Fic: No Fear of Falling (2/?), Green Cortina, by little_cello
Title: No Fear of Falling - Chapter 1 (2/?)
Author: little_cello
Rating: Green Cortina
Word Count: 3300
Characters: Sam, Gene, Annie
Summary: More wings!
Notes: See, I told you I'd update! This is a great stress reliever right now. Enjoy. <3
( Part 1 - Prologue)
Chapter 1
33 years before and 30 minutes after the accident, Sam Tyler was standing in an office that used to or was going to be his but was something entirely different at that present moment. He was standing there and staring at the most magnificent pair of white wings he had ever seen. The man they were attached to was staring back, scrutinizing Sam with piercing eyes.
Sam had been about to demand to know what was going on, had even had a snarled comment on his lips along the lines of what bloody year it was supposed to be, but the sight of those wings had stopped him short, had made his eyes go wide. Even as he gazed at them, the wings moved gently, spreading, then settling down again. They formed a stark contrast to this beer-bellied, smoking man, who now said "Word in yer shell-like, pal" and before Sam could even move a finger, grabbed him by his lapels and pulled him inside his office.
Sam stumbled as the man let go of him, shoving him in the direction of a filing cabinet. Catching himself, he turned around - and no mistake, the wings were still there. Sam blinked, rubbed his eyes. Nope, still there, bristling slightly under Sam's disbelieving gaze.
"... Alright then, you gonna tell me what this is all about?”
The man's rough voice pulled Sam out of his state of paralysis. He was practically glaring at Sam, coming closer and closer until they were nose-to-nose. His chin raised, he was scrutinizing Sam intensely, who could only stare back, his eyes inevitably drawn back to the wings. In the light of this office they didn't seem so radiant anymore - off-white, rather, almost yellowy.
Sam yelped when suddenly, a tingling went through his wings and down his back, like electricity - the man had grabbed one of Sam's wings, roughly but expertly unfolding it. No one had ever touched Sam's wings. The sensation was so unexpected, so alien, that his stomach twisted with sudden nausea. Without thinking, he batted away the man's hand with more force than they both expected, judging from the man's startled expression.
“Who the hell are you?” Sam snapped, having taken several steps back, to get some distance between the two of them. His violated wing was still twitching, the other unfolding and spreading its feathers in a pitiful imitation of his opposite's wingspan. This was all wrong, so wrong, and now the man's fists were balled into Sam's shirt again, pulling him in close.
“I'm Gene Hunt, your DCI, and you'll let me have at look at those pipe cleaners of yours if you know what's good for you,” he growled, eyes blazing. Once again, Sam could only stare and swallow, taken aback by the intensity of Hunt's gaze. He must be losing it - Maya's abduction, the car (Christ, he'd been hit by a car), waking up, walking through this strange Manchester as though through a twisted dream, and now, this. This man, glaring at him for one more second before turning Sam around suddenly, his hands on his wings again, applying just enough pressure to the joints to make them spread. A tremor went through Sam at that point, muscles tensing and fists clenching, but before he could lash out again and pull back, Hunt pressed a thumb to a point exactly between the roots of Sam's wings. Sam gasped, eyes wide, and it was all he could do not to let his knees buckle underneath him as he felt himself relax. The unease was still there, his skin crawling and the hair at the back of his neck standing up, but he couldn't for the life of him muster the necessary tension to fight back.
'Hold still,' Hunt said, his terse tone of voice not at all matching the clinical way he now examined Sam's wings, stroking along the ridge, almost gently raising one of the primary feathers, running a finger along the edge. Sam couldn't help but observe that the length of his own primaries was about a fraction of those of Hunt's; even the coverts looked firm and strong, as though they were as solid as a turtle's shell. Finally he let go, and Sam stumbled away, catching himself against a hopelessly messy desk.
'Don't you dare do that again,' he panted, but Hunt wasn't listening, raising his voice so as to drown out Sam.
'Those are about as useless as me gran's fake teeth. What happened?'
Sam stared back blankly. 'What?'
