Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Having wings wasn’t too uncommon of a trait. Some people had blonde hair, some had green eyes, and some, like Randall, had wings.

They weren’t proper. Not by any means. Clunky little things that sprouted out of his back one random night.

Randall had been achy all day, back twinging and shifting and the boy could just feel something shifting underneath his skin. It was awful, to say the least.

Inevitably, Henry found him curled up on the floor in a pool of his own blood with two big lumps of flesh coming out of his back. His friend hadn’t asked any questions, just cleaned up all the blood and kindly ignored all of Randall’s pitiful attempts to help.

Despite all the hiding and hoping and praying he’d never have to exit his room, eventually he had to walk down the stairs and present his shame to his parents.

As it turns out, Randall’s mother was an avian as well. Well, she might have been. At the very least, she was the only person in her family who didn’t end up sprouting wings. They hadn’t thought to tell Randall it was a possibility, if only because he was a late bloomer. Most avians present in late childhood, but some can sprout wings as early as 7 or late as 16.

Lord Ascot wasn’t so keen on letting him keep the wings, but enough begging and pleading from his wife allowed their son to keep the ugly things. The alternative would be binding them to his back so they wouldn’t be seen, or chopping them off entirely. It wouldn’t do for such an affluent family to have a hybrid in their midst. Not too many people in Stansbury had wings. And Randall wasn’t ever allowed to interact with those who did, as his father found them uncouth. As the downy feathers grew in, the ginger could only imagine what his father thought of them.

Being nearly fourteen, Randall’s brain didn’t quite work the way it would have if he had some semblance of cognitive function. Thus, he found it a brilliant idea to find his way onto the roof and try to fly.

He’d been on the roof a number of times, by proxy of being unable to leave the grounds but still needing to escape from the house. It felt different with wings. The feeling of wings in his feathers was entirely exhilarating, like nothing he’d ever felt before.

Heart racing, he called down to Henry, “I’m gonna jump now!”

Henry, who insisted on following him and making sure he didn’t break his neck, just held the first aid kit closer to his chest, “Are you sure that this is a good idea, Master Randall?”

He waves the blond off, flaps his wings experimentally, and then proceeds to swan dive off the roof and collapse into a large heap of feathers.

Randall didn’t try that stunt again. Henry had been punished severely for allowing him to do it, and that was enough to keep the ginger grounded. His brother in everything but blood shouldn’t be punished for Randall’s stupidity.

But the feeling lingered in his chest. The whip of the wind in his hair and the glide of it against his wings. If only he’d thought to spread his wings and flap.

Within a few weeks, his wings began to feel odd. The feathers were shedding and falling out, and in between every few were these spiky pins that bled if he tried pulling them out, so eventually Randall stopped yanking at them. He did pick at the feathers that he could, but it didn’t soothe the itchiness that grew in the back.

“.. Might I ask what you’re doing?”

“Uhh…”

Well, Henry had caught him rolling around on the ground in an attempt to get his wings to stop itching. The ginger quickly gets to his feet and tries to look natural. “Did you need something?”

“Your father requested that I ask you to keep your volume down. He can hear you from his study.”

Randall rouges. Lord only knows what his father thought he was doing if the racket was audible through the floor.

“Is there anything that I can do to assist you?”

Finally biting the bullet, he flaps his wings for emphasis and asks for help.

Which is how Henry ends up preening his wings for the very first time. It was awkward, filled with long pauses and his servant acting as if Randall’s wings were made of glass. At one point, Randall’s wings twitched and smacked the other boy in the face. But eventually they got the hang of it. After adventures, they’d go home and Henry would fix up his wings. Pull out loose or broken feathers, get out any trapped debris, and straighten all the feathers that got out of place.

Eventually all the downy feathers were replaced with sleek white feathers, and he got marginally better at controlling them. The wings always had a mind of their own, puffing up if he was angry or scared or distressed, and instinctively flaring out when he felt in danger. This had a downside in that he ended up wearing his heart on his sleeve, or rather on his wings, even more than he already tended to do.

Alphonse started calling him chicken boy because Randall’s wings fluffed up every time he said it. Jerk.

Randall wasn’t a chicken. He was something far more elegant and refined. Like a swan.

When the ginger was 14, a new family came into town. The Laytons. And Randall hoped and prayed that the new boy in their class would be normal about his wings, because there was always a chance that new people would gawk at Randall like he was a freak of nature.

As if they hadn’t ever seen a boy with wings. Come on.

But Hershel ended up being startlingly normal about them. He watched, certainly, but it was more in passive interest than in a way that made Randall feel self-conscious.

Years down the line, when he’d prodded for answers, Hershel didn’t have an answer as to why.

“I’m not quite sure why.”

“Well there must be a reason. Have you known any other avians?”

Hershel didn’t even look up. “Not to my knowledge.”

