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It doesn’t shock Todd as much as it should when he notices that Dirk Gently, the man who has barged his way into his life with in the last 48 hours, has wings. He supposes he’s adjusting to a lot that’s changed, and really, of all the weird, unexplainable, frankly impossible things going on, somehow the fact that Dirk Gently has wings doesn’t even come close to being the strangest.
He gapes though. He’s been doing that a lot too, recently.
There are careful holes cut out in the back of that hideous yellow jacket, and out of them are currently protruding a set of wings. They’re not terribly big, probably not big enough to allow Dirk to fly, although he wouldn’t put it entirely past him, and Todd doesn’t really think when he reaches out and touches a few of the long, faintly golden feathers.
They’re soft. And warm. And decidedly not-fake.
Immediately Dirk shudders and swings around, keeps swinging, swings too far and ends up tripping into a sprawled mess on the floor with an undignified yelp. It's shut him up at least. Todd can feel himself sigh and his brow scrunch and he still bends down to help the other man up.
‘You’ve got … You know what, nevermind.’ Another mystery of the universe. He should probably throw him out if his apartment. He’s already cracked a glass and made friends with his landlord.
Dirk dusts himself off and as he moves into the kitchen, Todd watches the wings fold themselves away out of the corner of his eye, tucked close to his back. If it wasn’t ridiculous he’d say Dirk was self conscious.
‘Ah yes, well I suppose you’ve noticed them then.’ He has to resist the urge to scoff and reaches for a mug, flicking the cupboard open to root around for the dusty box of tea bags hidden at the back behind the chilli flakes and a stale packet of crackers. ‘I can’t really explain it. They’ve always just sort of … been there.’ Of course they have, why wouldn’t they. Todd knew plenty of friends in college who walked around with wings attached to their body.
‘Todd? … Todd?’ There’s a crash, large enough to break him out of his pleasant and mundane daydream, and Dirk is struggling to get through the doorway. A stray feather flutters to the floor to join the silicon remains of what was once his microwave. He raises an eyebrow. Dirk looks sheepish. ‘Look sorry, I just, I had a thought, you know, about the case , don’t you think it’s odd that Zachariah Webb disappeared. I don’t know how it links in, yet, or why it’s important but it’s niggling at me.’
The kettle boils.
The next time he touches them, it’s more by accident. He hadn’t really intended to sleep in the back of a jeep, in the back of a forest, in the back of Washington, but he’s here, and despite the painful angle his neck is wedged in, there’s something peaceful about watching the sun rise, throwing a golden halo around each dew drop on the trees. And he’s warm, which is fairly surprising until he notices that somehow, Dirk’s wings have wrapped around his arms, and are currently pinning him down in an odd, feathery kind of hug. It’s nice for a while, until his left arm goes dead and he really needs to pee and his stomach is growling. Also there’s a cat. Meowing at him. He tries to move away, slowly at first, but Dirk, who seems to have no intention of ever waking up, and who looks more peaceful than he has any right to be, sighs and the wings tighten.
Todd lays there for an indeterminable amount of time. The cat paws at his leg and meows louder.
The sun is making the wings glow, and a breeze catches at them, ruffling them gently. Dirk drools. Finally Todd reaches out, half amazed, and runs a palm over the silky underside of baby feathers. Dirk’s eyes shoot open, and he makes a strangled kind of gasp and the wings shake themselves. Todd scrambles back until there is no more Jeep to support him and then he’s falling and landing ass first in the mud and wet grass.
Dirk’s face appears with an apologetic kind of half smile.
‘Um, morning Todd. Are you alright down there?’ The kitten meows louder, and Dirk’s head disappears. Todd can hear him scoop it up and fuss over it as he gets to his feet. His jeans are ruined. Good thing he’s completely broke.
Todd will admit, that the third time, it was curiosity. If he was going to die at the hands of some machine worshipping, body swapping, kidnapping, murder cult, then he’d at least like to solve one of Dirk Gently’s enigmas.
The cell is dingy and dark and dirty and the smell of rotting flesh is wafting from somewhere. Dirk’s hunched in a corner, muttering. Probably wondering why the universe has failed him.
