Disclaimer: Marvel owns them, I'm just playing with them.
A/N: Written on a whim, and because Beak needs some love, too.
Molt
There are those who think that, despite everything, the world is good and fair and life is just, and that every person gets what they deserve in the end. Barnell thinks those people are insane, that they reek of bullshit and that they have no idea what they're really talking about. And most don't, because they have favorable, normal lives. He used to have a normal life, but he doesn't anymore. Fate decided he was special – or maybe that it just didn't like him all that much, after all – and beat him down with the biggest ugly stick it could find. When other boys his age were growing pubes, he was growing feathers. Things only got worse from there.
He lost weight and his hair. His arms and legs twisted and morphed until his joints were doubled and useless, skinny wings were attached to his shoulders. His hands changed until they looked like bird's feet. His eyes became large and bulbous, to the point where they seemed to stick right out of their sockets if he opened his eyes wide enough. And then, on top of all that, he grew a goddamned beak. The rest, really, he could have dealt with, but the beak, he thinks, is just a little too much, that the joke went too far.
He doesn't blame his parents for moving, though thinks they may have gone overboard with the whole leaving the country escapade. They tell him it's because there are people like him in America – more and experienced people than what Rotterdam could ever offer. They try to convince him this is an opportunity; he thinks they're just trying to hide their dirty little secret amongst the rest of the nation's filth.
Sometimes, he tries to convince himself it might not be so bad here. Maybe he'll find somebody and make at least one friend. Sometimes he even likes to think he might find a girl someday, and – well, he isn't really sure what would come after that. Finding a girl that would look at him twice without screaming would be a miracle in of itself, he doesn't want to push it by hoping for love and a family and a happily-ever-after. Because, really, as far as he can tell, his luck just doesn't run that way.
His parents tell him they're looking into something special for him, a new school of some sort that's opening soon, where he can be with his own kind – and that's when he stops listening, walks out and slams the door front door behind him. Until five seconds ago, he had thought his parents were his kind, but what's one more slap to the face? Fate should watch it, though; he's running out of unmarred skin there.
He walks with his head down and hood pulled up – not that it really makes that much of a difference. Even with his hood up, that horrible beak still sticks out a few good inches from his face. He can't hide it even if he tries, but he's learned that if you keep to the shadows and to yourself, you're not that likely to be noticed, anyway. And those that do notice him now, they're just like him. They're just as ugly and unwanted and full of hate.
He ignores them and keeps on walking, long legs covering more ground quicker than he's used to. He's had these legs for months, and he still isn't used to them, and he's beginning to think he never will be. A part of him hopes that's true, hopes that every day the talons and feathers and beak will surprise and scare him, because the last thing he wants to do is accept that he's a freak. His parents and probably ninety-nine percent of the world don't, so he really doesn't see why he should, either.
Sooner than later, he winds up in a part of town he doesn't know. It's dark and sleazy and he's intrigued and repulsed all at once. The streets stink of liquor and nicotine and weed and piss, and it's all just part of the charm, he supposes. The only lights that shine are those of the cheap neon signs that lead into equally cheap bars and clubs, and some part of him wishes he could be like any other sixteen year old and sneak in to one of them, get wasted for the first time and maybe pick up a whore on the way out. The chances of that happening – any of it – are slim to none, so he doesn't even try.
He takes a turn, finds himself headed down an alley, and doesn't really care until someone else comes stumbling in from the opposite end. It's hard to make them out, but he's pretty sure it's a woman. If he squints hard enough, he can tell she's wearing knee-high leather boots, the shortest skirt he's ever seen, and he's really not sure if what's covering her top half should be considered a shirt or a bra. If some guy hadn't come rushing in after her, Barnell thinks he may have gotten a stiffy just from staring at her a few seconds longer.
But there is another guy in the alley, and he's making wild efforts to try and grab her. Barnell doesn't know what she did, doesn't know if she's a whore or a junkie or just some poor, innocent girl who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he knows he doesn't like this. Freak or not, he still has his decency, and men shouldn't touch women the way that guy is touching her.
What happens next happens fast. He shouts at them, gets their attention, tells him to leave her alone. The stranger laughs, asks if he really wants to do this; does he really want to play hero tonight? No, Barnell thinks, staring at this man who is more brawn than brain and at least three times his size. No, he really does not, and he wishes he had just kept going passed this stupid alley.
The thug doesn't wait for him to say anything, just reels back and lets his fist collide with his face. He stumbles and his hood falls and he tastes blood and the thug is suddenly screaming. At first, Barnell thinks he's screaming because he's managed to get a good look at his face, but upon closer inspection, he notices a thin line of smoke raising up from behind him. And then he registers the smell of burning flesh, and then the stranger's stumbling away from him and the girl, cursing them and swearing they'll be sorry.
He slowly looks toward the girl, notices she's wiping her mouth clean, and he wonders if she had something to do with the goon's sudden combustion. Maybe she can breathe fire or something; that would be pretty fucking sweet.
"My saliva's acidic," she informs him offhandedly – and he nods a little dumbly, and thinks that's still pretty awesome.
"Are you alright?" he asks, figuring he should.
"I'm fine," she tells him and grins, "I'm a big girl, I can handle myself."
He struggles for words, unsure of what to say, and instead this weird sort of squawk comes out of his beak. He wishes he could die, right then and there on the spot. She laughs, and he clears his throat.
"Sorry – that just... happens sometimes," he explains.
"Don't worry about it. So, I should thank you."
"For what?" he asks, a little surprised that she's stayed this long to talk to him. "I didn't really do anything."
Even in the dark, he can see this sudden distance in her eyes, and he wonders what that's about. "You did more than most would have done."
"O-oh – " he starts, but doesn't finish, because she's suddenly leaning toward him and he almost backs up but manages not to. She kisses his cheek, and her lips are soft and warm on skin that has gone untouched for so long, and a low sort of coo erupts from his throat. When she pulls away, he touches the place she kissed with a talon, smears the scarlet lipstick she left behind, and gapes at her.
"There's my thanks, bird-boy," she says, and without a second glance walks passed him and into the night.
He's still an ugly freak with wings that don't really work and parents that don't really want him anymore, but he's suddenly thinking, Hello, Universe. This is the greatest day of my life.