Hunt reached up and plucked the cigarette from his mouth, rolling his eyes before repeating, 'What happened to those dusters of yours? Someone try and keep 'em from growing?'
Again, Sam just stared for a few moments before simply saying, 'No.'
Silence settled between them, wary on Sam's side, and completely unreadable on Hunt's. Finally, apparently satisfied for some reason (or maybe he just didn't care), the other man gave a short nod. 'Make sure you don't fling yourself off high places then. I don't carry people, not even scrawny gits like you.'
**
And that was that. No more questions were asked. Except -
'Do you feel like you're gonna heave up?'
He'd been in an accident, after all, so Hunt had sent for a 'plonk' - a woman with brown curls and gentle eyes, part of the women's department, who had proceeded to twist his head around. Her name was Annie. She couldn't see his wings, or at least she didn't comment on them, but after Hunt's close scrutiny, Sam was wary of everyone. Nothing was what it seemed, and he was desperate to regain something resembling mental equilibrium.
However, there was something about Annie that helped him keep his cool. The way she talked to him, with a quiet no-nonsense attitude, kept him grounded, and at the end of the day, she even offered to drop him off at 'his' flat.
'I'm not mad. I'm not.'
Except, how could he be so sure? Annie didn't believe him when he told her about his accident in the future, but she didn't call the men in the white coats either, and Sam was immensely grateful for that. It probably helped that he didn't mention Gene Hunt's wings - or his own pair, for that matter. He didn't need to push his luck. And he didn't want to push Annie away, not when she had gone out of her way to help him.
**
Sam sat on his bed, staring at the television set, his mind buzzing with confusion. He'd not seen Hunt again after he'd left him 'in charge'. No one else Sam encountered owned wings, so he was half ready to believe he'd only imagined what had happened in Hunt's office... But his own wings tingled at the thought of that encounter, a faint feeling of nausea pooling in his stomach. He moved them until he was able to grab a hold of one of them, not unlike Hunt had done. The feathers rustled as he brushed his fingers across them, smoothing out a few creases. He'd never particularly bothered to 'groom' his wings, but suddenly, the urge was there - to take proper care of them.
Once again, he noticed how they didn't reflect light at all. There were no shadows, no highlights, nothing. When he was in his late teens, he'd taken to observing birds with black feathers like his own, had made note of how their coat turned shiny whenever they splashed themselves with water, or when the light caught them in a certain way. That never happened with Sam's wings - to the contrary, they even seemed to absorb light. At one point, he had taken that as a sign that they were, in fact, not real at all, but then he had plucked a feather and that had hurt.
Suddenly, he was glad that Hunt hadn't deployed the same method of examination as Sam had back then.
With a groan, Sam let go of his wings and rested his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes. None of this made any sense. Not the hospital sounds, not this case - the fact that he was expected to perform his job as though nothing had happened -, not the fact that Gene Hunt had a pair of bloody massive wings.
Sam shook his head, looked up sluggishly, his fingers dragging across his face. The fact that he had developed a headache really didn't help the situation. Maybe if he went to sleep, he'd wake up in his flat in 2006, and it would all have been one incredibly weird dream, including TV presenters who seemed to be talking about him.
**Sam didn't wake up in his flat in 2006. He woke up in that flat in 1973, to a new day of backwards policing.
Policing.
Whatever else Sam might or might not be, he was a policeman. Maya had told him that he was a crappy boyfriend, and Sam knew that he was unable to fly, but if there was one thing he was really good at, it was policing.
So Sam went back to the station. There was a case to solve, after all. Maybe that was the key to getting away from here - solve this murder, find the killer. Save Maya.
**It wasn't that easy, of course. They found the killer, they arrested him before he could claim Dora as his next victim. And, in a bizarre twist, it was Sam who sealed his fate by throwing away the doctor's note he had discovered. He didn't know how to feel about that, had no idea if it would help his situation at all. But he had to try, didn't he? Anything to get back home. And now...
