’s a threat and not his favorite nerd activity.”

Benton ignored her.

Mark shrugged. “Check the on-call room?”

“He better not be nesting again,” Benton muttered.

Susan stopped mid-step. “Wait. Again?”

Mark groaned. “You weren’t here last year during moulting season, were you?”

“No—wait—what do you mean, moulting season?”

Mark just gave her a Look™ and pushed the call room door open.

And that’s when they found them.

Carter. In a pile.

More specifically
Carter curled up in a nest of blankets and pillows, wearing what looked like Doug’s hoodie, half-asleep, totally dead to the world.

Wrapped, wrapped, like a burrito in a love coma, in both of Doug Ross’s massive wings.

Doug was leaning against the wall, one leg half off the cot, coffee on his chest, also asleep.
Feathers everywhere.
One of Carter’s own wings peeked from beneath the blanket like a guilty little secret.
Doug’s hand was resting gently in Carter’s curls.
And Carter’s fingers were latched around the edge of Doug’s scrub top like a damn baby duck.

Mark just… stopped. “Oh.”

Susan blinked. “Oh my God.”

Benton stared.

Then blinked.

Then slowly turned around like he was buffering.

“I—" Benton began, paused, then restarted. “Is that… is that a nest?”

Mark coughed. “Technically, yes.”

Susan took a step forward, inspecting like she was looking at an exhibit in a museum. “How many blankets is that?”

“Seven,” Benton said, flatly. “That’s my OR blanket.”

“That’s my tea pillow!” Susan hissed. “The one from peds!”

“And my hoodie,” Mark added solemnly. “He stole my hoodie.”

“No, that’s Doug’s hoodie,” Susan corrected.

“Then he double stole.”

Benton crossed his arms. “Carter!”

Nothing.

The cocoon didn’t move.

Doug snored, quietly.

Carter muttered something about ducks and cinnamon rolls and tucked himself further into Doug’s wing like a little burrito of trauma and comfort.

Susan bit her lip. “Okay… but it’s kind of adorable?”

Mark sighed. “It’s very adorable. I’m furious about it.”

Benton, ever the practical one, reached forward.

Susan slapped his hand away. “No! You cannot poke the Carter pile! That’s sacred!”

“He’s on shift in fifteen minutes.”

“He’s having a healing moment,” Mark said, with finger quotes.

“I do not care—”

Suddenly, Doug stirred.

One eye cracked open.

He squinted at them like a mildly annoyed bat.

“…You’re loud,” he murmured, voice gravelly.

Benton scowled. “Wake him up.”

Doug blinked once. “He’s nesting. No.”

“He’s scheduled,” Benton said firmly.

Doug, with the weariness of someone who had survived both med school and Carter’s brand of emotional repression, fluffed his wing around the younger man like he was drawing a curtain.

“He’s not available.”

Mark rubbed his forehead. “Can he even breathe under there?”

Doug raised one lazy brow. “He’s a Carter. He’s fine. And I did air vents.”

Susan leaned closer. “Air vents?”

Doug gestured vaguely at the wing folds. “Strategic feather spacing. I did a course in avian trauma therapy. Leave us alone.”

“You did not,” Benton snapped.

Doug grinned sleepily. “Okay, but I should have.”

They all just stood there.

Watching the pile.

Watching Carter, who—after all the trauma, pressure, and heartbreak—finally looked… peaceful.

Soft.

Safe.

Mark exhaled slowly. “He didn’t used to do this.”

“Nope,” Benton said. “Not before…”

They didn’t finish that sentence.

Because they didn’t need to.

Susan wrapped her arms around herself. “Today’s the anniversary, isn’t it?”

Mark nodded.

Benton’s jaw clenched.

Doug tightened his hold around Carter.

From somewhere under the blanket, Carter mumbled, “Still not nesting.”

Doug smirked. “Yes, you are.”

“Nope.”

Doug brushed a feather through Carter’s hair. “Okay, then. You’re… aggressively horizontal.”

“Better.”

Doug sighed, kissed the top of his head, and looked at the three stunned doctors by the door.

“Unless a patient is actively dying,” he said, “this pile is off-limits until further notice.”

Benton opened his mouth.

Doug pointed a feather at him. “I will bite you.”

Benton closed his mouth.

Mark shook his head, chuckling softly. “Y’know… we should probably start charging nesting fees.”

