Fic: The Art Of Flight, for little_cello
Author: xysabridde
Recipient: little_cello
Rating: Green Cortina
Prompt: For the prompt 'Sam!whump, from Gene's PoV! Bonus points if it's wing!verse!'
Notes: I really hope this ticks the boxes, Cello. Feel better soon, luv <333 Slash, whump. Written in a bit of a hurry because I forgot about the Exchange until last night. *thwaps self on head* Also, this is the first time I've written anything from Gene's POV for a while, so I hope it's not too bad.
-0-0-
“Look.” I hold my arm out, towards next door’s chimney, and Sam leans against me and watches the sparrow on it as I talk. “If yer wing feels tired, just land. ‘S only roof between us an’ it. An’ if you get into trouble, I’ll come for you.” He’s been so sodding quiet since Warren broke his wing. Emasculated. There you go, Tyler, I know long words, not such a Neanderthal, eh? But it’s bloody horrible. And I wouldn’t ever admit that to him, because I’m no poof who blurts his feelings out over a glass of Babycham.
“Once yer on the chimney, ‘old onto it tight as you can. I’ll come an’ fetch you. You poof,” I add, as an afterthought. He snorts. “So, go on then. It’s all ‘ealed now.”
“It’s a long way to start off with,” Sam says, doubtfully. His brows are pursed in that nancy-boy frown, pouting just a little. “Couldn’t I keep it to yer own chimney?”
“Got to push yerself, Sammy-boy. Else you won’t recover.” Jesus, I never had any of this nursemaiding when I was learning. Fell more times than Evel Knievel. Probably broke more bones, too. “Go on, ‘s only the length of two ‘ouses. You’ll be goin’ much further than that tomorrow.”
“Eh? No I won’t! Tomorrow I’ll be restin’.”
“In yer dreams, Tyler. Now go on.” I give him a little push, and he scurries back towards me, wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my neck.
“Geeeene,” he whines, all clingy fingers and shaking arms. “Gene, I don’t want to.”
“Tough bollocks.” Doesn’t he sodding understand? Without exercise, that broken wing’ll wither, and when they wither, it’s years to build them back up. He’d be whinging a lot more if that happened. “Look, Sammy. You fly over there, I’ll fetch you, you tell me if it ‘urt, if it did, you ‘ave tomorrow off. An’ I’ll cook dinner tonight as well, that Mexican shit you love so much. An’ give you a massage. An’ a bath,” I add, as an afterthought.
“Not that you’re tryin’ to capitalise on the situation,” Sam smiles. Thank Christ. A smile. Haven’t seen so many of those recently.
“Course not. Epitome of benevolence, me.” Two long words! Eat your heart out, Sammy-boy. “All of that for one little flight. Go on.”
“Oh, go on, then… you really do owe me, Hunt.” Sam disentangles himself from me, braces himself on the roof tiles. “You’ll be there if it goes wrong?”
“Course I will.” I flap my wings, already open and ready, and almost take off in a sudden wind. “Shit! Come on, got a nice wind now, just do it. Just jump.”
“I know ‘ow to do that, Gene,” he says softly, and his hand brushes my arm.
“Ehm…” Why is it that nothing Sam ever says makes any sense? “Right then, if you’re so confident. Three- two- one- jump!”
And he’s off, he’s sodding off, into the air like a bloody plane and he’s grinning from ear to ear, wings right out, over to my chimney, over to next door’s chimney, and out over the garden and I can feel myself smiling but I don’t bloody care because it’s Sam, he’s flying again, those little silky black wings fluttering away and he’s beautiful. Graceful, as he hangs there, waves to me, and goes for a-
Shit. No. Tyler, don’t do that- don’t try to dive in such a small-
There’s a thud, a sound like a wet cloth scraping down a window, and I leap up and swoop down and there he is, in a heap on the garden path, eyes glazed as I haul him up and escort him inside.
