Chapter One
Jon had woken up from his coma to find himself changed. It wasn’t until he’d tried to move that he’d noticed the walls of iridescent green that framed his bony body, the pool of shimmering eyes that spread beneath him. He’d looked to Basira, almost shaking in horror, and she’d had to explain to him that somehow, during his coma, he’d grown a peacock’s wings and tail. Another cruel gift from the Eye.
The first time he’d walked anywhere after waking up, Jon had experienced a quiet thrill at the way the feathers trailed after him like a bridal veil. There were still times, in his respites between horrors, when Jon caught a glimpse of his reflection in something and for a moment felt regal, almost beautiful. His horror killed these feelings quickly, but Jon was getting desperate for relief from the crushing awfulness of his new reality, so he found himself swallowing the self-loathing to let himself have a few seconds of something soft and wondering.
Jon supposed it was a good thing he lived in the Archives now, as he didn’t think he could have navigated a commute like this. It was humiliating, the way he shed now. At first he’d tried to pick up the feathers he found, but before long he just left them as they lay. It was painful to be reminded of his own inhumanity like this. His tail began just below his waist and fanned out to trail far behind him, and the wings began just below his shoulder blades. They were both the garish colors of peacock plumage, except for the eyes on his tail, which burned green against velvety black. Jon tried wearing skirts at first, which definitely helped with the odd looks, but the moment he felt threatened or hungry the feathers would come up and take the skirt with them. His dignity couldn’t take it. Jon hadn’t made any effort to learn more about the kind of bird he resembled now, but he was grateful to not have the same absurd proportions; fully fanned, his tail feathers only doubled his height.
He still left for groceries, sometimes. Mostly just cigarettes and tea. His need to eat may be fading, but Jon was grateful he still had the thin comfort of sleep. He refused to think of how long that might be the case.
It must have been almost two in the morning when Jon decided something had to change. He’d never been one for self reflection in the past, but his long nights and his close brushes with death—not to mention the losses he’d experienced—had sparked more deep thinking than Jon had ever put himself through in his life. That night, he’d been in the middle of an insomnia-fueled drug store visit when his eyes caught on a bottle of nail polish that shone with a turquoise iridescence under the harsh fluorescent lights. Jon picked it up.
The thing was, Jon was desperate. The thought of making peace with his new inhuman characteristics filled him with the same repulsion he felt whenever he heard the phrase ‘self-love,’ but Jon ached. He ached all over. He ached for the peace of mind he barely remembered from his early childhood. He ached for the memory of looking down at his naked body and seeing it soft and scarless. He ached for the way he’d felt when he’d pierced his ears in Uni and watched his new studs sparkle as he turned his head in front of his bathroom mirror. Jon had hated everything about himself for so long, and he was so tired of the way it felt. The normal rules didn’t apply to him anymore. Maybe, just maybe, that meant he could change. Just once. Just this, and just on his own terms. God, he needed it.
Jon paid for the polish and a pack of cigarettes with shaking hands. As he held up the brush, back in his office, the shimmer of the paint trembled in the air.
His first attempt at doing his nails was a mess. Even so, Jon found himself staring at the result with eyes that burned dangerously. His hands may have been scarred and bony, but his nails gleamed like jewels. The smell of polish filled his nose for the next several hours.
Sleep came easily to him that night.
— — —
As it turned out, Elias had kept sending him his salary for the six months he’d been trapped somewhere in his own body. Jon almost wheezed when he’d logged into his bank account and seen the number there. Of course, his apartment was gone and so was everything he’d ever owned, and his body wasn’t his own anymore, so it had taken a while for Jon to get around to using some of that cash.
Clothes weren’t that much of an issue. His emergency bag at work had a few changes, enough for him to always be in clean clothes, and if there was one upside to his transformation, it was that he seemed to sweat much less. Besides, Jon was always in the Archives, leaving only early enough in the morning that the only people he’d run into would be night shift workers who were not paid enough to question a small ugly man with peacock wings and tail.
But Jon began to think more about clothes as time passed. Happiness was far out of his grasp at this point, but Jon thought maybe, if he chose carefully, the clothes he wore could make him feel content, possibly even settled.