Susan leaned into the doorframe and whispered, “Do you think if I leave cookies, they’ll build another one in the lounge?”

Doug growled lightly.

Mark pulled her back. “Okay. Let’s go before someone gets pecked.”

They backed away slowly and gently closed the door.

Inside, Doug tucked Carter in tighter.

Carter let out a quiet sigh.

Still not nesting.

Definitely not nesting.

Just… strategically surviving.
Wrapped in soft feathers and unspoken comfort.

And—for the first time in a long time—being allowed to rest.

Chapter Text

They said County General had changed.

They were right.

Because at 08:45, Dr. Kerry Weaver walked into the ER foyer—wings unfurled, stride confident, gaze sharp—and the chaos of trauma codes and spilled charts seemed to momentarily draw breath.

Her wings… were something to behold.

A broad wingspan of glossy mahogany feathers, tipped with iridescent teal that caught the overhead lights and scattered them like stained glass. They trailed behind her like a cloak made of midnight sky, precise and proud.

She glided past triage with her clipboard clutched tightly, heels clicking on tile.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t greet.

She surveyed.

Mark Greene saw her first, stopped mid-word as a nurse finished his vitals.
Susan crossed her arms, respect—mixed with just a pinch of fear—on her face.
Doug Ross instinctively smoothed his wing-tip as she swept past. Even Benton straightened, protegee though not hers, unspoken respect tightening his jaw.

And in the quiet corner of the filing room, Carter—head in reports, heart in soundtrack volume—flicked a pen across the table and stopped breathing.

His chest tightened.
His breath stuttered.
He was… intimidated.

Because she had wings.
Big, elegant, untouchable wings.

And Carter… Carter was still kittening in comparison.

A fledgling.
Clumsy feathers.
Barely flap-worthy.

Of course he noticed her more than anyone. He’d seen the fear in her wings’ motion: silent, taught, commanding. She was power incarnate.

And he… was the pigeon with half-torn flight feathers, hiding behind his lab coat.

He swallowed hard, dropped his pen, and tried to pretend he wasn’t trembling.

Weaver’s voice cut through the background chatter like a scalpel.

“Dr. Greene,” she said, tone cool. “Report.”

Mark stepped up, grounded himself. “Stable trauma—hip fracture, one laceration sutured, patient is awake, we’re awaiting CT. Carter is assisting with labs.”

Weaver nodded. Didn’t look at Carter. “He is?”

“Uh—yes.”

Carter’s chest constricted.

Weaver glanced at him. She raised one carefully arched eyebrow and looked briefly at his tucked wings.

Carter involuntarily tugged his coat down—even though nothing was showing.

Weaver turned back to Mark.

“I want a plan by twelve,” she said. “And communicate to Radiology that…”

Her glare flicked back to Carter.

Carter gulped. Turned red. Tried—and failed—to look anywhere but at the floor.

Weaver looked over her spectacles.

“Dr. Carter. Down the hall. I expect professionalism.”

Carter lifted his head, voice squeaky.

“Yes, Dr. Weaver.”

She nodded and swept out.

The ER exhaled.

Mark found Carter later in the lounge—hands shaking around a lukewarm coffee.

“Kid,” he said gently. “You good?”

Carter flinched. “I—I didn’t do anything.”

Mark blinked. “She intimidates you?”

“She scares me.”

Mark sighed. “That’s… fair.”

“You think she’ll… fire me?”

Mark snorted. “Have you seen her? She runs a surgical schedule like a boarding school. She doesn’t fire people. She scares people into getting better.”

A cough from behind them.

Doug strolled in, wings folded, coffee-scented exasperation personified.

“Oh good, you two are here,” he said with mock relief. “Because someone has to explain to me why the cat’s been chirping into my coffee all morning—and I need answers before I lose my spoon.”

Carter flushed.

Mark elbowed Doug. “She arrived.”

Doug paused over his sugar spoon. “You mean… Her Wingfulness herself?”

Carter nodded.

Doug’s eyes widened. “Beautiful…and intimidating?”

Carter looked at him.

And chirped.

The sound wasn’t loud. Barely there. But it echoed in the lounge like an alarm.

Doug froze.

Mark stared.

And Carter covered his mouth.

Doug cleared his throat. “Okay. So. She intimidates crows, not just fledglings.”

Carter flinched again.

