No More Spitting Feathers 02/?
PAIRINGS: Warren Worthington III x Reader WARNINGS: injury, blood, implied drug use RATING: T+, will be raised later. WORD COUNT: 2.2k INSTALLATIONS: Part 01 AUTHOR’S NOTE: Dedication and thanks to Andi @venombxby for discussion and honorary mentions to Monica @rosesvioletshardy and Wella for inspo. This is written in second person bc I have never been able to get on board with Y/N trends, and the reader is a mutant with a limited mix of healing, telekinesis and some empathic inclinations.
The night is never as dark as you’d like in a city, and no matter the hour, night owls are bound to be turning their gaze onto anything that moves above the shadows.
He casts quite a shadow.
Dove.
You don’t speak much after he agrees to go with you. There is a stalemate between the two of you for many minutes before he offers an arm and helps you up, getting you to a more comfortable place in the warehouse to rest until you could stand on your own.
You didn’t think he’d be able to fold his wings enough to hide them, you thought it would hurt too much, but he manages to do it anyway and tucks them away into a long coat that he found in the disused warehouse staffroom, along with a large umbrella that helps conceal him better.
Once you could stand you found a dusty bathroom with running water and managed to clean your arms and face of blood and wrangle your hair into something less dishevelled. You also took off all your absurd jewelry, cleaning it all with hot water and chucking it into the same locker you find a pair of shoes that are too big but are better than trying to walk barefoot.
You get the privilege of draping his leather jacket over your shoulders, which doesn’t exactly keep you warm given the modifications he made to the back to accommodate his wings, but you suppose you’d be colder without it.
You walk in silence side by side for most of the journey, and calling it such is no exaggeration. It only takes half an hour for the pain to creep into his wing again, especially with how he has them folded against his back— you feel it, and have to breathe through the discomfort, the one aspect of your powers that you can’t turn off, but that thankfully doesn’t wipe you out the same way healing or telekinesis does.
It takes three hours, and neither of you seeks a break, somehow knowing that stopping would benefit neither of you. He gets more tired though, but you can tell he relaxes a bit when the city falls away and the trees thicken, and the people and cars become few and far between.
The safe house looks abandoned from the outside, and to your benefit, it has thick overgrowth around its perimeter that provides plenty of privacy. All of the windows are either frosted or boarded up save for the stained glass windows on the old domed church that will be your shelter.
You find the key where you expect it, and as soon as you enter you’re working on autopilot. You throw off the shoes that have given you blisters, walk across the confused space to a large set of shelves and pick out a change of clothes that don’t quite fit but are better than the tiny cocktail dress you’ve had to trek your way here in.
Dove throws off the coat and drops onto the nearest cot, groaning as he stretches out his wings. You shudder from the incomparable empathic impression it leaves in your back. You change without caring if he looks (he doesn’t), putting on the pants and a too-large shirt, collecting a blanket from a crate in the corner and yourself dropping onto a cot not too far from where he’d lain down. You pass out after you heal your blistered feet.
You sleep for eighteen hours.
He sleeps for twelve, and when he awakens he’s hungry and hungover, aching in unpleasant but not unfamiliar ways. You can feel the malaise even though it doesn’t wake you, creeping into your body and your dreams and then fading once he freely navigates the space and finds the food and water kept in the makeshift pantry.
You feel better when you wake, but you’re ravenous, and dig into whatever shelf-stable item seems most appealing— you’re still chewing when you go and find him, having made himself a more private corner to relax in with cushions, two cot mattresses and a few blankets.
Swallowing doesn’t quite soothe the scratch in your throat, and you notice some subtly floating feather particles in the air, leaving you to idly wonder how much he sheds.
“Are you well enough to heal me now?” he asks, filling the silence. You’re not sure if he believes you are, he seems tired and resigned.
“No,” you reply. “Not significantly anyway.”
He levels you with an incredulous look.
You sigh. “I could give myself an aneurysm if I try to heal you too fast.”
“What can you do, then?”
“I could have you flying again in ten days,” you say, “that won’t put too much strain on me.”
His wing, the undamaged one, flutters slightly. “Fourteen.”
“What?”
“Take fourteen days. You were like a rag doll at the warehouse, Häschen, you’re no use to me like that. You think you can do ten days— I don’t have anywhere to be— we’ll do fourteen.”
You look at him for a moment, trying to spot some ulterior motive and figure he must be doing the same.
“Okay, alright. Two weeks.” That’s probably how long you’ll need to arrange extraction anyway.
You swallow again against the scratch in your throat and take a deep breath.
“You need a tour?” you ask, feeling awkward.
He shakes his head. “I looked around while you were sleeping.”
“The church is free-reign,” you say, explaining anyway, “the rest of the building is not really safe, but isn’t off-limits.” You shrug. “The shower room is over there.” You point. “Towels and soap are in the baskets… they’re all labelled.”
“You planning to leave me alone here, Häschen?” he asks, sitting forward slightly and canting his head to the side.
You both react when he strains his wing, and you try to hide your whimper with a cough. His wings shudder and the feathers tighten up, drooping slightly as he sits back against the wall with a slight grunt of pain.
“I want to get some supplies from the store… like better food,” you explain with a shrug. You also want to get him some medicine to tide him over between your attempts to heal him.
“Are you going to walk?”