Pressing more doesn’t work any better, as the brunet doesn’t seem to really know. The most he gets is an ‘I suppose I might have known someone at some point.’

Even though Hershel had rapidly risen through the ranks to become his best friend, and he had begun to date Angela, Henry remained the only one he allowed to preen his wings. Which wasn’t to say that he didn’t trust his other friends! Just that having them behind him and touching his wings made him bristle.

Hershel seemed to do it on instinct, adjusting his feathers when they were crooked, but he always apologized when Randall would startle.

Angela on the other hand, couldn’t seem to stop herself from petting him on occasion.

Not that he minded, particularly, but it only really felt nice when Henry would do it. The blond had the years of experience where it only felt natural to let him.

Preening was nice. It was relaxing in a way that he couldn’t replicate with any other experience, and it almost made him feel sleepy or like he was melting down into his nest. The sensation was akin to having a fog settle over his mind.

It was in this state of mind that more of his avian traits seemed to present themselves. Randall wouldn’t be able to help but make all sorts of noises. Chirps, tweets, and whatever other hums that felt the need to escape his throat. It was also when settling in the nest with Henry that he felt the need to adjust it or fix Henry’s hair in turn.

Sometimes, whenever he worked up the courage to ask, Randall’s mother would give him anecdotes about her siblings and avian culture. She taught him the words for his behavior and excused what he assumed to be eccentricities.

When he asked about the chirping and only letting Henry preen him where it was uncomfortable with others, his mother explained that Randall’s brain had likely associated the two boys as nestmates.

“Your bird brain,” She punctuates the thought with a tap to the ginger’s unruly hair, “thinks that Henry is your brother. It’s probably just because the two of you grew up together. You probably won’t be comfortable with anyone else preening you until you find a pretty girl to marry.”

His bit his tongue to stop himself from mentioning that he and Angela were dating. She might already suspect, but if Randall’s father got word of it then he’d surely get an earful about fraternizing.

Lord Ascot, on the other hand, hated reminders that his son wasn’t a full blooded human. On the rare occasion that he made his way to Randall’s room, he became furious about the ‘mess.’ Both at Randall for making his nest, and at his staff for not cleaning it up. The ginger didn’t have the words to explain that it was organized chaos. The nest was something that just felt right to him in a way that sleeping in his bed did not. The blankets were piled around in such a way that it was comfortable to sleep in with his wings.

He’d put everything away under the threat of his father returning, and once he was in the clear it would all return to the floor to become a nest again.

The very last night that Henry preened him was before his and Hershel’s trip to Akbadain.

“You’ll surely get sand in your feathers down in Thornley’s Gorge.”

A subtle prod.

“I’ll be fine, Hen. And then you can get all the dirt out once we’re back.”

And god was Randall so glad he’d been preened before they left, because by the time they were into the ruins he’s certain there was enough sand trapped to flood a city if he decided to shake them out.

By the time they’d finished fighting their way through a room full of mummies, thanks in part to Randall knocking them off course with his wings, the ginger was very nearly in tears.

“Randall, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” He flaps his wings again to no avail. Why was sand so itchy? Why did it have to get everywhere?

“You keep flapping your wings.”

“Yeah. I do it on purpose. I’m very much intentional with my wing flapping, thank you very much.” Maybe if he kept talking enough, Hershel wouldn’t get a word in before they found the treasure. “I love flapping my wings. It’s my favorite passtime. I’ve got to get strong enough to fly, you know, and that takes some practice-”

“-Randall, we both know your wings can’t hold your weight-”

“-so I’m practicing in the mean time so someday it’ll be bye-bye, Stansbury! I’ll fly all the way to London, and I won’t ever need a car or train because-”

“-Randall, you-”

“-my wings will be so strong that I could fly for hours on end, and-”

“Randall!”

The grip on his wrists is what cut him off from his near shouting to drown Hershel out, and he quiets with a frown.

“Is it your wings?”

Randall shakes them again. It’s futile.

“They’re itchy.” He confessed.

And that’s how they ended up rolling out the sleeping bad Hershel had packed so that the brunet could try straightening out Randall’s feathers.

It wasn’t the same as it was with Henry, but it wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. Not bad. Just different. Once his avian brain figured out that the boy behind him wasn’t secretly going to harm him, the alarm bells in his head quit ringing and his feathers flattened enough to let Hershel maneuver them back into place.

He wasn’t as delicate as Randall’s servant, but that was to be expected.

Randall shook off the pleasant fog once his wings were in a fine enough place, and then they’re back on the journey.

The smell of fresh air and the rush of water alerted him to the end of their struggle, but he had little time to marvel at the verdant beauty of their surroundings before the floor beneath their feet is falling and the only thing keeping him from the depths of the ravine is a sweaty grip on his wrist.

“Drop the mask!”

Hershel begged over and over as Randall flapped his wings. He just had to gain enough momentum to get them both up over the edge, and then it would all be worth it.