Mark rubbed his shoulder. “You’ll manage.”

Carter wiped his eyes. “I feel… weak.”

Doug patted him. “You’re not weak—you’re a fledgling. Wings intact. Flight coming.”

Mark added, “Besides, Weaver might know how to run an OR like a fortress, but we know you’re healing like hell.”

Doug gave Carter a grin. “And if she scares you again, you just chirp. We’ll hear you.”

Carter snorted. “That’s not reassuring.”

Doug danced his eyebrows. “Then we’ll chirp right back.”

Mark smiled. “Yeah. And next time we’ll bring cookies.”

Carter managed a small smile.

They all knew this wasn’t over.

Weaver had wings—and authority.

But Carter?

He had time. And people.

And slowly… those counted for more than any wingspan.

Even Weaver’s.

Chapter Text

The hallway outside Dr. Kerry Weaver’s office felt like it stretched on for miles.

John Carter had walked it many times before. To drop off charts. To get chewed out. To deliver updates, files, or excuses. But today, his hands were clammy and his pulse was loud in his ears.

Because today he had wings.
Sort of.

And he was going to talk to her.

Carter stopped just shy of her door. He stared at the brass plaque like it might bite him.

Dr. K. Weaver, Chief of Emergency Medicine.

The sign should’ve said Chief of Intimidation. Or Winged Warden. Or maybe just Danger, Do Not Approach Without Bribery.

He raised his fist to knock.

Lowered it.

Raised it again.

Paused.

From inside the office came the faint scrape of a chair, a sigh, and the unmistakable click of Weaver’s cane.

Too late now.

He knocked.

“Come in.”

Her voice was brisk. Clipped. Nothing in it suggested please, bring your emotional baggage inside, but Carter pushed the door open anyway.

Dr. Weaver sat behind her desk, surrounded by neat files and an aura of silent judgment. Her wings were partially unfurled, feathers rustling faintly with every movement. Even when she wasn’t trying, she looked like a general at war. The war, presumably, was the ER.

“Dr. Carter,” she said, watching him like a hawk. “You’re early.”

Carter shifted from foot to foot. “Uh… right. I—I can come back—”

“Sit down.”

He sat so fast he almost missed the chair.

Weaver closed a file and folded her hands.

“I’ve received multiple reports,” she began.

Carter swallowed hard.

“Reports about your work ethic, your attentiveness to patients, and your… unique communication style.”

Carter blinked. “My… what?”

She narrowed her eyes. “The chirping, Carter.”

Carter turned red. “That was—! I didn’t—I mean—It was just once.”

Weaver leaned forward, wings rising ever so slightly behind her.

“It wasn’t just once. You chirped in the lounge yesterday. You chirped during sutures this morning. You chirped when I passed you in the hallway five minutes ago.”

Carter’s voice was a strangled whisper. “I did?”

She raised one brow. “Yes. Quiet. Barely audible. But I’m not just your supervisor, Dr. Carter—I’m a predator species.”

Carter blinked rapidly. “I—I swear, I didn’t mean to. I don’t even notice—It’s just—I don’t have full control yet and—and sometimes it just—happens.”

Weaver studied him.

Her tone softened a fraction. “That’s not unusual.”

Carter stared. “It’s not?”

Weaver tilted her head. “Your wings are under stress. Instinct kicks in. It’s a survival response. A chirp is a call for protection.”

Carter winced.

“I’m not mocking you, Carter,” she said. “But you need to be aware of it. Around patients. Around other staff. Especially around me. I need to know when someone chirps because they’re panicking, not because I walked by with my wings at half-mast.”

Carter looked down.

“…You scare me,” he whispered.

Weaver’s expression didn’t change.

“…You always have,” Carter added.

There was a beat of silence.

“I know,” she said.

His head snapped up.

She sighed. “I’m not an easy person to work for. I don’t coddle. I don’t sugarcoat. I’ve had to fight for every inch of authority I have—and that fight didn’t leave much room for bedside manner.”

He nodded slowly.

Her gaze narrowed. “But you’re not afraid of me because I’m difficult, Carter.”

He flinched. “…No.”

She leaned back. “Why?”

Carter hesitated.

Then—

“I thought if you saw me… really saw me… you’d think I was weak.”

Weaver frowned.

Carter took a shaky breath. “You—your wings are perfect. You’re strong. You command respect just by walking into a room. I used to dream about having wings like yours.”