The definitive step. Sam didn't fancy throwing himself under a bus, but now that he was on the roof of the police station, his determination faded away quickly. For as long as he could remember, he'd been afraid of heights. Not in the way people usually are scared of high places, of the vertigo caused by looking down - it was a deep, existential fear. On the internet, he had read about birds that had had part of their wings amputated and as a result displayed massive panic attacks in response to being confronted with heights. It wasn't easy to admit, but Sam had had to deal with similar symptoms. He had done his best to suppress it through the years, of course, but it was difficult. There was a reason why his flats had always been on ground level.
He'd thought that the promise of being able to go home would have made this easy, but Sam was nowhere near the edge and found that he couldn't take a single step further towards it. I want to go home, he thought, but his body wouldn't move.
It was Hunt who found him like this, much later. A faint sound, like wind gently rustling through leaves, made Sam turn his head, and he saw the DCI strolling towards him, wings spread slightly, as if to deliberately make the evening breeze stroke through the feathers.
'What's this about then?' he asked, lighting a cigarette.
Sam didn't answer, returning his gaze to stare towards the edge. It would just be a step... and another... and one more... step after step, right up to the laughably inadequate barrier...
'Oi. I asked you a question.'
Sam turned around, only to find that Hunt had moved all the way into his personal space again, standing far too close.
Suddenly, he realized that he didn't want to look at the edge anymore. It was much easier to concentrate on Hunt, made his heartbeat slow down a little and his throat less tight. Keeping his voice calm and controlled, Sam said, 'Enjoying the view.'
Hunt raised an eyebrow before saying, 'No, you're not. That's the look of a deer caught in the headlights of a bloody monster truck you've got there.'
Sam snorted. This wasn't the first time that Hunt seemed to look right through his defenses and into the core of his being. It was bloody unnerving, especially considering he barely knew the man. 'That a hunch you've got?'
'No, just more experience than a spring chicken like you could ever have,' Hunt retorted, unperturbed by Sam's hostility. He bristled now, the words hitting a strange, overly sensitive spot, even distracting him from the anxiety that was still pulsing away inside him. Before he could act on it, though, Hunt continued, 'You fancy staying up here all night though, be my guest.'
Sam stared at him. 'What are you trying to say? Guv?'
Hunt took a drag from his cigarette. 'Stop being so bloody dramatic, Tyler. I don't know what it is that you've got up your jacksie, or what happened to your dusters, but at the end of the day, you're a detective, and you're my DI. I need my DI to be able to do his job.' He paused, and something about him... changed. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd say Hunt's expression softened. 'And if you want to give your wings a bit of a work out, do it somewhere that won't break every bone in your body if it goes wrong.'
This gave Sam pause, and he frowned, looking away, back towards the edge. They both remained silent for several seconds, until Sam turned his gaze back to Hunt. 'You thought I was going to jump?' Was he really that easy to read?
Hunt pulled his lips into a small pout. 'Don't know what you were gonna do. And I'm not your mam, so it's none of my business, but you don't seem like the sensible type. Better check than have to scrape your sorry remains off the tarmac.'
The morbidity of this statement should have offended him, Sam knew, but for some reason all it did was make him want to laugh. He shook his head. 'You say that, but you act an awful lot like a mother hen.'
Hunt's eyes narrowed dangerously, and for a moment Sam thought that there was going to be another punch-up, but then the larger man snorted, taking his cigarette and throwing it to the ground, stamping it out. 'Suit yourself.'
He made to turn around, to leave - and Sam said, 'Wait.'
Hunt turned back, raising a questioning eyebrow. Sam stared back at him. He didn't know why he had stopped Hunt. His eyes travelled up, settled on Hunt's wings - he had retracted them as the wind grew stronger, but they still looked impressive. And Hunt himself looked like owning a pair of wings was the most natural thing in the world. Sam found himself wondering whether he went to fly across Manchester regularly.
Sam focused on Hunt's face again. The words left his mouth before he could stop himself or thinking about them.
'What should I do, Guv?'
