July 4 prompt: travel and foreign lands
Title: The Age of Gargoyles
Author: Pompey
Universe: AU-ACD crossover with Disney’s Gargoyles.
Warnings: supernatural AU
Word count: 1089
Summary: The spell is finally complete. Heaven help our boys. Part 4/?
Prompt: July 4 - "Travel and foreign lands."
I feel like a man without a country - and indeed, for a man whose homeland is Reason and whose native tongue is Logic, I could not be further out of my element. I have seen Watson transformed into a stone statue that shattered at nightfall. I have watched his movements grow more fluid and carefree, as I know his old wounds would never permit him to be. I have observed how, lately, he tries never to turn his back to me, lest I get a better look at why his shirts and jackets no longer fit correctly.
And then, this morning.
I knew what the sound was the moment I heard it. There is no disguising the scream of a man in agony, no matter how he tries to muffle it. In an instant I was bounding up the stairs to Watson’s room. He was kneeling on the floor, clad only in trousers, and trembling fiercely. I noted that his hands were buried into the floor, squeezing the wood as though it were soft as clay. However, my attention was fixed upon the monstrous sight of two beige, bat-like wings. There were minute sprays of blood on the walls, with more blood dotting the wings and trickling from what appeared to be a ruptured membrane on his back. If my deduction was correct, then it was small wonder even my stalwart friend had cried out.
“Watson,” I whispered, stepping closer. Immediately his head came up and he snarled at me, eyes blazing an angry yellow and baring not human teeth but fangs. This was not the snarl of a man wakened at an ungodly hour on a winter’s morning or the justified pique of a man whose sensibilities I have pushed too far. Those I was used to. This was the warning of a feral creature that might just as soon tear out my throat if I ventured nearer. And yet, the feral creature in question was still Watson.
“Watson, I only wish to help you,” I said, hoping that some humanity remained in him and that I could reach it. “Please. You are bleeding. Let me staunch the wound, Doctor.”
He paused at that, and I was relieved beyond words to see that weird yellow light in his eyes fade away. But though he was looking at me directly, he seemed confused, as though he had not heard me properly.
“You are bleeding,” I repeated. “Let me help you.”
“Bleeding,” Watson echoed faintly. He blinked and finally seemed to see and hear me. “Yes. I - yes.” He looked down at his hands and drew them out of the floorboards. I was dismayed to see that his fingers had become thick, powerful claws but there was nothing I could do about it so I chose to say nothing. Instead, I offered him a hand to help pull him to his feet.
Watson jerked back me. Those terrible wings folded in on themselves like twin umbrellas. “No. Don’t touch me.”
“All right,” I agreed, not commenting that it would be extremely difficult to tend to back without touching him. “But can you make it downstairs on your own?”
“I can try,” he growled so fiercely that I did not dare say anything further. I merely followed him down the stairs, changing course only to snatch up his doctor’s bag before closing the bathroom door behind us.
*****
In the bathroom, Watson silently knelt on the tile and gripped the edge of the bathtub, allowing me full access to his back. I lit the boiler for the water heater first before giving him my full attention.
The wings were their own appendages, separate from the arms, with their own bony framework supporting a webbing of skin but no fur or hair. At the end of each wing were three claws. I noted that the shape and position of the claws of one side relative to the other meant they could interlock, rather like the clasp of a cloak. I also noted that despite the bleeding, there was no warmth or reddening of the wound itself.
“Well?” Watson muttered. “How does it look?”
My heart clenched but I forced my voice to be steady. “The bleeding is not serious. It should heal without much trouble. I shall make sure to dress it properly to ward off infection.”
“I didn’t mean - ” Watson bit back his protest and instead whispered, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me just yet,” I warned. “It needs to be washed first and I daresay it will hurt.”
“It still hurts. Just do it.”
With such encouraging words, I wet a flannel in warm water and gently took hold of the left wing. Watson shuddered only once but did not retract the wing from my grasp. The webbing was soft and supple, like the finest calfskin leather, but cool to the touch. I worked in silence, removing the dried rivulets of blood from the wings before venturing to cleanse the torn skin. Watson inhaled sharply but otherwise made no sound or movement. Finally, I applied silver nitrate and bandages with sticking plaster. When I had done all that I could think of to do, I closed the bag with a soft click.
As though that were the signal he had been awaiting, Watson folded his arms on the rim of the bathtub and rested his head against them. He still said nothing, and yet his posture - right down to the droop of his new wings - indicated nothing but despair. It was then I realized that there was still something I could do to help him.
“Watson? Watson, dear fellow, look at me, please.”
Slowly, wearily, his head rose and he half-turned to face me. His eyes were his own still but I would have rather seen that unholy yellow light in them again than the misery that was in them at that moment. Nevertheless, I pressed on.
“Watson, how tightly can you fold your wings? Enough to hide them under a pillow if you were in a wheelchair?”
I watched in some satisfaction as the misery changed into unadulterated confusion. “What?”
“Could we successfully disguise you as a badly wounded man in wheelchair?”
“I suppose so,” replied he, bewildered, “but I cannot spend the rest of my life like that.”
“No, my dear Watson, I assure you, you need only spend a few days in such a disguise. We are going back to Scotland. We are going to find that Owen Burnett and find out how to reverse this transformation.”