Randall didn’t need to give the other hand if he could just make the useless limbs on his back work harder, damnit!

A particularly strong beat of his wings almost unbalances Hershel, and that’s when it clicks.

It’s not going to work. The added weight of his wings means that Hershel wouldn’t be able to pull him up. His wings weren’t strong enough to fly, let alone get enough air to get himself over the edge.

All he was doing by clinging to Hershel was dragging him down. Literally.

“Take the mask.”

He holds the golden treasure up to his friend, up to the light. Hershel was smart. He’d know what to do with it.

Hershel’s grip slips, and then Randall plummets.

For a moment, he’s 14 again, and there’s a temporary weightlessness that comes before his sense of self preservation kicks in and he starts to flap like his life depends on it.

It does.

But all it does is twist him around and disorient which way is meant to be up, and the mask remains in his grip the whole time.

And then there is darkness.

Chapter Text

Months after his accident were spent in a fugue as he recovered.

He could hardly remember a thing from that time. There was a lot of confusion, unanswered questions, and resounding blank spaces.

The man taking care of him was named Tannenbaum. He was a jovial man, never sparing an opportunity to have a laugh. He remained an everpresent optimistic presence at his side.

The boy learned things once at a time. Tannenbaum had a farm. They were in Craggy Dale. He had been found on the bank of the stream that ran through Tannenbaum’s land.

“It’s a darn miracle that you washed up with those wings weighin’ ye down.”

They quickly figured out that the winged boy had some severe amnesia, likely due to the injury to his head.

Tannenbaum never let him look at it, but judging by the amount of gauze used to wrap around his head, it must have been bad.

The older man let him choose a name for himself from a big book.

“Since ye’ve got no name, ye might as well choose one.”

Nothing really ended up sticking. Quentin and Timothy and Robert and Jaime.

“We could call ye River.” Tannenbaum had sat by his side at the bed as he ran his fingers over the pages. “Cause that’s where ye came from.”

“I’d rather not have a major accident be immortalized in my name, thank you.” He responds on impulse, then bites his tongue. Tannenbaum was being so nice, and he just had to be rude about it. Nice going.

“Ho ho! Ye’ve got some snark in ye.” But the man just chortles and pats him on the back. “That’s good. How about ah jus’ call ye ma boy then?”

That was what ended up sticking for the next 18 years. He was Tannenbaum’s lad. The boy that came from the river. The boy with the wings.

Some part of him knew that he wasn’t like everyone else, but it was still disappointing to find no one else with wings.

“It jus’ makes you unique, lad.”

But unique didn’t mean that he knew how to handle all the challenges that came with being the only avian he knew. Tannenbaum didn’t know much either.

“Yer making a nest out of yer bed, ye know?”

The boy freezes.

He hadn’t realized, but sometime when he’d gotten comfortable, he’d begun to adjust his blankets to better accommodate his wings when he lays down.

“Oh. Sorry.”

On instinct, he trills and makes the bed, then clamps his mouth shut at the chirps that want to escape.

He’s made some in his free time, when he was alone in the room, but with Tannenbaum here it didn’t feel safe to vocalize.

“Is that a birdie thing, lad?”

“I think so.”

“Then ye don’t have tae stop. Even if it weren’t a birdie thing, it’s not hurting anyone. I was jus’ askin’.”

The first time the boy molted around his host, he’d nearly given the man a heart attack.

“Lad, are ye stressed out?”

The man springs the question over a bowl of soup at night.

“Hm?”

“Am ah doin’ something wrong?”

“No, no. Why would you think that?” He feels his wings puff.

“Yer droppin feathers all the time, just like that.” He points to where a primary feather was floating to the ground. The boy leans down to pick it up and put it in his lap.

“Oh, I didn’t notice. I can clean them all up.”

“That’s not what ah’m worried about, lad. Are ye supposed to be losing them so fast?”

“Yeah?”

“Are ye sure? Ah talked t’a friend o’ mine, and she said ‘at birdies lose lotsa feathers when they’re stressed. Wanted tae make sure ye’re feeling comfortable here.”

The boy takes a moment to process, looking at his wings under the light. There’s a bubble of a memory that resides just outside of his grasp, but the word comes to mind. “I’m molting.”

“What’s ‘at?”

He chirps as he tries to find a way to describe it to someone who’s neither owned a bird nor lived with an avian. “Twice a year, all my feathers fall out and get replaced with new ones. I’ll try to not make a mess.”

“She also said birdies pull out their feathers when stressed.”

“Do I pull out my feathers?”

“Well, ye comb through ‘em and take ‘em out.”

“That’s preening.”

“A birdie thing, eh?”

“Yeah.”

Tannenbaum did end up calling in an avian doctor from out of town anyway a few months later. “Jus’ t’be sure. I dunno much about birdies.”

And the conclusion was that the boy was healthy, if not a little abnormal.