Hunt regarded him silently, his expression unreadable. Maybe he was trying to work out what Sam meant - good luck to him, because Sam himself didn't know either. After a few seconds, he shrugged and said, 'Could go down the pub.'
Sam hesitated, then nodded.
**
They ended up in the pub indeed. They ended up staying until Nelson had gone upstairs, trusting Sam to lock the door when they left.
'Give it up then,' Hunt suddenly said, entirely out of context. Sam looked up with raised eyebrows, having previously focused on what he had reason to believe was his fourth pint of bitter.
'You what?'
Hunt nodded at him, and it took Sam a moment to realize that he was gesturing at his wings, hanging down his back, slack as rags.
'Oh.' Sam shook his head and took a swig of his beer, grimacing afterwards. 'Told you. No story there. They just never grew.'
Hunt gave a non-committal grunt, evidently waiting for Sam to go on. And something about that did make him want to continue to talk. 'I thought that was normal. You know - where - where I'm from, people don't have wings.'
Sam looked up to see that Hunt had raised both his eyebrows, visibly surprised. 'What, no wings in Hyde? Knew it was a ruddy miserable place, but that takes the cake.' He emptied his own pint before saying. 'That why your jaw dropped to the floor when you laid eyes on mine then?'
Sam simply nodded.
'Huh. Well, that explains a lot. Always knew they were magnificent, but you looked like you'd seen a ghost.'
It was odd - from what Sam had observed during the last two days, Hunt wasn't the type to talk about things, if his hands-on methods were anything to go by. Yet, as they sat here on their bar stools, it was as though he was a completely different man; still gruff and practical, blunt to the point of being rude, but at the same time, there was a sense of patience and fundamental understanding. If Sam didn't have such problems with the DCI's general attitude and worldview , he'd have found his presence soothing.
He realized he was staring at Hunt's wings once more. They were spread out comfortably, mirroring the man's relaxed posture. Sam had come to think of the yellowy tinge to them as nicotine-stains, and for some reason that thought amused him immensely. Without thinking, Sam reached out, but then stopped himself at the last moment, noticing the way Hunt was looking at him.
'Er. Mind if I - if I....?' He nodded at Hunt's wings a little helplessly, almost shyly. The thought that he wasn't the only human with wings attached to him still amazed him, and he suddenly had the increasing urge to make sure that what he was seeing was indeed real.
Hunt regarded him silently for another moment before giving a short nod. 'Go on then.'
Still somewhat hesitantly, Sam extended his hand - stopped himself, just a few inches away from the feathers - and then, finally, made contact. And was surprised by the warmth that radiated off the feathers, surprised by how soft and smooth they felt. How strong.
Hunt raised his wings towards Sam, making it easier for him to explore them. The coverts weren't as sturdy as they looked - they felt light and fluffy under Sam's fingers, and he could feel a tremor running through the wing as Sam stroked close to the ridge. He heard Hunt snort, and realized that most likely, he had found a ticklish spot. The thought made him smile.
Sam withdrew his hand, feeling oddly calm. 'This is amazing.'
Hunt raised his chin, a proud glint in his eyes. 'Most impressive pair in Manchester.'
Sam grinned, then asked before he could stop himself, 'Do they work? I mean, do you... fly?'
The other man answered without hesitation. 'Course I do! What's the point of it otherwise, eh?'
'What if people see you?'
'People don't see what they don't expect to see,' Hunt simply said, before adding, 'Doing it at night helps too.'
Sam nodded. That made sense. What a novelty, though - wings that actually carried their human owner... His own pair twitched, rising and spreading slightly, as though intent to show Sam that they weren't as useless as he always thought. But he knew better. He had tried, several times, when he was a child and in his early teens. After breaking a leg, he'd stopped.
He raised his pint and downed the rest of his beer. It was strange - he still felt horribly out of place. He still wanted to go home.
But knowing that he had finally found someone like him, someone who understood a part of his being that no one else had ever seen, made him feel a little more at ease. Maybe he'd finally find some answers to questions he never thought he would be able to ask at all. And for all his gruffness, and despite their differences, it seemed like Hunt - Gene - would be willing to help Sam out.