“Should’ve warned you about tryin’ to dive in small spaces,” I mutter as I run my hand along his wing, gently fold it in, grab a tissue to hold to his bleeding nose. “Never ends well.”
“Fanks for de dip,” Sam mutters from behind the tissue.
-0-0-
I end up giving him two massages, a bath, and dinner. The little ponce just lies there on the sofa, checking his wing every five seconds (which, thank Christ, is none the worse for his experience) and ordering me around like some bloody slave. I need water. I need some bread and butter. I need a cup of tea- ooh, would you just rub my back there, just there, thanks love, you wouldn’t draw that bath now, would you…?
But well. Every time I go to say no, to snap at the little prick, there’s this image of him broken and bleeding on his hospital bed, crying with the pain from his wing, curled up as I rub his shoulders, and my protests just wither away. I didn’t get off lightly, but he was tortured, right in front of me, and… well, I know how much a broken wing hurts. Add torture to that, and I don’t want to think any more.
So I go out and clean the window, and the smudge his mouth left on it as he slid down. Can’t help having a chuckle as I do it. For all his airs and graces and blood spatter patterns, he can be a right div.
-0-0-
“So can I do some more tomorrow?” Sam’s curled around me in bed, wings everywhere. He didn’t want to retract them, so for tonight I’ll just have to put up with mouthfuls of feathers every time I breathe in. “Do some more practice?”
“Yes, Sammy. You can.”
“An’ will you come with me this time?”
“Yes, Sammy, I will.”
“Are you actually listenin’ to what I’m sayin’?”
“No, Sammy, I’m not.”
“Bastard.”
“Yep.”
“Love you anyway.”
“Yer not catchin’ me out that way.”
“No, yer right.” He grins, wriggling closer. Like a bloody puppy, he is, never still. “I don’t want to catch you out.”
“Good. Now can I soddin’ sleep?”
“Fine.”
I shift onto my side, facing away from him, burrow into the pillows. And just as my eyelids grow heavy, there’s a rustle, and something feathery covers my shoulder and chest.
“Goodnight,” Sam whispers.
Recipient: little_cello
Rating: Green Cortina
Prompt: For the prompt 'Sam!whump, from Gene's PoV! Bonus points if it's wing!verse!'
Notes: I really hope this ticks the boxes, Cello. Feel better soon, luv <333 Slash, whump. Written in a bit of a hurry because I forgot about the Exchange until last night. *thwaps self on head* Also, this is the first time I've written anything from Gene's POV for a while, so I hope it's not too bad.
-0-0-
“Look.” I hold my arm out, towards next door’s chimney, and Sam leans against me and watches the sparrow on it as I talk. “If yer wing feels tired, just land. ‘S only roof between us an’ it. An’ if you get into trouble, I’ll come for you.” He’s been so sodding quiet since Warren broke his wing. Emasculated. There you go, Tyler, I know long words, not such a Neanderthal, eh? But it’s bloody horrible. And I wouldn’t ever admit that to him, because I’m no poof who blurts his feelings out over a glass of Babycham.
“Once yer on the chimney, ‘old onto it tight as you can. I’ll come an’ fetch you. You poof,” I add, as an afterthought. He snorts. “So, go on then. It’s all ‘ealed now.”
“It’s a long way to start off with,” Sam says, doubtfully. His brows are pursed in that nancy-boy frown, pouting just a little. “Couldn’t I keep it to yer own chimney?”
“Got to push yerself, Sammy-boy. Else you won’t recover.” Jesus, I never had any of this nursemaiding when I was learning. Fell more times than Evel Knievel. Probably broke more bones, too. “Go on, ‘s only the length of two ‘ouses. You’ll be goin’ much further than that tomorrow.”
“Eh? No I won’t! Tomorrow I’ll be restin’.”
“In yer dreams, Tyler. Now go on.” I give him a little push, and he scurries back towards me, wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my neck.
“Geeeene,” he whines, all clingy fingers and shaking arms. “Gene, I don’t want to.”