Her feathers rustled faintly.

“I don’t fly,” he added. “I can’t. Not anymore.”

A silence followed.

Weaver’s voice, when it came, was low. “What happened?”

Carter didn’t look at her.

“My father and grandfather,” he said. “When they… when my brother died… and my wings weren’t that of a egale or whatever… they said it was an ‘affliction.’” His fingers twisted in his lap. “They tied them down. Told me they’d ‘fix’ it. There were… splints. And binding. My grandfather said it was for the best. That my wings weren’t staining the family name.”

Weaver’s expression darkened.

“I was ten when they broke them. When they took my feathers and cut tendons.”

He didn’t cry. Not quite. But his voice cracked.

“They told me it was for my own good. That I’d never be taken seriously if I flaunted them. That no one respected a man who had wings like mine.”

Weaver stood.

He flinched.

She moved around the desk—quiet, sure—and knelt in front of him.

Her wings folded back gently as she looked him in the eye.

“They lied,” she said.

He sniffed. “I—I know that now.”

“No,” she said, firmly. “You don’t. You need to.”

He nodded quickly, too quickly, eyes darting down again.

She placed one hand on his shoulder. “Dr. Carter. Your wings are not your weakness.”

He shivered.

“They are your resilience.”

Something broke open in his chest.

And then—

chirp.

It was quiet.

Barely audible.

But Weaver heard it instantly.

She didn’t scold him.

She didn’t mock him.

She responded.

With a soft croon, deep in her throat—a sound no one had ever heard from her. A protective, comforting trill.

Carter’s eyes filled again. Not with shame. With something like… relief.

He started to say something when—

The door slammed open.

“CARTER!” Doug Ross burst in, scrubs askew, eyes blazing. “You chirped, where is he?!”

Mark Greene followed, wild-eyed and out of breath. “We heard it! Is he—?!”

Then Benton, cool and silent, stalked in behind them like an avenging falcon, sleeves rolled up and ready to throw hands.

All three men froze.

Carter was sitting calmly.

Weaver was kneeling next to him.

Neither looked hurt.

Doug blinked. “Wait… what?”

Mark stared. “You’re… you’re okay?”

Benton frowned. “Why were you chirping?”

Carter wiped his face and gave a watery laugh. “I—I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”

Doug squinted. “But she didn’t yell at you?”

Weaver stood slowly. “Gentlemen,” she said, dryly, “I appreciate the cavalry charge. But unless you plan to replace the hinges you just destroyed—”

Mark held up his hands. “Right. Sorry. We thought he was—”

“Eaten,” Doug offered. “Emotionally.”

Carter chuckled again.

Weaver turned to him. “Do you feel safe, Dr. Carter?”

He nodded, cheeks pink. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Doug’s wings relaxed. “Well… damn. Good.”

Mark looked relieved. Benton just crossed his arms and said, “Next time, chirp louder.”

Doug nodded solemnly. “Yeah, buddy. We’ll come crashing through the roof if we have to.”

Weaver raised a brow. “Please don’t.”

Carter stood, brushing off his coat. “Thanks, guys.”

Weaver stepped back, but gave Carter one last looksoft, quiet, strong.

“If anyone questions your wings or you chirping she said, “you send them to me.”

Carter smiled.

Doug clapped him on the back. “Our baby bird’s growing up.”

“I’m not a baby,” Carter muttered.

“You chirped,” Benton said. “You’re a baby.”

“Hey!” Carter protested, laughing now.

They left the officefour men, one bond, three ridiculous sets of feathers—leaving behind a very dignified, slightly exasperated Weaver, who shut the door softly and shook her head.

But her feathers…

Were still just a little ruffled.

Just enough to show she cared.

Chapter Text

County General had settled into that strange evening lull — not quite quiet, but with just enough breathing room that conversations carried across the admit desk and the coffee pot in the lounge sputtered in a way that made you think about whether it was worth pouring another cup.

It was also the time of night when Carter was operating on autopilot.

Not the crisp, “model-resident” autopilot that Kerry Weaver would be proud of, but the bleary-eyed, wing-dragging, half-stumbling, “I’ve had three hours of sleep in two days” variety. He’d been running traumas, doing admits, and helping Weaver track down labs all day. His feathers looked a little ruffled — literally — and his head was drooping in a way that made him resemble a very tired barn owl.