( Chapter 2)
Author: little_cello
Rating: Green Cortina
Word Count: 3300
Characters: Sam, Gene, Annie
Summary: More wings!
Notes: See, I told you I'd update! This is a great stress reliever right now. Enjoy. <3
( Part 1 - Prologue)
Chapter 1
33 years before and 30 minutes after the accident, Sam Tyler was standing in an office that used to or was going to be his but was something entirely different at that present moment. He was standing there and staring at the most magnificent pair of white wings he had ever seen. The man they were attached to was staring back, scrutinizing Sam with piercing eyes.
Sam had been about to demand to know what was going on, had even had a snarled comment on his lips along the lines of what bloody year it was supposed to be, but the sight of those wings had stopped him short, had made his eyes go wide. Even as he gazed at them, the wings moved gently, spreading, then settling down again. They formed a stark contrast to this beer-bellied, smoking man, who now said "Word in yer shell-like, pal" and before Sam could even move a finger, grabbed him by his lapels and pulled him inside his office.
Sam stumbled as the man let go of him, shoving him in the direction of a filing cabinet. Catching himself, he turned around - and no mistake, the wings were still there. Sam blinked, rubbed his eyes. Nope, still there, bristling slightly under Sam's disbelieving gaze.
"... Alright then, you gonna tell me what this is all about?”
The man's rough voice pulled Sam out of his state of paralysis. He was practically glaring at Sam, coming closer and closer until they were nose-to-nose. His chin raised, he was scrutinizing Sam intensely, who could only stare back, his eyes inevitably drawn back to the wings. In the light of this office they didn't seem so radiant anymore - off-white, rather, almost yellowy.
Sam yelped when suddenly, a tingling went through his wings and down his back, like electricity - the man had grabbed one of Sam's wings, roughly but expertly unfolding it. No one had ever touched Sam's wings. The sensation was so unexpected, so alien, that his stomach twisted with sudden nausea. Without thinking, he batted away the man's hand with more force than they both expected, judging from the man's startled expression.
“Who the hell are you?” Sam snapped, having taken several steps back, to get some distance between the two of them. His violated wing was still twitching, the other unfolding and spreading its feathers in a pitiful imitation of his opposite's wingspan. This was all wrong, so wrong, and now the man's fists were balled into Sam's shirt again, pulling him in close.
“I'm Gene Hunt, your DCI, and you'll let me have at look at those pipe cleaners of yours if you know what's good for you,” he growled, eyes blazing. Once again, Sam could only stare and swallow, taken aback by the intensity of Hunt's gaze. He must be losing it - Maya's abduction, the car (Christ, he'd been hit by a car), waking up, walking through this strange Manchester as though through a twisted dream, and now, this. This man, glaring at him for one more second before turning Sam around suddenly, his hands on his wings again, applying just enough pressure to the joints to make them spread. A tremor went through Sam at that point, muscles tensing and fists clenching, but before he could lash out again and pull back, Hunt pressed a thumb to a point exactly between the roots of Sam's wings. Sam gasped, eyes wide, and it was all he could do not to let his knees buckle underneath him as he felt himself relax. The unease was still there, his skin crawling and the hair at the back of his neck standing up, but he couldn't for the life of him muster the necessary tension to fight back.
'Hold still,' Hunt said, his terse tone of voice not at all matching the clinical way he now examined Sam's wings, stroking along the ridge, almost gently raising one of the primary feathers, running a finger along the edge. Sam couldn't help but observe that the length of his own primaries was about a fraction of those of Hunt's; even the coverts looked firm and strong, as though they were as solid as a turtle's shell. Finally he let go, and Sam stumbled away, catching himself against a hopelessly messy desk.
'Don't you dare do that again,' he panted, but Hunt wasn't listening, raising his voice so as to drown out Sam.
'Those are about as useless as me gran's fake teeth. What happened?'
Sam stared back blankly. 'What?'
