A/N: a b-day fic I wrote for my dear partner in crime vampirateslagoon/flashforeward. Fic contains a mild reference to a boner.
Charlie's wings were dark coloured, like his hair.
They were shiny too, soft and sensitive. Exactly how wings were meant to be. The only blemish Matthew could find, and be sure he had spent a great deal of time examining every inch of Charlie, was a slender light pink mark on the top of his left wing. According to Charlie, it was nothing, and if it was something then he probably got it as a child when he fell from a tree and accidentally ruptured his appendix. If Matthew wanted to look at a scar, then he could look at that it was probably more interesting.
Admittedly, Matthew has looked at that too. Barely as long as his finger, a sliver of scar that had turned a colour that would indicate that it is approximately the same age as the one on his wing. Charlie's a good sport about it, most of the time. Let's Matthew take his time, look at whatever he fancies looking at.
"Am I allowed to touch you too?"
It was an innocent enough question, objectively. Charlie has been very good about letting Matthew touch him, doesn't hurry him or make requests even when he probably wants too. He's too scared to rock the boat, lest one of them fall overboard and their relationship (if one can call it that) would be too damaged to recover. It's intimate, perhaps too intimate.
"Mine aren't as impressive as yours." He replied, thoughtfully. He dragged his finger down the much-neglected skin between the base of his wings. It never fails to make him shiver, and this time was no different. It ran through his whole body visibly. He wondered, perhaps detrimentally, who else has been close enough to touch there. Did Rose take the time to feel beyond the expanse of feathers? Did he ever offer himself up to that Beatrice woman like this? The tantalizing thought that he's the first skipped over his mind like a stone on water.
"They're not so impressive. According to the last census, a third of the population has wings."
For all he knew, Charlie was pulling that number out of space, but he'd believe it. He would also believe he could look at every member of that third of the population and not meet any other man like Charlie Davis.
"They are to me."
"How impressive can a pair of heavy decorations be? I can't even fly."
"No one ever taught you?"
"My parents didn't have any. Neither did anyone I knew. Last time I tried to fly I ruptured my appendix."
"Is that why you were up in that tree?"
"I think I was thinking that birds have wings, and they fly from trees. I have wings, so if I'm in a tree than I can fly too."
During the war, men with wings like Charlie's were highly sought after from scouting work. Matthew's wings had always been too small for that, only just big enough to wrap around him during their prime. Not as though there was any lack of ammunition for Macavoy to throw at him, but that had been one of them. What good are wings you can't even use?
"I could never fly," Matthew said, softly.
"Guess we're a right pair, you 'n me."
"I suppose we are," Matthew said, dragging his fingertips along the slick dark feathers. Charlie made a pleased noise into the arm he was resting his face on when he did so.
"I'm sure I'd think your wings were impressive if I ever got to see them."
Charlie doesn't ask for much, Matthew consoled himself. Likely, he'd take one look at them and either laugh or be put off. Most of the people who had seen then did that. It might break his heart, but who was he to deny the boy?
"Just this once because you've been so well behaved." He said, with perhaps less than kind intentions. You only had to know Charlie for half a minute and you'd figure out his almost obsession with earning praise. He carefully moved away so Charlie could pull his wings in and move to a sitting position.
He watched the muscle as it tightened and untightened, pulling in close the way they usually were. His mind fluttered to the heavy police issue dust coat sitting on the little vanity in his room at the Blake house. Charlie's preferred method of concealment and protection. Of course, if it were his choice, there would be no need for such a thing. If he were a more introspective person, he'd think about how his ideal world, or at least, a world where he has a say, sacrifices Charlie's agency for his viewing pleasure. The idea of watching the light at the station hit those thick dark feathers is vivid and clear in his mind, but he knows Charlie would wear the coat even if he was safe to fully display his wings, which truly were meant to be displayed. He's never seen Charlie without it except in these soft, intimate moments. He would be the expert, Charlie follows him everywhere.
He noted, as they swapped positions, that Charlie is half hard. He doesn't seem to notice, or perhaps he's just pretending not to for Matthew's sake. He's good about that, too. He'd asked about it once, and Charlie just said that they were sensitive, it felt good when Matthew touched them. The word he used was tingly. He also said that it would go away on its own and not to worry about it. Matthew did worry about it, frequently.
He worried that Charlie was going to get bored of this and ask for something Matthew wasn't able to give him. Charlie has never acted like he was unhappy with the situation, in fact, he'd mentioned frequently that he just liked spending time with him. Which was a very romantic way of viewing the world, but Charlie is a hot-blooded young man with no small number of notches on his bedpost. They aren't exclusive to one another, they've never even spoken about it. Matthew's not sure what to define their relationship as even if they were bothered to. What sort of relationship is 'I let my boss touch me and sometimes I get off on it' anyway? He probably would be upset, he mused as he let Charlie put a pillow under his leg if he knew Charlie was seeing someone else.
"Is this okay?"
"Hm." He hummed, as Charlie slowly drew a hand down his side. They were cool, but not unpleasant. Charlie drew in a breath and began an up-close examination of the damage. Matthew had two wings, as a child, like almost anyone who was born blessed. That's what they used to call it, he doesn't know if they still call it that these days. Two, entirely normal if a bit small wings. Now he had only one, small, unused feather mass. Charlie seemed to hesitate, it has been a very long time since Matthew let anyone see.