“Your wings appear to be a bit weak. Didn’t you develop the muscles to hold them up?” The pretentious man peers at the avian after he makes the boy walk back and forth across the floor.

“What?”

“Your wings drag along the floor.”

As if the boy hadn’t noticed. The bottoms of his wings always picked up dirt and dust and sand, especially since he’d started helping Tannenbaum out in the fields. It was an effort to keep the appendages in check, so often he just let them do whatever they wanted. The only people that ever seemed to gawk were people from out of town. Craggy Dale didn’t have many tourists, and it was a very small farming village. With the stir at his arrival and how often he traveled into town, there was hardly a person who he could say hadn’t ever heard of him.

The doctor also found it odd that he couldn’t glide, said his wings were ‘smaller than they should be’, and made a comment on his wingspan.

The avian didn’t much like the doctor. But Tannenbaum seemed eager enough for any knowledge at all that he could get his hands on.

He went into the visit a tad uncertain, and he came out pissed off with a whole host of new stretching techniques.

Apparently his wings would forever be too underdeveloped to really take off from the ground. However, if he got the muscles working and maintained, the avian could do a sustained glide.

The boy always ended up surprised when Tannenbaum put in any effort to understand his avian nature. That in turn surprised himself.

His patterns of thought perplexed him. Wherever he came from, surely there would have been more avians. It’s hard to have an avian child without at least one avian. Maybe he had one avian parent and they died? Or maybe he was an orphan or something? Why didn’t he know how to use his wings?

Why was he so surprised that Tannenbaum, who rapidly became something like a father to him, cared? Why was he nearly brought to tears when the man’s trip out of town yielded books on avians. Every new fact had him calling his boy over to share.

“D’ye mind if ah try preenin’ ye?”

“Hm?”

“The book says ‘at birdies like ye cannae always reach ta feathers at yer back. And ye usually let a siblin’ or lover dae it fer ye. But when ye’re a wee lad yer parents dae it, aye?”

“Aye?” He mimics, vaguely confused. Was that normal? The boy doesn’t think he’s ever heard of that.

“Well, unless ye’re livin’ some secret life I don’ know about, there’s nae one else ye’d like ta preen ye?”

That was true, he thinks as he idly starts fixing up his feathers. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him, but he didn’t really feel a connection with anyone. There were a few younger kids that he watched over occasionally, but their favorite pastime was trying to pluck him like a chicken.

He couldn’t figure out why he bristled with indignation as one of the kids said he looked like one.

None of the girls in town interested him. Not that there was anything wrong with them, but the ginger just didn’t feel like trying to make a pass at any of them.

He was content with being Tannenbaum’s boy. His place was at the farm, helping out the man who saved him.

“I don’t mind.”

There was a broken feather in a spot he couldn’t reach anyway.

The two of them are on the couch together already. The boy was stretching out his wings like the doctor said, extending them until they twinged with discomfort, then holding it. Tannenbaum had been reading and making little hrms and hums and chuffs as he learned.

He has no problem in twisting around and flopping himself down in Tannenbaum’s lap. It feels natural, but the older man seems to be at a loss for what to do.

“Just straighten the crooked ones and pull out any feathers that are broken.”

The hands on his wings are remarkably gentle for having such a rough texture. They're worn and calloused from working the farm his whole life, yet every time that his boy so much as twitches, Tannenbaum tenses like he’s committed some great sin.

“Ye’re alright, lad?”

“Yeah.”

It feels like he’s melting into a puddle. The man’s not exactly precise, but he’s gentle, and that's all the avian wants. He trills lowly, unable to help but express his contentment in some way.

“Ye know, when ye washed up on ta shore ah thought ye might’ve been an angel.”

“Aye?”

“Aye. Never had a wife or child, and thought it’d jus’ be me an’ ta animals till I die. But with ye ah’ve found maself a son. Must’ve been a sign from ta heavens, aye?”

If only a sign didn’t have to come in the form of losing nearly two decades of memories. The boy doesn’t say that, though.

“Aye. I’m glad that you’re the one who found me. You’re the angel if anything, ‘cause you’re the one that saved me.”

“Aye?”

“Aye.”

And if the avian heard his father begin to sniffle, he didn’t say a word.

Chapter Text

All it took was one little letter to change everything.

He was no longer just Tannenbaum’s boy, the one from the river. He wasn’t the young man with the wings.

He was Randall Ascot. A phoenix.

Descole was his savior. A brilliant man who’d found his ashes and reanimated them. He’d breathed life into Randall’s lungs and made him whole.

And Descole was ever so kind. Ever so patient. He understood Randall’s frustration, his ire, and helped him to channel it into his new persona. A man born of chaos and fire and flame that would burn Monte D’or to the ground.

Perhaps not burn, considering their plan for his final miracle.

The thought tickles him. In just half an hour, Randall could undo 18 years of labor. Nature would reclaim that which was stolen from him.