Hunt reached up and plucked the cigarette from his mouth, rolling his eyes before repeating, 'What happened to those dusters of yours? Someone try and keep 'em from growing?'
Again, Sam just stared for a few moments before simply saying, 'No.'
Silence settled between them, wary on Sam's side, and completely unreadable on Hunt's. Finally, apparently satisfied for some reason (or maybe he just didn't care), the other man gave a short nod. 'Make sure you don't fling yourself off high places then. I don't carry people, not even scrawny gits like you.'
**
And that was that. No more questions were asked. Except -
'Do you feel like you're gonna heave up?'
He'd been in an accident, after all, so Hunt had sent for a 'plonk' - a woman with brown curls and gentle eyes, part of the women's department, who had proceeded to twist his head around. Her name was Annie. She couldn't see his wings, or at least she didn't comment on them, but after Hunt's close scrutiny, Sam was wary of everyone. Nothing was what it seemed, and he was desperate to regain something resembling mental equilibrium.
However, there was something about Annie that helped him keep his cool. The way she talked to him, with a quiet no-nonsense attitude, kept him grounded, and at the end of the day, she even offered to drop him off at 'his' flat.
'I'm not mad. I'm not.'
Except, how could he be so sure? Annie didn't believe him when he told her about his accident in the future, but she didn't call the men in the white coats either, and Sam was immensely grateful for that. It probably helped that he didn't mention Gene Hunt's wings - or his own pair, for that matter. He didn't need to push his luck. And he didn't want to push Annie away, not when she had gone out of her way to help him.
**
Sam sat on his bed, staring at the television set, his mind buzzing with confusion. He'd not seen Hunt again after he'd left him 'in charge'. No one else Sam encountered owned wings, so he was half ready to believe he'd only imagined what had happened in Hunt's office... But his own wings tingled at the thought of that encounter, a faint feeling of nausea pooling in his stomach. He moved them until he was able to grab a hold of one of them, not unlike Hunt had done. The feathers rustled as he brushed his fingers across them, smoothing out a few creases. He'd never particularly bothered to 'groom' his wings, but suddenly, the urge was there - to take proper care of them.
Once again, he noticed how they didn't reflect light at all. There were no shadows, no highlights, nothing. When he was in his late teens, he'd taken to observing birds with black feathers like his own, had made note of how their coat turned shiny whenever they splashed themselves with water, or when the light caught them in a certain way. That never happened with Sam's wings - to the contrary, they even seemed to absorb light. At one point, he had taken that as a sign that they were, in fact, not real at all, but then he had plucked a feather and that had hurt.
Suddenly, he was glad that Hunt hadn't deployed the same method of examination as Sam had back then.
With a groan, Sam let go of his wings and rested his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes. None of this made any sense. Not the hospital sounds, not this case - the fact that he was expected to perform his job as though nothing had happened -, not the fact that Gene Hunt had a pair of bloody massive wings.
Sam shook his head, looked up sluggishly, his fingers dragging across his face. The fact that he had developed a headache really didn't help the situation. Maybe if he went to sleep, he'd wake up in his flat in 2006, and it would all have been one incredibly weird dream, including TV presenters who seemed to be talking about him.
**Sam didn't wake up in his flat in 2006. He woke up in that flat in 1973, to a new day of backwards policing.
Policing.
Whatever else Sam might or might not be, he was a policeman. Maya had told him that he was a crappy boyfriend, and Sam knew that he was unable to fly, but if there was one thing he was really good at, it was policing.
So Sam went back to the station. There was a case to solve, after all. Maybe that was the key to getting away from here - solve this murder, find the killer. Save Maya.
**It wasn't that easy, of course. They found the killer, they arrested him before he could claim Dora as his next victim. And, in a bizarre twist, it was Sam who sealed his fate by throwing away the doctor's note he had discovered. He didn't know how to feel about that, had no idea if it would help his situation at all. But he had to try, didn't he? Anything to get back home. And now...