“Tough bollocks.” Doesn’t he sodding understand? Without exercise, that broken wing’ll wither, and when they wither, it’s years to build them back up. He’d be whinging a lot more if that happened. “Look, Sammy. You fly over there, I’ll fetch you, you tell me if it ‘urt, if it did, you ‘ave tomorrow off. An’ I’ll cook dinner tonight as well, that Mexican shit you love so much. An’ give you a massage. An’ a bath,” I add, as an afterthought.
“Not that you’re tryin’ to capitalise on the situation,” Sam smiles. Thank Christ. A smile. Haven’t seen so many of those recently.
“Course not. Epitome of benevolence, me.” Two long words! Eat your heart out, Sammy-boy. “All of that for one little flight. Go on.”
“Oh, go on, then… you really do owe me, Hunt.” Sam disentangles himself from me, braces himself on the roof tiles. “You’ll be there if it goes wrong?”
“Course I will.” I flap my wings, already open and ready, and almost take off in a sudden wind. “Shit! Come on, got a nice wind now, just do it. Just jump.”
“I know ‘ow to do that, Gene,” he says softly, and his hand brushes my arm.
“Ehm…” Why is it that nothing Sam ever says makes any sense? “Right then, if you’re so confident. Three- two- one- jump!”
And he’s off, he’s sodding off, into the air like a bloody plane and he’s grinning from ear to ear, wings right out, over to my chimney, over to next door’s chimney, and out over the garden and I can feel myself smiling but I don’t bloody care because it’s Sam, he’s flying again, those little silky black wings fluttering away and he’s beautiful. Graceful, as he hangs there, waves to me, and goes for a-
Shit. No. Tyler, don’t do that- don’t try to dive in such a small-
There’s a thud, a sound like a wet cloth scraping down a window, and I leap up and swoop down and there he is, in a heap on the garden path, eyes glazed as I haul him up and escort him inside.
“Should’ve warned you about tryin’ to dive in small spaces,” I mutter as I run my hand along his wing, gently fold it in, grab a tissue to hold to his bleeding nose. “Never ends well.”
“Fanks for de dip,” Sam mutters from behind the tissue.
-0-0-
I end up giving him two massages, a bath, and dinner. The little ponce just lies there on the sofa, checking his wing every five seconds (which, thank Christ, is none the worse for his experience) and ordering me around like some bloody slave. I need water. I need some bread and butter. I need a cup of tea- ooh, would you just rub my back there, just there, thanks love, you wouldn’t draw that bath now, would you…?
But well. Every time I go to say no, to snap at the little prick, there’s this image of him broken and bleeding on his hospital bed, crying with the pain from his wing, curled up as I rub his shoulders, and my protests just wither away. I didn’t get off lightly, but he was tortured, right in front of me, and… well, I know how much a broken wing hurts. Add torture to that, and I don’t want to think any more.
So I go out and clean the window, and the smudge his mouth left on it as he slid down. Can’t help having a chuckle as I do it. For all his airs and graces and blood spatter patterns, he can be a right div.
-0-0-
“So can I do some more tomorrow?” Sam’s curled around me in bed, wings everywhere. He didn’t want to retract them, so for tonight I’ll just have to put up with mouthfuls of feathers every time I breathe in. “Do some more practice?”
“Yes, Sammy. You can.”
“An’ will you come with me this time?”
“Yes, Sammy, I will.”
“Are you actually listenin’ to what I’m sayin’?”
“No, Sammy, I’m not.”
“Bastard.”
“Yep.”
“Love you anyway.”
“Yer not catchin’ me out that way.”
“No, yer right.” He grins, wriggling closer. Like a bloody puppy, he is, never still. “I don’t want to catch you out.”
“Good. Now can I soddin’ sleep?”
“Fine.”
I shift onto my side, facing away from him, burrow into the pillows. And just as my eyelids grow heavy, there’s a rustle, and something feathery covers my shoulder and chest.
“Goodnight,” Sam whispers.