He didn’t know much about his savior. Just that some investigation and empathy led him to connect the dots between Randall’s disappearance and the sudden appearance of a young adult with amnesia in Craggy Dale.

It was more work than anyone from his hometown had done. Descole seemed to care more than any of them.

His girlfriend married his butler, who’d taken credit for his discoveries, and his so-called ‘best friend’ skipped town and took his future.

Liars and thieves, the lot of them.

“You’re pacing.”

“Am not.”

Descole looks up from his book, and the avian gets the distinct impression that the man is raising an eyebrow.

For such a flat affect and a mask over his eyes, Descole was surprisingly expressive.

Most of that expressiveness came out with exasperation at Randall’s behavior and snide remarks. The ginger doesn’t mind. It’s real, and that’s all he asks for.

Randall perches in the armchair and chirps. His savior coughs and snaps, “Didn’t I tell you to quit that infernal chirping? You’re not a bird.”

“Technically, I am. Half-bird, that is.”

Venom and irritation drips from Descole’s words, “Well then, shall I find a cage for you? Shall I shove seeds into your mouth until you finally shut your mouth? Shall I clip those pretty wings of yours?”

Randall is definitely toeing the line, so he reels himself in and looks the other way. His acquiescence earns him an irritated but pleased huff. He can’t help himself, however, and mumbles, “You think my wings are pretty?”

Descole storms out. He returns later with a half-apology and a plan for the next miracle.

That’s how it tends to go. Randall pushes, and pushes, and pushes, and Descole snaps in some way or another and leaves.

But he always comes back eventually. Despite everything, despite all of Randall’s shortcomings, Descole never leaves.

Despite everything, he takes care of Randall.

“Hey, what are you-”

“Stand still, you’ve got glitter in your feathers.”

Randall does not, in fact, stand still. He squirms and beats his wings out of pure instinct, because the man’s hands are on his wings and he’s standing right behind him, and-

“I said quit it.” Descole hisses, and grabs his alulae to force the appendages shut. Pain blooms at the handling of his delicate bones, and Randall flinches.

Despite the way his bird brain screams to flee, to flap and flutter and escape, the avian keeps his wings against his back until his partner lets him go.

“There. Was that so hard?”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t good enough.” Descole opens up Randall’s right wing. “Hold it like that.”

The avian obeys.

Sorry isn’t good enough. It’s not good enough because he keeps doing it. He wouldn’t have to apologize if he just did better, if he just did what his partner asked the first time around. His wings wouldn’t be twinging with discomfort if he’d just held still.

He tries not to let his wings puff up as Descole kneels behind him and starts combing through his flight feathers.

The masked man was just trying to help. He’s always trying to help, and Randall just keeps messing up and fighting him. Hell, Descole is funding the whole operation. His savior is spending his time and money on helping Randall get what’s rightfully his, but he’s not getting anything in return.

Randall is taking advantage of him.

“Your wings are filthy. Do you drag them on the ground like a killdeer?”

“No, I just-”

“On the bed. I’m preening you.”

His wings flare in surprise, and Descole makes an irritated noise.

Randall trills in apology, then clamps his mouth shut.

Preening was something intimate. Did Descole really think they were close enough for preening? Maybe he didn’t know? Randall can feel his face flushing.

Descole wants to preen his wings. His partner is taking care of him.

He hadn’t had a full preening since he left Craggy Dale. He wouldn’t ask his partner to do it, because this was just a business arrangement.

Was this just a business arrangement anymore? Descole was taking care of him in more ways than one. He wanted to preen Randall’s wings.

He sits on the bed without fuss, facing away from Descole and spreading his wings out for easier access.

His heart flutters as the mattress dips behind him.

Why was he panicking? It was just a preening.

“Do you know what a preening means to an avian?” He asks, trying to keep his voice steady as Descole’s fingers card through his feathers. His hands are rough like Tannenbaum’s, but he’s far more dexterous. Randall shivers.

“This is a means to get your wings back into shape.” A non-answer.

Unable to help himself, Randall bites the bullet. “What are we?”

“We’ll be nothing if you don’t shut your mouth and let me work.”

He quiets and just basks in the attention.

Is Randall falling in love? Is that what this is?

Preening is for nestmates and parents and friends and lovers. Descole doesn’t really fit into any of those categories.

Are they friends? They’re partners, certainly, but they’re not friends in the way Randall knows friends are.

The memories of Stansbury are fuzzy at best, but he can remember hanging out with Hershel and Henry and Angela.

All he sees of Descole is for their work together. They’re not friends.

But Randall is melting into a little puddle on the sheets under his partner’s touch, so they must be something.

Maybe he could be a lover eventually? If he was better and tried harder to be good? And not annoying or intolerable and all the other things that Descole rightly critiqued him for.

Randall coos. Descole chirps back.

A second passes, then two.

The sound processes, and the redhead whips around. “YOU’RE AN AVIAN TOO?!”