Doug Ross spotted him first from the admit desk.
“Mark,” Doug said quietly, nudging Greene with his elbow. “You see our resident over there? He’s doing that thing again.”

Mark followed Doug’s gaze. Carter was standing in the middle of the hallway, chart in hand, staring at a wall like it had just told him an emotionally compelling story. His wings hung low enough that the tips brushed the tile.
“Yeah,” Mark muttered. “He’s seconds away from face-planting.”

Doug smirked. “Should we—”
“Yes,” Mark cut him off before Doug could even suggest it.

They approached Carter like two large cats stalking a very confused, tired, and frankly adorable bird. Carter didn’t even notice them until Doug’s hand landed on his shoulder.
“Hey, baby bird,” Doug said, voice far too cheerful for Carter’s current mental state. “Time to roost.”

Carter blinked, head tilting. “I’m fine.”

Mark arched an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. You look fine. If ‘fine’ means about five minutes away from collapsing in Trauma One.”

“I’m not—hey!” Carter squawked — actually squawked — when Doug casually slid an arm around his waist and Mark grabbed him under the other arm.

They lifted him clean off the floor before he could even attempt to argue further. His wings gave an indignant twitch.
“This is completely unnecessary,” Carter complained, dangling between them. “I’m perfectly capable of—”
“You were just staring at a wall for thirty seconds,” Mark interrupted.
“It was… an important wall,” Carter mumbled.

Doug grinned. “You’re lucky we like you. Other attendings might just let you collapse.”

They started down the hall toward the lounge, ignoring Carter’s halfhearted attempts to wiggle free. His feet brushed the floor now and then, but neither man loosened their grip.
“I can walk,” Carter tried again.
“You had your chance,” Doug replied. “Flight’s been cancelled for the evening, Captain.”

Mark added, “Ground crew’s taking over.”

Several nurses paused to watch the procession. Haleh leaned against the desk, smirking. “Looks like somebody’s getting carried to bed again.”

Carter’s ears flushed bright red. “It’s not— This isn’t—”
“Yup,” Doug said without looking back, “totally normal fledgling transport procedure.”

When they reached the lounge, Doug nudged the door open with his hip and they deposited Carter on the couch. His wings immediately sprawled across the cushions, tips fluttering in fatigue.

Mark crouched down in front of him. “When’s the last time you actually rested?”
Carter avoided his eyes. “I sat down during lunch.”
“Uh-huh,” Doug said from the coffee pot. “And how long was lunch?”
“…Three minutes?” Carter admitted.

Doug returned with a cup of decaf and set it on the table. “Drink that, then you’re grounded. No flying, no running traumas, no charting for at least thirty minutes.”

“I can’t just—” Carter started, but Mark gave him that quiet, steady look that brooked no argument.
“John. Sit. Rest. That’s an order.”

Something in Carter’s shoulders eased at that. He reached for the coffee, muttering under his breath, “You guys are ridiculous.”

Doug smirked and dropped into the armchair. “Yeah, but we keep our baby bird from falling out of the nest.”

Carter shot him a look but didn’t bother denying it. His eyes were already drifting shut, wings twitching in small, instinctive adjustments as he started to relax.

By the time Benton poked his head in ten minutes later, Carter was out cold on the couch, curled on his side, feathers splayed in every direction. Mark and Doug sat nearby, guarding him like overprotective sentinels.

Benton raised an eyebrow. “You two planning on hovering all night?”
Doug grinned. “Maybe. Somebody’s gotta keep him from flying into walls.”

Mark just shrugged. “It’s a full-time job.”

And Carter, blissfully unaware, stayed asleep — right where they’d put him.

Chapter Text

Carter woke slowly, groggy in that foggy way that meant he’d actually gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep — rare in the ER, rarer still with his wings bothering him the way they had been lately. He stretched a little, his feathers rustling against the sheets, then rolled to his side and froze.

Doug Ross was sitting in the visitor’s chair, chin propped in one hand, the other resting loosely on his knee. He was awake, but barely, his eyes half-lidded in that “I haven’t slept but don’t argue with me” sort of way.

And Mark Greene was right there too — leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, watching him like Carter was some fragile chick in a nest that couldn’t be left alone for five seconds.
Carter blinked, then blinked again. “Um. Did you guys… sleep here?”