Author: Pompey
Universe: AU-ACD crossover with Disney’s Gargoyles.
Warnings: supernatural AU
Word count: 1089
Summary: The spell is finally complete. Heaven help our boys. Part 4/?
Prompt: July 4 - "Travel and foreign lands."
I feel like a man without a country - and indeed, for a man whose homeland is Reason and whose native tongue is Logic, I could not be further out of my element. I have seen Watson transformed into a stone statue that shattered at nightfall. I have watched his movements grow more fluid and carefree, as I know his old wounds would never permit him to be. I have observed how, lately, he tries never to turn his back to me, lest I get a better look at why his shirts and jackets no longer fit correctly.
And then, this morning.
I knew what the sound was the moment I heard it. There is no disguising the scream of a man in agony, no matter how he tries to muffle it. In an instant I was bounding up the stairs to Watson’s room. He was kneeling on the floor, clad only in trousers, and trembling fiercely. I noted that his hands were buried into the floor, squeezing the wood as though it were soft as clay. However, my attention was fixed upon the monstrous sight of two beige, bat-like wings. There were minute sprays of blood on the walls, with more blood dotting the wings and trickling from what appeared to be a ruptured membrane on his back. If my deduction was correct, then it was small wonder even my stalwart friend had cried out.
“Watson,” I whispered, stepping closer. Immediately his head came up and he snarled at me, eyes blazing an angry yellow and baring not human teeth but fangs. This was not the snarl of a man wakened at an ungodly hour on a winter’s morning or the justified pique of a man whose sensibilities I have pushed too far. Those I was used to. This was the warning of a feral creature that might just as soon tear out my throat if I ventured nearer. And yet, the feral creature in question was still Watson.
“Watson, I only wish to help you,” I said, hoping that some humanity remained in him and that I could reach it. “Please. You are bleeding. Let me staunch the wound, Doctor.”
He paused at that, and I was relieved beyond words to see that weird yellow light in his eyes fade away. But though he was looking at me directly, he seemed confused, as though he had not heard me properly.
“You are bleeding,” I repeated. “Let me help you.”
“Bleeding,” Watson echoed faintly. He blinked and finally seemed to see and hear me. “Yes. I - yes.” He looked down at his hands and drew them out of the floorboards. I was dismayed to see that his fingers had become thick, powerful claws but there was nothing I could do about it so I chose to say nothing. Instead, I offered him a hand to help pull him to his feet.
Watson jerked back me. Those terrible wings folded in on themselves like twin umbrellas. “No. Don’t touch me.”
“All right,” I agreed, not commenting that it would be extremely difficult to tend to back without touching him. “But can you make it downstairs on your own?”
“I can try,” he growled so fiercely that I did not dare say anything further. I merely followed him down the stairs, changing course only to snatch up his doctor’s bag before closing the bathroom door behind us.
*****
In the bathroom, Watson silently knelt on the tile and gripped the edge of the bathtub, allowing me full access to his back. I lit the boiler for the water heater first before giving him my full attention.
The wings were their own appendages, separate from the arms, with their own bony framework supporting a webbing of skin but no fur or hair. At the end of each wing were three claws. I noted that the shape and position of the claws of one side relative to the other meant they could interlock, rather like the clasp of a cloak. I also noted that despite the bleeding, there was no warmth or reddening of the wound itself.
“Well?” Watson muttered. “How does it look?”
My heart clenched but I forced my voice to be steady. “The bleeding is not serious. It should heal without much trouble. I shall make sure to dress it properly to ward off infection.”
“I didn’t mean - ” Watson bit back his protest and instead whispered, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me just yet,” I warned. “It needs to be washed first and I daresay it will hurt.”
“It still hurts. Just do it.”
With such encouraging words, I wet a flannel in warm water and gently took hold of the left wing. Watson shuddered only once but did not retract the wing from my grasp. The webbing was soft and supple, like the finest calfskin leather, but cool to the touch. I worked in silence, removing the dried rivulets of blood from the wings before venturing to cleanse the torn skin. Watson inhaled sharply but otherwise made no sound or movement. Finally, I applied silver nitrate and bandages with sticking plaster. When I had done all that I could think of to do, I closed the bag with a soft click.
As though that were the signal he had been awaiting, Watson folded his arms on the rim of the bathtub and rested his head against them. He still said nothing, and yet his posture - right down to the droop of his new wings - indicated nothing but despair. It was then I realized that there was still something I could do to help him.
“Watson? Watson, dear fellow, look at me, please.”
Slowly, wearily, his head rose and he half-turned to face me. His eyes were his own still but I would have rather seen that unholy yellow light in them again than the misery that was in them at that moment. Nevertheless, I pressed on.
“Watson, how tightly can you fold your wings? Enough to hide them under a pillow if you were in a wheelchair?”
I watched in some satisfaction as the misery changed into unadulterated confusion. “What?”
“Could we successfully disguise you as a badly wounded man in wheelchair?”
“I suppose so,” replied he, bewildered, “but I cannot spend the rest of my life like that.”
“No, my dear Watson, I assure you, you need only spend a few days in such a disguise. We are going back to Scotland. We are going to find that Owen Burnett and find out how to reverse this transformation.”