As Jon studied his nails, now old enough that the polish on his skin had washed off, he made a decision. He was going to pursue anything that gave him even a fleeting pleasant feeling about himself. His early flashes of appreciation for the new additions to his appearance might hold his salvation, and Jon was too desperate to pass it by.
— — —
Rosie was kind enough not to pry when Jon began receiving shipments, some of which were from luxury brands. She had also been kind enough not to comment on his new appendages so far, and Jon admired the steely grasp she kept on her curiosity.
Jon was still getting into trouble, himself. You could learn a thing or two from her, he thought bitterly, before gritting his teeth and softening his mental words. Jon wouldn’t punish the Admiral if he got his paws somewhere they didn’t belong, and Jon was trying to extend that same gentleness to himself. It hurt, but it was a good kind of discomfort, like digging his knuckle into a bruise.
Back to the packages: Jon had plenty of money, a complicated relationship with death, and a long list of things he’d never let himself try. The combination was leading him in some interesting directions. Now, when his social interaction was as minimal as it could be, and his job security was as certain as it could possibly be, Jon felt strangely free. In another life, before he’d woken up a monster, Jon might have found it in himself to be ashamed of these clothes he’d bought, but now Jon was free in every way to savor the cool silk and lace and denim and leather he pulled from his packages.
God only knew where his employees were. They usually ignored him anyway, so Jon felt only a little nervous walking from his office to the employee bathroom mirror to see his new outfit.
Jon knew the pieces didn’t go together. He’d picked them out based on the way he thought they’d make him feel, and sure enough, as he’d slipped the pale silk camisole over his head, buttoning the little row of buttons under his wings, and as he’d pulled on the lace briefs and the massively baggy velvet cargo pants, Jon felt…new. He’d spread out his wings carefully, mindful of his bookshelves, and thought that maybe he could be happy.
He peeked through his office door and didn’t see anyone, so he let himself spread his tail feathers wide to sweep across the floor as he walked. Horror welled up from within him again, but he shoved past it and let himself feel. It may have been mid-morning, but the Archives felt silent, and when he saw his reflection, Jon felt like the only person in the world.
…Jon needed a full length mirror.
Chapter Two
“Jon?”
He flinched, and the eyeliner in his hand made a jagged line down his cheek.
“Y–yes? Melanie?”
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Um, I thought that was rather obvious.”
Melanie’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been doing all sorts of things lately. You’re starting to freak us out.”
“Oh. Sorry?”
She studied him for a minute. When she spoke next, her voice was softer. “If this is your way of…dealing with everything, that’s fine. I just—I can’t help but wonder—”
Melanie cut herself off. It looked like she didn’t know what to do with her hands.
“With Sasha. What happened. You’ll have to forgive me for being cautious.”
Jon shrunk a bit at the reminder. He felt the old weight of that pain drag at his face. “Right. Of course. And I’m sure the…my new parts aren’t helping, either.”
Melanie seemed to be trying her best at a wry grin, but it just looked pained. “Yeah.”
They watched each other for a minute, Melanie hesitating and Jon not brave enough to take his eyes off her. Finally Melanie spoke.
“I, um, used to be really into that stuff. Makeup. As long as you’re not something that’s waiting to eat us, or whatever, I could maybe share some tips?”
Jon stared.
“Jon?”
“Oh, sorry. Yes, please. You can probably tell, I don’t really know what I’m doing.”
Melanie glanced at his phone propped up on the bathroom counter, screen still lit with a paused tutorial. “Can’t you just Know how?”
Jon winced. “I would really, really rather not.”
Melanie seemed surprised and she nodded, pensieve. Jon felt naked under her gaze. He wondered what she was seeing.
It was a relief when she turned to leave.
— — —
Jon had claimed an entire supply closet in the Archives. He’d had to clear out a stack of ancient newspapers and what smelled like empty gasoline cans and a few pieces of broken furniture, and he’d had to do a thorough cleaning before he even let himself think about filling it with his nice clothes, but it worked. He’d stashed a full-length mirror in a corner near his cot, and he was grateful to Basira for not saying anything when her eyes caught on it.
Surprisingly, things had been better lately. Jon still felt spread thin, and nothing he did could erase the sources of his anxiety, but it almost felt like he had armor now. He applied nail polish and blackberry-purple lipstick like sigils. He pulled on gorgeous fabrics like he was performing a ritual. He swallowed his harsh thoughts like communion. The results had been wonderful so far, but it was really the act of choosing something, of remaking himself on his own terms, that calmed and directed his scattered personhood.