He stretches out a hand, slow and steady, gleaming red in the dim light, and drops it again. Maybe he should ask. Is that what you’re supposed to do when touching your friend/boss/manipulator’s wings?
‘Hey? Dirk?’ There’s a worrying lack of response. ‘Can I … Look this is ridiculous, but … Can I touch your wings?’ He can see Dirk’s back tense under blue leather. The wings twitch a bit.
‘I’d rather you didn’t Todd. Your hands are dirty, and you wouldn’t believe the job it takes to keep them clean.’ Dirk’s voice waivers and catches in his throat.
‘Not even as a dying wish?’ He’s trying to be funny, but it comes out very small and far more frightened than he wanted it to be. Dirk sniffs out a broken laugh, and shuffles backwards a bit, close enough for Todd to reach out.
He gets the feeling Dirk doesn’t like cages. Or the threat of dying. He doesn’t like them much either.
He’s slow and tentative and mentally apologises for the streaks of dirt that stripe dark against the feathers as he touches them. Dirk bites his lip, he can feel it, feels him tense and twitch and squirm as Todd runs his hands down strong flight feathers, along thin, delicate bones, and follows them all the way to where they attach firmly to the shifting muscles of his back.
‘They’re kinda … They’re beautiful Dirk.’ Dirk twists, staring at Todd with a guarded kind of hopefulness, and he smiles back. It may be the light in the room but he could swear Dirk is blushing.
Gordon Rimmer chooses this moment to stomp up and rattle the wire mesh of the cage. Dirk startles, wings springing open, hitting both the wall, and Todd, squarely in the face. He bites his tongue. Hard. They both stumble back in a flurry of feathers and curses, away from the man looming over them. Shit, his jaw hurts.
He cuts careful holes in one of the last few Mexican Funeral t-shirts he still has knocking about in his apartment, and does his best to sew a seam to prevent them fraying. Dirk is crammed awkwardly into the wheelchair as he's pushed out of hospital and Todd wants to laugh as he sees him gesture animatedly at the bored looking nurse. He’s deposited on the sidewalk and Todd approaches.
His words yawn like a chasm between them as Dirk turns and sees him. He wishes he could take them back, stuff them in his mouth and swallow them into nonexistence. He’s shitty and hypocritical and the worst assist-friend and probably the last person Dirk wants to see.
His wings wilt. ‘Todd, you’re … here. But the - the case is over.’
‘How’s your shoulder?’ He’d seen the bolt fly across the room and embed itself in the leather jacket. He’d seen the blood ooze out and his wings drop in surprise. He’d seen the confusion and pain on Dirk’s face. His expression brightens momentarily, and Todd can see the old him, before he remembers, hand rising to it and brow crinkling.
‘It’s … It’s terrible, actually. Look, I don’t … I don’t understand … Did you want something from me or -?’ Todd’s heart falls. He should have expected this. Dirk was a leaf in the stream of creation. He’d probably already forgotten about him, about their exploits. ‘I can’t help you, I can’t do anything to help your situation.’
‘I don’t need help.’ And for the first time in a long time, he means it. He slides his backpack off and rummages around before brandishing his jacket and the shirt at him. ‘Here. I got this from your apartment. And this is a Mexican Funeral tee, I don’t have many left, so try not to get shot in it.’
The wings twitch hopefully and a smile curls the corner of Dirk’s lips.
‘You … You cut holes. For me.’
‘How else are you supposed to get it on?’
He clutches at the fabric, wings quivering in the wind, mind churning, and Todd wants to laugh with relief when he sees Dirk get it. His shoulders relax and he shakes his head, fingers running over the collar.
‘Didn’t you say this band hated you?’
‘Yeah, well … We’re late, Farah wants to meet up.’ He turns and waits for Dirk to follow him before he does it, reaches out and strokes a finger down the tip of the wing closest to him. Dirk squeaks and Todd watches fondly as the tips of his ears redden and the wings snap shut against his back. A laugh bubbles out of him, carried away by the wind as Dirk begins to babble about setting the requisite personal boundaries between a detective and his assistant, but his eyes are bright and he’s still clasping the clothing to his chest.
The mustard yellow sticks out like a sore thumb.