Then, almost out of nowhere he felt a gentle brush of fingers along what remained of his feathers. Charlie let out a very shaky breath, almost as though he were expecting rejection as if Matthew could ever deny him something his asked for. Perhaps that was what worried him the most. If Charlie asked for more, he would say yes. He'd say yes in spite of himself because he's become addicted to the boy, God helps them both. The thought startles him but it's true. He'd worried about it but never admitted that he'd do anything for Charlie. As if he hadn't already shown that.
"Are you okay?"
"Hm."
"You're thinking very loudly. Sure?"
"Just thinking about you," Matthew assured him, as Charlie's fingers reached just below his feathers to the mottled skin underneath.
"I've never touched someone else wings before."
"Really?" He asked, incredulous.
"Everyone I've ever been with has been distinctly wing free."
He pulled his hand away and touched the base carefully with his hand. Matthew understood, then, what Charlie meant by tingly, though he didn't find it particularly erotic like Charlie apparently did. It just felt…Nice. Or perhaps just unusual.
"I like the colour."
A great silence stretched between them. Matthew, as it might have gone without saying, could care less. Plain brown. Average. He didn't reply, just let his eyes fall closed as Charlie took his time feeling along the top. When he was a kid, he'd both hated and loved his wings. Hated that they weren't exactly useful, hated that they were so plain, hated that he'd been born with them in general. But by the same token, they were his. He didn't have much, but they were his no matter what.
Macavoy had wings, great white things that looked like they belonged to an angel. Unlike most blessed, himself included, who took pains to hide their wings, Macavoy did not. He was proud of them. It has always been a mystery to him why God had blessed someone so cruel with something so beautiful.
"Can I-"
"Hm?" He asked, stirred by the aborted question.
"Can I touch…"
What's left of the other one? He doesn't have to finish. Matthew isn't sure what Charlie could possibly glean from touching the mess of scar tissue that he couldn't from touching. He's not even sure that he wants Charlie to touch it. He doesn't even like touching it himself and it's a part of his body. To him, it was a reminder of weakness. Of failure.
"Okay."
Far be it from him to deny him anything.
The nerve damage is bad, but he could still feel Charlie's fingertips along the top of what was left. He felt, probably for the first time since the war, the feeling of another hand touching there. Gentle enough that if he wasn't feeling for it, he might not have noticed.
"What happened?"
"It was a war." He said as if that would explain everything.
"Okay."
Charlie's hand has moved down the side of what used to be a wing but was now little more than a stump. Matthew would never admit it, but he occasionally woke up feeling like it was still there but being twisted backwards and sending shots of burning pain through his whole body.
"Friendly fire. One minute I had it, the next they were telling me it was too damaged to save." If he shut his eyes and listened hard he could still hear the yelling and shouting of his countrymen. He'd been desperate for Blake not to take his leg if he'd lost the leg as well as a wing, he doesn't know what he would have done. The leg, however useless it might be was still a part of him. Still where he could take notice of it, categorize it. He didn't know what happened to his wing after it was amputated, but he wished he did. Perhaps that was morbid of him, but he couldn't help it. One doesn't have an appendage attached for more than twenty years than not miss it when it's gone.
"I'm sorry."
"Why? It's not as if you had anything to do with it."
"I'm sorry it happened to you."
His hand moved away from the stump to the large piece of scar that surrounded it on each side from the resulting infection. He can feel the grooves and bumps in the scar as the pads of Charlie's fingers crossed it.
"Is this okay?"
"It is."
"Is it okay to say I think that your wings are beautiful?"
"There's only one."
"No, there's two."
"They aren't beautiful."
"I disagree. I like them."
"You like scars?"
"I think they're important. Means you lived."
"That's very profound of you," Matthew said, rolling over. He'd had quite enough of that for the evening. Charlie moved away without complaint. He was good like that, Matthew thought, as he got to his feet, standing beside the bed. His wigs were tucked tightly to his back, out of the way. He had one hand up to his mouth and was biting the first knuckle of his hand
"Do I have to go now?"
"Go?"
"To my room."
"If you want to. Why?" He asked. Charlie had never asked before, just waited for Matthew to finish and departed to his own space. He would have liked for Charlie to stay some nights, but he didn't want to pressure him into anything.
"I'd…Like to stay with you. If I could."
"Why?" Matthew asked, unable to stop himself.
"That's what you do when you're in love with someone."
Charlie was very matter of fact in his answer as if Matthew were stupid for asking. His wings fluttered slightly of their own accord.
"Alright." He said, finally. Charlie's beaming smile was like he'd switched on every light in the house and just as blinding. He hasn't seen Charlie smile a lot. Shame that. He lay down on the bed and stretched his large wings out past the visibility of the small table lamp. Without having to be told, he found himself pressed against Charlie as he drew his wings in, surrounding them both in a solid, warm cocoon.
He could feel Charlie's fingers on his chest, tapping rhythmically along with his heartbeat. He was half tempted to ask about it but decided not to. It was nice, actually. To have someone to care about you like that. Warm and comfortable, sleep came easily.