Jon wondered idly what Elias thought of him now. The man had no way of enforcing any kind of dress code from where he was, and the thought amused Jon whenever he considered a new direction for his exploration.
He’d spent lots of time poring over tutorials by now, but his hands still shook as he brushed the black dye into his hair. There were few parts of his appearance Jon actually valued, but if anything damaged his hair he might actually cry. His fear turned out to be unfounded as he washed out his hair a few hours later. Jon spent several minutes just staring at the lack of gray. It changed his face, he thought wonderingly, to something he hadn’t seen since before he’d even heard of the Archives.
It was well past midnight at that point, but Jon felt like celebrating. He painted on his favorite look, smoothed down his feathers as best he could, and picked out something he’d been terrified to try—a long, backless slinky dress. In his past life, he’d never have gone for something like this, but, well, it’s not like he had a professional appearance to maintain anymore.
Jon found himself fervently grateful that no one was around as he stood in front of his mirror, admiring the way the dress shimmered like gasoline. Self consciousness with the intensity of nausea crawled up his spine as he fanned out his wings and tail to frame his body, but it faded quickly when he took in his appearance.
The image he saw froze in his mind, held there by an emotion he’d never felt at this strength. Jon had always assumed something as strong as beauty was beyond him, and maybe it still was, but in his exhausted mind, he had trouble finding a different word for his reflection. The low light from a desk lamp propped on a filing cabinet lit his reflection from the side, and he shone. His feathers glittered behind him in a rich green-blue-gold wall. He thought of Klimt, and cried.
Chapter Three
Jon only tried to fly once.
It had been a late, late night alone in the Archives a few days after he woke up, and the building felt like a mausoleum, but Jon couldn’t decide who it was for. He was feeling tight, the world blurring around him, all of his senses pinpointed on the way his existence ground against the inside of his skull. He floated through the dark Institute, following directions pressed into his mind by something he didn’t recognize yet.
Jon had felt many things as he leaned over the ledge of the Institute and watched something flutter in the grimy alleyway next to the building. He supposed he might as well see if he could fly.
It hadn’t worked. At the time, Jon was too hollowed out to feel anything other than dizzy as his feet hit the ground harder than they would have if it hadn’t been such a clumsy glide. Jon supposed he was the wrong weight for any outcome but a muddled in-between, an unspecial compromise.
— — —
It took months before that memory began to scare him. At first, it was a quiet whisper of anxiety that made him turn his thoughts quickly to other things, but after spending an afternoon with Melanie teaching him how to do a perfect smokey eye, and after spending a lunch break with Basira at Melanie’s urging and actually coming out unscathed, the memory chilled Jon more and more. He and Melanie had plans to visit a nice makeup store this weekend, which he was actually looking forward to, and he’d still only had one conversation with Martin since waking up. It seemed like Basira was beginning to actually trust him, too, and Jon was dying to—was really interested in seeing where that could go. There were also a couple blouses coming in the mail that Jon was excited to try on and that he knew would go well with some red pleather slacks he adored. He had plans, now, and things he wanted to do, and the thought that he’d almost missed these chances was terrifying.
He confessed all of this to a tape recorder that had appeared at his elbow one morning while he had his tea, still in his favorite ridiculously plush pajama set. No one would be in for work for at least a few hours.
It was surprising how nice it felt to talk to the little thing, to know that the words he spoke would be recorded somewhere instead of just falling dead to the carpet like dandruff. It was only later that he worried about nightmares, but after a few nights of sleep showed him only the usual horrors, Jon relaxed.
In the days after recording his thoughts, Jon realized how much had changed for him since his time unconscious, and when the coffin arrived, Jon genuinely mourned what this attempt could mean for him. Still, he picked out his most rugged clothes, bound his wings in canvas as best he could, tied back his hair, brushed on a truly perfect smoky eye, and slipped that first bottle of blue-green nail polish into his pocket. Melanie and Basira had already done their best to talk him out of it, but when the time came, they stood by his side as he looked down at Daisy’s prison. He pressed his rib into Melanie’s hands and she looked at him with stone eyes. Basira reached out a hand to help him over the low wall of the coffin. He gave her a hesitant smile.