The definitive step. Sam didn't fancy throwing himself under a bus, but now that he was on the roof of the police station, his determination faded away quickly. For as long as he could remember, he'd been afraid of heights. Not in the way people usually are scared of high places, of the vertigo caused by looking down - it was a deep, existential fear. On the internet, he had read about birds that had had part of their wings amputated and as a result displayed massive panic attacks in response to being confronted with heights. It wasn't easy to admit, but Sam had had to deal with similar symptoms. He had done his best to suppress it through the years, of course, but it was difficult. There was a reason why his flats had always been on ground level.
He'd thought that the promise of being able to go home would have made this easy, but Sam was nowhere near the edge and found that he couldn't take a single step further towards it. I want to go home, he thought, but his body wouldn't move.
It was Hunt who found him like this, much later. A faint sound, like wind gently rustling through leaves, made Sam turn his head, and he saw the DCI strolling towards him, wings spread slightly, as if to deliberately make the evening breeze stroke through the feathers.
'What's this about then?' he asked, lighting a cigarette.
Sam didn't answer, returning his gaze to stare towards the edge. It would just be a step... and another... and one more... step after step, right up to the laughably inadequate barrier...
'Oi. I asked you a question.'
Sam turned around, only to find that Hunt had moved all the way into his personal space again, standing far too close.
Suddenly, he realized that he didn't want to look at the edge anymore. It was much easier to concentrate on Hunt, made his heartbeat slow down a little and his throat less tight. Keeping his voice calm and controlled, Sam said, 'Enjoying the view.'
Hunt raised an eyebrow before saying, 'No, you're not. That's the look of a deer caught in the headlights of a bloody monster truck you've got there.'
Sam snorted. This wasn't the first time that Hunt seemed to look right through his defenses and into the core of his being. It was bloody unnerving, especially considering he barely knew the man. 'That a hunch you've got?'
'No, just more experience than a spring chicken like you could ever have,' Hunt retorted, unperturbed by Sam's hostility. He bristled now, the words hitting a strange, overly sensitive spot, even distracting him from the anxiety that was still pulsing away inside him. Before he could act on it, though, Hunt continued, 'You fancy staying up here all night though, be my guest.'
Sam stared at him. 'What are you trying to say? Guv?'
Hunt took a drag from his cigarette. 'Stop being so bloody dramatic, Tyler. I don't know what it is that you've got up your jacksie, or what happened to your dusters, but at the end of the day, you're a detective, and you're my DI. I need my DI to be able to do his job.' He paused, and something about him... changed. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd say Hunt's expression softened. 'And if you want to give your wings a bit of a work out, do it somewhere that won't break every bone in your body if it goes wrong.'
This gave Sam pause, and he frowned, looking away, back towards the edge. They both remained silent for several seconds, until Sam turned his gaze back to Hunt. 'You thought I was going to jump?' Was he really that easy to read?
Hunt pulled his lips into a small pout. 'Don't know what you were gonna do. And I'm not your mam, so it's none of my business, but you don't seem like the sensible type. Better check than have to scrape your sorry remains off the tarmac.'
The morbidity of this statement should have offended him, Sam knew, but for some reason all it did was make him want to laugh. He shook his head. 'You say that, but you act an awful lot like a mother hen.'
Hunt's eyes narrowed dangerously, and for a moment Sam thought that there was going to be another punch-up, but then the larger man snorted, taking his cigarette and throwing it to the ground, stamping it out. 'Suit yourself.'
He made to turn around, to leave - and Sam said, 'Wait.'
Hunt turned back, raising a questioning eyebrow. Sam stared back at him. He didn't know why he had stopped Hunt. His eyes travelled up, settled on Hunt's wings - he had retracted them as the wind grew stronger, but they still looked impressive. And Hunt himself looked like owning a pair of wings was the most natural thing in the world. Sam found himself wondering whether he went to fly across Manchester regularly.
Sam focused on Hunt's face again. The words left his mouth before he could stop himself or thinking about them.
'What should I do, Guv?'
Hunt regarded him silently, his expression unreadable. Maybe he was trying to work out what Sam meant - good luck to him, because Sam himself didn't know either. After a few seconds, he shrugged and said, 'Could go down the pub.'