You shake your head. “There’s a car stored on the property, I have what I need. I shouldn’t be more than forty minutes.”
He doesn’t say anything further, and it feels too invasive to watch him struggle through his pain.
“You want anything?” you ask, already planning to get him some clothes.
“No.”
“Okay. What clothing sizes do you wear?”
The look he gives you is almost a smirk, a raised brow and a quirk of his lip that makes you flush. You look away in embarrassment and clear your throat again.
He tells you the sizes. “You don’t like my clothes?” he asks.
“That’s— that’s not the point,” you say, and motion at him, his pants and boots, the lack of a shirt, the modified leather jacket he’d taken back while you slept. “That’s all you have.”
He shrugs with his hands. “Do what you want.”
“I will.”
“See you in an hour, then.” He seems inclined to give you more time than you think you’ll need.
—
The subtle hiss and splash of water greet your ears from across the echoey safe house when you return. You took less than the hour, but more than the forty minutes to get everything done. You put the bags down on the tables that make up the kitchen (which isn’t much of a kitchen at all. There is an old fridge, two hot plates, a toaster oven and some cookware and dishes next to a deep industrial sink).
There is steam coming from the shower room, and when you get closer with the bag of clothes you got for him, you feel a malaise creep into your body.
“Dove?” you call, but he doesn’t answer.
You put down the bag and go to the door, not sure what you’ll find, but hardly wanting to violate his privacy nor open yourself up to any teasing if you’ve misinterpreted the empathic impression.
A small gasp leaves your lips. His wings are almost totally clean now, free of the dirt and char and blood that had been caked on them— some of which sits over the drain grate to his right. Feathers are missing from his left wing, and it continues to droop, but what concerns you is how he’s kneeling on the floor with his head against the wall, taking in shuddering breaths. The wings hide his nakedness almost completely, but that hardly crosses your mind as you step into the room.
“Dove?” you say again, more urgently now, your new shoes splashing on the wet floor as you cross over to him.
It’s a rather bare room, stripped of all curtains and half-stalls, with only a dozen showerheads set a few feet apart around the space. He has two showers running to cover all of him, and you gasp when you feel how hot the water is, yanking the tap to the left to make it cold and then reaching over him to do the same to the other.
“What are you doing!” your voice is louder than you intend, and he tenses, groaning when cold water penetrates whatever daze he was in. You get down on one knee and grab his face between your hands. He’s hot hot hot, and not just from the water, flushed. He startles, wings jerking and feathers fluffing, and he gives a slight grunt of alarm.
“Hey, hey, it’s me— it’s just me.”
He doesn’t quite relax but he seems to calm, bowing his head slightly and shivering. You carefully reach up to turn off both showers and bring your hand to his neck. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus through the haze and urgency.
“What are you doing…” he says dully, lifting a hand to grasp your forearm. He groans when he feels the initial relief of your healing. “Don’t, you’re not— I’ll be fine—”
“I can handle it, you’re not well,” you reply, almost scolding. He makes a sound of acknowledgement but speaks no further, he keeps his hand on your arm.
You don’t find what you’re looking for, you assumed it would be an infection from the fracture, but his whole nervous system is rioting. You quickly readjust, your fingers pressing against his neck, by the nape. It’s not the healing you expected him to need, but you hadn’t exactly gotten the chance to examine him and come up with a plan. Your healing balances his autonomic nervous system, calming the sympathetic and re-engaging the parasympathetic. He’d need more help than that, you can tell, but easing his distress is your primary goal.
A drop of blood hits the floor, and his hand squeezes your arm. Your nose is bleeding.
“That’s enough,” he says, his voice much more controlled now.
“I’m alright,” you assure him, “I know my limits, I can do a bit more…” You aren’t lying but you know how far you can push yourself before you get as bad as you were last night. You can do more now that you’re touching him too, that always makes you more precise.
His breathing even outs and his heart rate calm, and his head bows in relief after another long moment. Your bloody nose gets worse, but you set him up better this time, stimulating his immune system and provoking a healing response throughout his body, natural pain relief. It would help his body help itself until you could resume your efforts tomorrow.
You move your hand away from his neck and move it to under your nose. The leg of your pants is wet when you stand, and you turn away but he gives your arm a little tug, making you look back down at him. His face isn’t as flushed now, and there’s a different kind of pain in his eyes, something non-physical. Something like guilt.
“I didn’t deserve that,” he says gravely. You slowly pull your hand away.
“You were in distress, I wasn’t going to leave you like that.”
His wings twitch, ruffling carefully. “Some pain deserves to be felt,” he argues weakly. “Especially for something of my own doing.”
“Withdrawal isn’t a penance, Dove.” When he meets your gaze, you think he might be searching for judgement, but he won’t find any. He looks away.
“It’s an unfair strain on you.”
You turn away, still holding your bloody nose. “I can’t just pick and choose what I heal. If you’re sick I can’t fix your wing effectively.” You huff, turning away. “And I’m fine. It’s not as draining when I can touch you… I left you some clothes by the door. If you really don’t want to waste my efforts, you’d better get some rest. Your body can do the work itself until tomorrow.”
You start out of the room deliberately, shoesfalls splashing wetly. As you pass the threshold, the echoey walls of the shower room amplify his quiet words just enough for you to hear.
“Thank you.”
You keep going without acknowledging it.