After narrowly avoiding getting smacked in the face by the wings, Descole sputters, “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re an avian! Let me see your wings. Is that why you always wear that cape?”

Descole tries to backtrack, and smacks Randall’s hands away from the ribbon holding up his cape and cloak, “I am not- quit that! I am not an avian!”

“Oh yeah?” Experimentally, Randall chirps. He watches with a grin as the man bites his tongue hard. “You so are!”

Descole balances fighting off Randall verbally and physically, but eventually the redhead is able to push him down onto his back and pin his partner to the bed.

“Let me go.”

It’s a rough command, but some glee sparks in Randall’s mind when he knows he’s got the other man caught.

He leans in until they’re nose to nose. “Not until you admit that you’re just like me.”

There’s a moment of quiet, and then Descole raises his head to press their lips together. Which takes Randall by surprise enough that he loosens his grip.

This gives Descole the opening he needs to flip them over so Randall is pinned.

He could overpower Descole. If he wanted to. But the kiss has left him dazed and he wants to see where this will go. That and it’s incredibly uncomfortable to lay on his back with the wings under him, so he’s hoping that he can get let up soon.

Yet his partner only sneers, “Know your place, Ascot.”

Make me, is what he wants to say. Randall is certain that he’s never felt so exhilarated in his life, and he’s rearing for a fight. This will make him feel alive. He needs Descole to feel alive.

One second passes. His partner’s grip tightens.

Randall holds his breath.

Then Descole gets up, blows out a sigh, and strides for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Randall sits up as well, disappointed.

“Out.”

“Oh, come on. You didn’t even preen my wings.” He knows he’s being whiny, but he needs Descole to do it for him. He doesn’t want to have ruined this.

“You should have thought of that before.”

Then the door slams, and the avian is alone.

So much for being good. Randall wraps his wings around himself in some semblance of a hug.

Chapter Text

It’s nighttime. The lights are off, and the house is mostly still.

The keyword being mostly. Noise drifts through the crack in the door.

Angela and Henry were talking just outside. Not quite arguing, but the conversation wasn’t exactly level-headed.

Randall is cocooning himself in his wings to try and feel better. The lights are blocked out like this, and blocking out the lights means he can’t see what he’s just done to himself.

Tonight hasn’t been the best. All the feelings he’d been pushing down since the final miracle finally came to a head.

The shame and the guilt and the hatred. Randall could only feel miserable.

Angela and Henry were so wonderful, and he’d avoided any trouble with Monte D’or’s police force. God knows he should be behind bars. He tried to murder an entire city of people, and he didn’t get so much as a slap on the wrist for it.

Randall knew full well that he was being ungrateful. Everyone was trying their best and walking on eggshells and welcoming him back with open arms, and the redhead was just spitting on it.

He should be happy. For them, if not for himself.

The door creaks open, and Randall peeks his head out at the silhouette of his girlfriend and his brother.

“Hello, Randall.” Angela took one side, and Henry took the other as the two sat in bed next to him. Trapping him.

“Hi.”

“Are you ready to talk?”

“I guess.”

“What happened tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

A pause. They’re surely exchanging a glance. Randall wouldn’t be able to tell with the way he’s hiding in his wings.

“Why did you do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know what you were thinking about?”

Randall mumbles something into his knees.

He doesn’t want to tell them. He doesn’t want to say that he hates the way his hair is cut, that he hates the way the doorways in the mansion were all made to accommodate for an avian. He hates the way Henry still calls him master, and he hates how he doesn’t know what he and Angela are supposed to be.

Randall doesn’t know anything.

All he knows is that he needed some form of punishment for what he did. For what he tried to do.

Angels lose their wings when they fall from heaven, right?

“Randall, could you look at us?”

He waits one second, then another, before lifting his head and locking eyes with Angela.

“There you are. Hello, Randy.”

“Hi, Angie.”

She reaches out a hand to cup his chin and lift it further.

“How are you feeling right now?”

Another ‘I don’t know’ is on the tip of his tongue.

“Tired. And stupid.”

“You’re not stupid, Master Ra-”

His wings puff up and he cuts Henry off, “Yes, I am! Look at this!” He flaps to the best of his ability without hitting either person next to him. “What do you call this if not idiocy? What kind of sane person tries clipping their own wings?”

Before Henry had walked in on him, he’d been planning on doing far more than just fucking up his flight feathers. In his fit of mania, Randall had been planning on just trying to hack them off. But he wasn’t about to confess that to them.

They don’t seem to have a rebuttal to his argument. Angela just holds out her arms in an offer for a hug.

Randall doesn’t try to resist, and throws himself at her. He could use a hug right now. His build was far bigger than hers, and it felt almost like she’d shatter in his hold as Randall held her close.

He doesn’t know what they are to each other. Technically, they’re dating. They’re dating because Henry kept her for him. They’re dating because she spent so long waiting for his return. They’re dating because Angela is Randall’s.