Doug immediately perked up like a watchdog. “No.”
Mark shot him a look. “Yes.”

Doug squinted. “I was resting my eyes.”

“On my intern’s door,” Mark muttered, rolling his eyes.

Carter sat up slowly, ruffling his wings and grimacing when one of the still-healing joints protested. He tried to play it off, but both men noticed instantly. Of course they did.

Doug leaned forward, concern written across his face. “How’s the wing?”

Carter flapped it a little, the feathers dragging across the blanket. “Feels like a wing.”

Mark arched a brow. “That supposed to be an answer?”

Carter looked between the two of them, realizing in growing horror that they weren’t joking — they were really still here. Like… all night here. Hovering. Babysitting.
“Oh my god,” Carter groaned, dragging a pillow over his face. His voice came out muffled. “I have two giant mother hens.”

Doug grinned instantly. “Mother hen? I was going for rugged protector. Maybe like… falcon?”
“Falcons don’t hover,” Mark deadpanned.
“Neither do hens,” Doug shot back.
“They do when they’re Carter’s colleagues,” Mark said, then smirked in Carter’s direction.

Carter peeked out from under the pillow, cheeks pink. “You guys don’t have to—”

“Yeah, we do,” Doug cut in immediately. “You’ve been dragging around here half-dead for days, tripping over your wings like they weigh more than you do. You think we didn’t notice?”

Mark nodded, tone softer but just as firm. “You’re not exactly subtle, Carter.”

Carter’s feathers puffed up a little — embarrassed, defensive, but also touched in a way he wasn’t ready to admit. He rubbed his face. “Great. So, the ER doesn’t just see me as ‘the baby intern,’ now I’m ‘the baby bird.’”

Doug’s grin widened. “Hey, it fits. You kinda peep when you’re upset.”

“I do not—” Carter started indignantly, but the tips of his ears went scarlet, betraying him instantly.

Mark tilted his head, dead serious. “You do. Once in the lounge. And once yesterday when you tripped over your wing and almost faceplanted into the chart rack.”

Carter groaned and flopped back dramatically. “I hate both of you.”

Doug chuckled, leaning back in the chair. “You’ll get over it. You always do.” He softened, his voice losing some of its playful edge. “Look, kid. Nobody’s laughing at you. Not really. We’re just… worried. You’ve been through hell. You don’t bounce back from that overnight.”

Carter shifted uncomfortably, feathers ruffling again. He didn’t have a good comeback for that.
Mark pushed off the wall, walking closer. “Doug’s right. You’ve been carrying this weight like you’re supposed to do it alone. But you’re not. Not anymore.”

There was a long pause, Carter staring at his hands in his lap, wings drooping slightly. It was hard to look either of them in the eye.

Finally, quietly, he muttered, “You’re not gonna let me fight this on my own, are you?”

“Nope,” Doug said instantly, cheerful. “Get used to it, Birdie.”

“Birdie?” Carter repeated, scandalized.

Mark smirked. “Could’ve been worse. Doug wanted to call you ‘Chickadee.’”

Doug held up both hands, mock-defensive. “I still think it’s fitting.”

Carter groaned again, feathers fluffing as he pulled the blanket over his head. “I’m never living this down.”

Mark tugged the blanket gently back down so Carter’s face peeked out. His tone was steady, gentle, almost fatherly. “No. You’re not. But you’re also not going to be left behind. We’ve got you, Carter. Whether you like it or not.”

Carter swallowed hard, trying not to let the sting in his eyes show. He nodded once. “Okay.”

Doug reached over, ruffling his hair like he was five. “Good baby bird.”

Carter swatted his hand away, sputtering. “Doug!”

Mark just laughed, the sound warm and rare.
For the first time in a long while, Carter didn’t feel like he was about to fall.

Chapter Text

Carter woke to the sound of voices drifting through the curtain, low but animated — the ER never really stopped humming. His first thought was that maybe he’d overslept and missed rounds again, but then he shifted, feathers brushing against stiff sheets, and remembered where he was: the on-call room.
Correction. The on-call room currently occupied by him and two full-grown men who refused to leave his bedside.

Mark Greene was slouched against the chair, neck bent at a sharp angle that looked painful just to see. His glasses had slid halfway down his nose, and one hand dangled off the armrest, still faintly twitching whenever Carter moved — as if he were ready to catch him mid-fall, even in his sleep.

