Shifting was never an easy task, not for Simon, and not for you.
It’s rare that Simon finds time to himself between being at base and being on an op. True alone time, with nothing to do, and nobody to do anything with.
His ride won’t arrive for two days, and Price (quite firmly) advised him to ‘enjoy the scenery, Norway is stunning this time of year, son.’ Really, Simon doesn’t give two fucks about the scenery or the apparent good weather, no, that’s not the reason he’s grateful to be isolated at a safehouse for the next day and a half.
It’s because of you.
Rather, more specifically, the freedom it allows you, short as the time may be. You’ve been cooped up (pun only slightly intended) in your raven form for several weeks now, as your mate has been sent from one mission to the next back to back, hardly any time to catch your breath, let alone free yourself from your feathered body. Now, you can stretch your arms (done enough of stretching your wings, frankly) and relax.
After shifting, of course.
Simon lifts you to his masked face and presses a featherlight kiss to your beak through the material before he sets you on the ground, your talons clicking against the concrete floor. You tilt your head, caw at him quietly, and see the corners of his eyes crinkle.
“Not goin’ anywhere, lovie, take your time,” he assures you.
He watches you lift your wings and ruffle out your feathers, head shaking, plumage fluffing up. He knows you’re gathering your nerve. You can crow and bay about being stuck in this form all you want (which you do), but actually changing out of it is a different beast to tackle. It makes you anxious, he knows, he understands. If he could take away the pain, he would. Anything that dares to hurt you, he crushes without remorse, but being unable to do so for this one thing is torturous. All he can do is watch, and he hates it.
With as deep of a breath as your little avian lungs can take in, you close your eyes and concentrate. For a second, nothing happens, but then–
It starts with your ribs fracturing, heart growing too large to be contained inside their bony embrace. Your wings lose their feathers, bones stretching and distorting, muscles tearing to reconstruct themselves into the correct shape. Your beak shrinks back, the pure coal shade altering to match your natural skintone, shine reducing, keratin flaking off in large chunks. Your talons scratch at the concrete, legs mangling to develop an anatomy not built to resemble anything birdlike at all.
It’s a nightmare to witness from start to end. It’s one thing to experience it himself, to feel as his body breaks itself apart to become something else – he’s far too used to experiencing pain – but to see you go through it makes him sick. If only, if only–
Your choked cry distracts him from his swirling thoughts of regret and revenge, and he’s reaching out in an instant to grasp your arms, fingers looping around skin, rather than feathers. He pulls you into his chest, and you go willingly, coughing and groaning as the last of your transformation ebbs away, leaving you bare and shivering.
The blanket he prepared earlier, thin and shitty but better than nothing, gets thrown over your body, covering most of you, as he murmurs reassurances and praise in that gravely voice of his. It rumbles through him, vibrates past your ribs, into your soul, a kind of soothing comfort that only he can give to you.
“There she is,” he says, rubbing up and down the length of your spine. “There’s my pretty girl.”
You exhale heavily, eyes squeezed shut, chin propped up on his shoulder. “That sucked.”
“I know, swee’eart,” he assures, nuzzling into your jaw. “I know. ‘S over now.”
The pain is gone, long gone, vanished as soon as you wriggled your fingers and toes, but the memory persists, the nausea that swirls in your gut. The nuts and berries he fed you earlier suddenly feel like pebbles in a large lake, not nearly enough to make a ripple in your hunger.
You let him coo at you and coax you down from your stressed state, easing you into his lap, legs thrown over one thigh, back supported by the other that he has upright. He brushes stray strands of hair from your forehead, his mask discarded at his side so he can pepper kisses all over your face, calloused thumbs rubbing across your cheeks over and over.
“Been too long since I’ve seen ya face, birdie,” he tells you, his lips moving against the corner of your mouth. “Almos’ forgot how pretty ya were.”
You snort at him. “Charmer.”
He huffs and kisses your forehead. An arm coils around your waist and tugs you further into him, eliminating as much space as possible between you. With his free hand, the one that’s not drawing shapes into your skin, he reaches into his pack behind him and pulls out a couple granola bars, dropping them onto your lap. You scrabble to get them, tearing open the first package and gnawing on the chunky, stiff food like a dog given a bone.
“‘Oo shoo’d shiff, doo, fish ‘our fea-fers,” you suggest around your meager meal, uncaring of manners.
Simon feels differently, sighing into your hair. “Finish ya bite first, you wally,” he grumbles.
You scowl at him, but do as you’re told, chewing away until it’s safe for you to swallow and not risk choking. “Said, you should shift, too, fix your feathers and stuff. Who knows when you’ll get the chance to preen again?”
The monolith of a man – how did he manage to stuff all that excess…everything into a tiny (subjectively) bird body? phrasing, of course – grunted in disagreement, absentmindedly massaging your hip. “And miss quali’y time with my girl? Not a chance, swee’eart.”
Despite how you playfully roll your eyes, you snuggle into his warmth, breathing in the scent of him. Leather and gunsmoke, eyeblack and faded menthol, cling to him like a second skin. It’s a familiar scent, a safe one; it lets you know that, no matter what, you’ll always be protected, always looked after. He’s right, it’s been too long since you could hold each other like this, coexist in the same space as the same entity.
As if sensing your thoughts, he tilts your chin up so he can press a chaste, precious kiss to your lips. “Missed ya,” he confesses.
“You always see me,” you point out. “Every day.”
“Not like this.”
You chirrup, a reflexive response. He chuckles at your flustered expression, but answers back with a deep trill of his own.
Your eyes close as you lean into him, nosing at his cheek. “And here I thought you got sick of seeing me in this form.”
“Never,” he promises.
inspired by the incredibly lovely @beloveds-embrace's raven!Simon and raven!reader. they've been on my mind a LOT recently, and I have many many thoughts about them. might write more...
[part 2]