The redhead cringes to think of how the mania of becoming the Masked Gentleman had twisted all his thoughts. It was a haze of lust for glory, possessive anger, and erroneous self-righteousness. Descole had fed him lies on a silver platter, and he’d taken it all without a grain of salt.

Maybe the man hadn’t been wrong to call him a bumpkin. God, how stupid could he be to think that Henry of all people could have taken anything from him?

But as he hugs Angela, all he feels is warmth.

Randall might have liked her at some point. He remembers loving her, way back when. Back when things were simple and they were young. Or maybe that’s just a false memory. A seed that Descole had planted. The redhead does feel some affection for her, but he doesn’t think it can be anything more than friendship. They’re dating because Angela is his. But it’s out of obligation more than anything. Who is Randall to refuse her after she waited nearly two decades for him.

A hand rests in the small of his back, right between his wings, and Randall can’t help but flinch.

Henry quickly retracts his hand like he’d committed some great sin, and begins to spiral into apologies before Randall twists to pull him into the hug as well.

If he thought Angela was fragile, it was nothing compared to Henry. His brother was all skin and bones, and Randall could probably break something if he tried to hug them both as hard as he wanted to.

He lets his head drop onto Henry’s shoulder as the three of them sit in silence.

Henry must be acting on long-dead instinct as he reaches behind the redhead to start preening at the feathers closest to his back.

“Are you alright?” He asks when Randall tenses.

“Just- ‘m sorry.”

It wasn’t anything Henry was doing.

Just that recently, Descole had decided that an effective method of punishment would be to pull at Randall’s feathers. Snarky comments or hyperactivity or anything that was too far out of line was met with a hand on his wings.

Which means that now, Randall’s stupid brain thinks Henry is going to hurt him.

Henry.

God.

He blows out a shaky breath.

“You’re shaking.” Angela murmurs, and Randall mumbles an apology.

“I don’t want to be preened right now. Please.”

“Of course, Master Randall. My apologies.”

“It’s fine.”

The silence afterwards means that Henry still definitely feels guilty, but Randall is getting too tired to respond coherently.

He’ll certainly regret all of this in the morning. The breakdown and the vulnerability and everything that it entails, but for now he just wants to sit and keep cuddling with his friends.

“I love you guys…” He mumbles.

“We love you too.”

Chapter Text

Randall was in one of those moods again. The stir crazy, pacing the floor, wanting everything to be over sort of moods.

They’d been happening with increasing frequency as he stayed in Monte D’or. The avian didn’t think it would happen at all after the day that he gave up being the masked gentleman, but life loved to surprise him.

He couldn’t leave. That was a resolute fact that he both loathed and forced upon himself. He couldn’t leave after all the work Angela and Henry put into the city for him.

His wings twitch.

Randall wouldn’t climb back up onto the roof again. He promised the other two that he wouldn’t.

He bites his tongue and goes out to the balcony. What’s the worst that could happen? They think he’ll fall and hurt himself?

They think he’ll jump?

The avian has hardly left his room all day, not wanting to face anyone. He didn’t have much of an appetite either, but not leaving means that saying he was restless would be an understatement.

The balcony has enough room that he can fully stretch his wings out, and he beats them a few times experimentally.

Why on earth did he think it was a good idea to clip his own wings? Now Randall couldn’t even glide properly, much less gain any momentum.

“Randall?”

He whips around, spotting Hershel in the doorframe.

Henry and Angela must have called in reinforcements. Fuck.

He turns to face his friend, tucking his wings behind himself to attempt hiding them.

Randall hasn’t seen the professor since he left after the final miracle. There were talks over the phone, ‘hello’s and ‘how are you’s and ‘it’s been too long’s. But when it came to planning a time and a place, everything fell through. Hershel was a busy man, and if he wasn’t working then he was off on some adventure.

Not that Randall really wanted to see him when he was like this. God.

Did he know what Randall almost did? How much did the others tell him?

“Hi, Hersh.”

“May I come in?”

“Sure.”

“Would you like to sit down?”

“Not really.”

His wings puff as his friend makes his way closer out on the balcony.

“It’s a lovely day, wouldn’t you say?”

Irritation thrums under Randall’s skin. So this was the game they were playing?

“Yeah. Nice day.”

They stay quiet, looking into the back gardens of the mansions, until Randall can’t stand it anymore.

“Why are you here?”

“Hm?”

“Henry and Angela called you. What awful things did they tell you that made you feel like you had to come out here?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Randall. Have you done something?”

“Cut the bullshit!” He flares his wings, ignoring the loose feathers that escape at the movement. “What did they say to make you come back?!”

Hershel tilts his head, and the redhead realizes his mistakes and tucks his wings back behind him.

“They didn’t tell me a thing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m being serious. Angela called me trying to make plans, and that’s all.”

“And what- they called you in to fix me? Like I’m some kind of puzzle?”