Doug Ross, on the other hand, had zero shame. He was sprawled sideways across the end of the cot like he owned it, head resting against Carter’s covered legs, one arm flung out protectively, like he thought Carter was about to roll off the bed and escape.
Carter stared up at the ceiling. “...You two are unbelievable.”

Neither stirred.

He shifted again, rustling his wings, trying not to laugh. Doug made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snore, then mumbled, “...don’t let the baby bird fly too soon...”

Carter’s face went red. He glanced at Mark, silently praying he hadn’t heard it. But then Mark’s mouth twitched in his sleep a smile.

“Oh my God,” Carter whispered. “I’m doomed.”

He tried to sit up quietly, but the weight of Doug’s arm across his lap made it impossible. His feathers twitched irritably. “You know, nests are supposed to be for birds. Not a full-grown man and his... overgrown parents.”

“Parents?” Doug’s voice croaked, not even opening his eyes. “That’s insulting, Carter. I’m clearly the cool older brother. Mark’s the dad.”

Mark stirred, adjusted his glasses, and gave Carter a dry look. “I’m not the dad.”

“Yeah, you are,” Doug shot back instantly, eyes still half-shut. “Look at you. Glasses, tired sighs, disappointed glares. Total dad vibe.”

Carter buried his face in his hands. “Please stop talking about me like I’m... like I’m some kind of—”

“—baby bird?” Mark and Doug said in unison.

He groaned.

It only got worse when Susan poked her head into the room later that morning.

“Hey, Carter, you up?” she asked brightly, then froze at the sight of him pinned between Mark and Doug. “Oh my God. Look at this. Look at this.”

“Don’t,” Carter warned, wings puffing slightly in embarrassment.

Susan grinned. “Too late. This is precious.”

She stepped inside, tilting her head like she was observing a rare exhibit at the zoo. “You know, you actually do look like a little fledgling in the nest. Surrounded by the big protectors.”

“I’m not a fledgling.”

“Yes, you are.”

Before Carter could argue further, Kerry Weaver arrived, cane tapping against the floor as she pushed the door open without ceremony. Her wings, a rich copper-gold, caught the fluorescent light, sharp and commanding everything about her screamed authority.

“Dr. Carter, we need you back on—” She stopped. Her eyes flicked over the scene: Carter trapped on the cot, Mark and Doug stationed like guards, Susan grinning like a cat with cream.

“Oh,” Kerry said flatly. “I see.”

Carter wanted the ground to swallow him whole. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Yes, it is,” Susan cut in gleefully. “He’s nesting.”

“Nesting?” Kerry arched an eyebrow.

“It’s not nesting,” Carter muttered. “I was just... tired, and they—”

“Sat on you?” Kerry’s tone was bone-dry.
Doug stretched lazily, completely unapologetic.

“Somebody’s gotta keep the kid from face-planting again.”

Mark rubbed his eyes. “And if we leave him, he broods. Or trips over his wings. Or both.”

Kerry’s expression softened, almost imperceptibly. Her gaze lingered on Carter — on the way his feathers still dragged, dull at the tips, how his shoulders slumped like lifting them took too much energy. Something flickered in her face: sympathy.

“Well,” Kerry said after a pause, voice quieter. “Every fledgling needs a nest.”

Carter’s head snapped up, startled. His chest tightened, unsure if she was teasing or... serious.
Susan practically beamed. “See? Even Kerry agrees.”
“God,” Carter muttered. His wings drooped. “I’m never going to live this down.”

The rest of the shift only confirmed his suspicions.
Wherever he went, there was always someone — Doug leaning against the admit desk, Mark hovering by the lounge, Susan circling like she had radar, Kerry keeping a sharp eye even while running trauma. It wasn’t just hovering. It was flocking.
At one point, Malik leaned over to Lydia and whispered, “They’re like guard birds.”

Carter caught it. His feathers fluffed in protest. “I can hear you, you know.”

Lydia smirked. “Relax, honey. You’ve got yourself a whole nest of watchdogs. Be grateful.”

“I don’t need a nest,” Carter insisted.

But when he tripped over his wings again later, nearly knocking over a cart of supplies, it was Susan who steadied him, Doug who muttered “baby bird” under his breath, and Mark who guided him back upright without a word. Kerry, of course, only gave him that piercing look, the kind that said she knew more than she let on.