Sam hesitated, then nodded.
**
They ended up in the pub indeed. They ended up staying until Nelson had gone upstairs, trusting Sam to lock the door when they left.
'Give it up then,' Hunt suddenly said, entirely out of context. Sam looked up with raised eyebrows, having previously focused on what he had reason to believe was his fourth pint of bitter.
'You what?'
Hunt nodded at him, and it took Sam a moment to realize that he was gesturing at his wings, hanging down his back, slack as rags.
'Oh.' Sam shook his head and took a swig of his beer, grimacing afterwards. 'Told you. No story there. They just never grew.'
Hunt gave a non-committal grunt, evidently waiting for Sam to go on. And something about that did make him want to continue to talk. 'I thought that was normal. You know - where - where I'm from, people don't have wings.'
Sam looked up to see that Hunt had raised both his eyebrows, visibly surprised. 'What, no wings in Hyde? Knew it was a ruddy miserable place, but that takes the cake.' He emptied his own pint before saying. 'That why your jaw dropped to the floor when you laid eyes on mine then?'
Sam simply nodded.
'Huh. Well, that explains a lot. Always knew they were magnificent, but you looked like you'd seen a ghost.'
It was odd - from what Sam had observed during the last two days, Hunt wasn't the type to talk about things, if his hands-on methods were anything to go by. Yet, as they sat here on their bar stools, it was as though he was a completely different man; still gruff and practical, blunt to the point of being rude, but at the same time, there was a sense of patience and fundamental understanding. If Sam didn't have such problems with the DCI's general attitude and worldview , he'd have found his presence soothing.
He realized he was staring at Hunt's wings once more. They were spread out comfortably, mirroring the man's relaxed posture. Sam had come to think of the yellowy tinge to them as nicotine-stains, and for some reason that thought amused him immensely. Without thinking, Sam reached out, but then stopped himself at the last moment, noticing the way Hunt was looking at him.
'Er. Mind if I - if I....?' He nodded at Hunt's wings a little helplessly, almost shyly. The thought that he wasn't the only human with wings attached to him still amazed him, and he suddenly had the increasing urge to make sure that what he was seeing was indeed real.
Hunt regarded him silently for another moment before giving a short nod. 'Go on then.'
Still somewhat hesitantly, Sam extended his hand - stopped himself, just a few inches away from the feathers - and then, finally, made contact. And was surprised by the warmth that radiated off the feathers, surprised by how soft and smooth they felt. How strong.
Hunt raised his wings towards Sam, making it easier for him to explore them. The coverts weren't as sturdy as they looked - they felt light and fluffy under Sam's fingers, and he could feel a tremor running through the wing as Sam stroked close to the ridge. He heard Hunt snort, and realized that most likely, he had found a ticklish spot. The thought made him smile.
Sam withdrew his hand, feeling oddly calm. 'This is amazing.'
Hunt raised his chin, a proud glint in his eyes. 'Most impressive pair in Manchester.'
Sam grinned, then asked before he could stop himself, 'Do they work? I mean, do you... fly?'
The other man answered without hesitation. 'Course I do! What's the point of it otherwise, eh?'
'What if people see you?'
'People don't see what they don't expect to see,' Hunt simply said, before adding, 'Doing it at night helps too.'
Sam nodded. That made sense. What a novelty, though - wings that actually carried their human owner... His own pair twitched, rising and spreading slightly, as though intent to show Sam that they weren't as useless as he always thought. But he knew better. He had tried, several times, when he was a child and in his early teens. After breaking a leg, he'd stopped.
He raised his pint and downed the rest of his beer. It was strange - he still felt horribly out of place. He still wanted to go home.
But knowing that he had finally found someone like him, someone who understood a part of his being that no one else had ever seen, made him feel a little more at ease. Maybe he'd finally find some answers to questions he never thought he would be able to ask at all. And for all his gruffness, and despite their differences, it seemed like Hunt - Gene - would be willing to help Sam out.
( Chapter 2)