The professor shakes his head, “She thought having someone from the outside might be good for you. You’ve been detaching from them both, haven’t you?”

“Did Angie say that?”

“No, but she did mention that the two of you broke things off.”

“It was never gonna work out. I didn’t like her like that anyway.”

“I see.”

Randall might actually just hop over the railing and throw himself from the balcony anyway. This is so awkward. He doesn’t even know Hershel all that well, considering the first time he saw the man was as the Masked Gentleman.

Well, obviously he knew Hershel from when they were teens, but Randall can’t discern what memories are real and which come from Descole.

“Are your wings in any pain?”

“Hm? No.” He flaps one, “I didn’t hit the blood supply of the feathers when clipping them, and I got over the sprain.”

“You sprained your wing?”

Randall bites his tongue. Curse his big mouth.

“Uh, yeah. I sprained it the same night. Cause I was trying to move it so they’d be easier to cut off.”

There’s a soft exhale, which Randall can guess is his friend’s way of horrifiedly asking what the hell is wrong with him.

“I’m glad you’re not in any pain. It looks…”

“Shitty?”

“I was going to say that it looked like it would be painful.”

“Nope. Just ugly as hell.”

“Did you need any help with them? I would have thought Henry or Angela would have helped with preening, but you’ve got pin feathers in the back.”

Truthfully, Randall was in the middle of a molt. And he hadn’t let anyone touch his wings since he realized it freaked him out.

“Henry usually does it.” He trails off.

“...However?”

“However, I think Descole fucked with me and now I freak out when people touch my wings.”

Hershel hums.

“Would you like to try again? We’ll stop if you panic, but it’s not the best idea to neglect this.”

That’s how they end up laying on Randall’s bed with Hershel behind him. He’s tense, sure, but this is leagues better than how he felt last time Henry tried to preen him.

“It’s been a while since we’ve done this, hm?”

Randall can’t focus well with the hands in his feathers. Hershel’s hands are much more rough and calloused than they used to be. And yet they’re ever so gentle.

“Uh huh.” He responds dumbly.

“Do you mind if I get the pin feathers?”

“Go for it.”

The avian lets himself chirp and trill as his old friend takes care of him. He gets some of the loose flight feathers that were clipped, but he doesn’t say a word about it.

“D’you know any other avians?” He thinks to ask through the fog in his mind. For it being 18 years since Hershel preened him, the brunet was far too adept.

“Luke is an avian, yes.”

Oh. Yes. The pipsqueak.

He’d noticed that the kid had wings, because of course he’d recognize another avian. Especially one that only had little downy feathers. He must be an early bloomer.

They were clunky little wings, flapping and knocking into things. They must have just come in.

“Hm.”

“His father is an avian as well. We’ve known each other since university.”

“I see.”

“Why do you ask?”

“You’re really good at this. Better than expected.”

Randall coos as Hershel pulls out a feather he hadn’t even known was bothering him.

“I don’t think I remember you ever vocalizing this much in our youth.”

“I didn’t?”

“Not at all.”

A memory strikes him of the first few years in Tannenbaum’s care where he’d tried to bite back all the noises that came so easily to him. There was probably a reason, considering the uneasy feeling that rises in his chest when Randall tries to recall a memory in the blank spot.

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

Randall shakes his head, trying to flatten his feathers. They’d started puffing up on instinct, and he didn’t want Hershel to think it was his fault. “It’s fine.”

The preening continues in silence apart from the occasional chirp.

Once it’s over, something in Randall’s bird brain kicks in and he twists to start preening his friend back. Only Hershel clearly has no feathers, so he does the next best thing in trying to find any lint on his sweater to pick at.

“Randall?”

“Sorry. Don’t really know what I’m doing.”

Hershel flushes at the proximity, and it dredges up a memory from what Randall assumed was their school.

Did he always fluster so easily?

“It’s quite alright. I don’t mind.”
His instincts aren’t quite satisfied, but Hershel had made quite a fuss when Randall had tried to pull his hat off previously, so he didn't try it again. Part of him wants to get to his friend’s curly hair and run his hands through it like he remembers, but then again he doesn’t want to compromise his friend’s comfort.

So instead he settles somewhere in the middle to grab Hershel around the middle and let himself vocalize into the orange sweater.

Despite the professor’s original tenseness, he soon relaxes and hugs Randall back.

“Do you feel any better?”

“Much.”

For once, everything seems to still. Randall didn’t realize just how loud his mind had gotten day by day until it all fell quiet as he lays in his friend’s arms.

He feels safe for probably the first time since he left Craggy Dale.

“Are you falling asleep?”

“I think so. Sorry.”

“Would you like me to stay?”

Please, Randall wants to beg. Never leave. Instead he simply nods, and his friend lays back to get comfortable as a pillow.

The avian can’t even make himself feel guilty for it as he drifts off. It’s been a while since he had any restful sleep.