And Carter realized with a strange ache in his chest that whether he admitted it or not, he had one now.

A flock.

A nest.

Family.

Even if they drove him crazy.

Chapter Text

The ER had quieted to its usual late-night hum. The chaos of the day was behind them, and for once, the trauma rooms were clean, the monitors steady, and the staff settled into charting or taking coffee breaks in small clusters.

Carter was curled up on one of the worn couches in the lounge, his wings heavy against the cushions. They still dragged when he walked, no matter how much he tried to hold them up. He’d given up for the evening, letting the long, ragged feathers spread out around him like a tattered blanket.

He wasn’t asleep not really but his eyes were half-closed, his chin tucked into his chest. He looked younger like that, and softer, the lines of worry he usually carried melted into the slouch of a fledgling just trying to stay warm.

The door swung open, and Benton walked in.

“Carter,” Benton said, not unkindly.

Carter startled upright, feathers twitching. He blinked, tried to sit straighter, brushing at his lab coat like he hadn’t been half-dozing. “Oh. Dr. Benton. Hey. Uh, sorry. I was just…” He gestured vaguely at the couch. “…resting my… wings.”

Benton raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Resting your wings, huh? That what we’re calling napping on the job now?”

Carter gave a sheepish grin. “It’s… medically necessary.”

Benton snorted, shaking his head, but he didn’t leave. Instead, he pulled out a chair and sat across from him, leaning forward on his elbows. For a long moment, they just sat in the hum of the vending machine, the faint clatter of a keyboard outside the lounge.

Finally, Benton said, “You’ve been dragging them again.”

Carter’s smile faltered. He looked down, picking at the hem of his sleeve. “…It’s easier than pretending I’m fine.”

That surprised Benton. Carter wasn’t usually so blunt.

“Who says you have to pretend?” Benton asked carefully.

Carter gave a little shrug, his wings shifting with the movement. “I used to think I could fix it. That maybe if I worked hard enough, if I trained… they’d come back. But it’s been years. My father, my grandfather… they made sure I’d never fly. And sometimes I think… what’s the point of having wings if you can’t use them?”

His voice cracked at the end, soft and young, and it made Benton’s chest tighten.

Benton leaned forward, steady. “The point, Carter, is you. You’re still here. Wings or no wings.”

Carter ducked his head, embarrassed. “I know. Everyone’s been… so protective lately. Like I’ve got a whole flock watching me.” He tried to laugh. “Doug, Mark, Susan, Kerry — I can’t even trip over a chair without someone swooping in like I’m about to break in half. And you…”

Benton arched a brow. “Me?”

“You don’t… hover. You just sit there. You watch. You… let me breathe. And I don’t know if I need that more or if it scares me more.”

For once, Benton didn’t scold him for rambling. He sat with it. Then, softer than Carter expected, he said, “Maybe you need both.”

Carter blinked at him, throat tight. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then let out the tiniest sound.
It was a quiet chirp. Barely audible. Instinctive.
His eyes went wide, mortified. “I—oh God—did I just—? That wasn’t—forget it—”

Benton didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Instead, he made a sound of his own — low, steady, a kind of answering trill that wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough. It was a sound a parent would use to sooth their fledgling to sleep.

Carter froze. His wings twitched, then shivered, feathers fluffing like he couldn’t control it.
“You…” Carter whispered, his voice cracking. “…you answered.”

Benton gave the smallest nod. “You needed it.”
Carter swallowed hard, blinking fast. He looked away, wiping at his eyes quickly like maybe Benton hadn’t noticed. His chest felt tight, but not in the bad way. In the way that meant something inside him had cracked open, letting in warmth. Benton moved closer wrapped his arms and wings around Carter.

For the first time in years, Carter didn’t feel broken.
He felt… safe.

They sat in silence after that, Benton grounded and steady in his chair, Carter with his feathers still puffed out around him. The ER noise hummed beyond the walls, but in here, it felt like a nest.
Carter finally let his body relax again, letting the exhaustion wash over him. He leaned back against the couch, and just before sleep tugged him down, he murmured, “Thanks, Dr. Benton.”

Benton didn’t answer right away. Then, in the quiet, he made one more soft bird sound.

Carter smiled in his sleep.

And for the first time in a long, long time — he felt like he belonged.