— — —
It was strange to be fussed over like this, Jon thought. He rested limp against the break room couch as Melanie tried to comb the dirt out of his hair. From where his head lolled, he had a clear view of Basira holding a gray-pale Daisy on her lap and feeding her soup, with an expression on her face that Jon had never seen before.
Jon, personally, was over the moon. This safety was bliss.
He was grateful he’d thought to wrap his wings. Even though the canvas had torn in places, most of his wing feathers were clean and intact. Melanie had looked at him so sadly when she’d noticed all of his tail feathers were gone, but Jon was just happy to be free from constantly being ripped at or crushed, and usually both. He knew the damage to his feathers would earn him a molt and a painful regrowing, but Jon was having a hard time feeling anything other than sleepy and content.
What was left of his makeup had been smudged to hell. Melanie wiped it off with gentle hands.
“Jonathan Sims, you are a menace.” Her words were sharp, but Jon saw the shadow in her eyes.
Jon made an effort to turn and fully face her. “All of you are mine to protect. Not your fault you can’t leave. I have to…it’s my job.” The words took more effort than he’d thought they would, and his eyes fluttered shut as he slumped back down.
Basira sighed. “See what we have to deal with, Daisy? It’s impossible to stay mad at him.”
Daisy made a noise that might have been a laugh if she wasn’t so exhausted and cuddled closer into Basira, which seemed to startle her out of her grumpy act.
Jon watched the exchange and felt a fondness in his heart so strong it hurt. He sighed happily and thought of what he’d like to wear as soon as he felt strong enough to take a shower.
Chapter Four
Jon felt no shame using Institute funds to convert the breakroom into a proper living room. They might all be prisoners here, but that didn’t mean the Archives had to feel like a cell. Basira and Melanie spent ages researching different gaming systems and TV sets, Daisy requested an expensive armchair, and Jon had fun picking out a proper table and chairs and actual dishware.
It was a nice distraction from the itching of his tail feathers coming in. In the three days after emerging from the Buried, there had been times when Jon would have preferred the pain of the feathers tearing out over this constant, inescapable burning. It was hard to sit down, his showers had to be cold, and he had to be careful what he wore. The few feathers he’d lost on his wings were growing back in too, but the pain from those was small in comparison. Jon was at least grateful that it happened quickly. He would have sworn he could actually see the feathers grow if he looked long enough.
The first glimpses that Jon saw of his new tail feathers had left him stunned. He watched with quiet fascination as more and more of the gold began to reveal itself. Before, his train, between those strange green-and-black-eyes, had been a shimmering olive black. Now, though, the ground between the eyes was a rich, dark gold. Jon wondered if it meant something.
He had a little too much fun searching for a metallic eyeshadow online that matched the new color. If he spent a little more money than usual, Jon figured he’d earned it.
It only took a few days for their furniture to arrive, and by the time they’d finished arranging everything, Jon had all his feathers back and was starting to feel like his old self again. Daisy seemed to be progressing too, in no small part thanks to Basira’s care.
Jon had noticed Daisy eyeing his nails one afternoon, as he spent his lunch break trying to undo the mess the Buried had made of them. Jon hesitated.
“Would you like me to do yours?”
“What?” Daisy seemed genuinely baffled.
Jon celebrated internally at being able to draw a little emotion from her. Daisy was very different than he remembered, and her apathy worried him sometimes, but then there were moments like this when something shone through her shell of exhaustion. It gave Jon hope.
“I have a few different kinds of polish. And I have my files right here, if you…?”
“Oh, um, sure?” Daisy sounded hesitant.
“Excellent. Be right back.” Jon gave her what he hoped was a friendly smile as he got up to get his things.
The time he spent walking back to his “bedroom” gave him plenty of time to doubt himself, but he pushed on. It was unlikely that Daisy would get the same comfort from newly-painted nails that he experienced, but he was pretty sure it would still feel nice for her? Jon tried to imagine breathing out the doubt. Even if she was only agreeing out of politeness, she could still see that he was trying. Hopefully.
When he got back and began unloading his pockets out onto the table, Daisy’s eyes widened.
“Fuck, that’s a lot of colors.”
Jon grinned. “I may have a problem.”
Daisy gave a startled laugh, and Jon beamed. “Right, know which one you want?”
“Which one? Jon, this is like, an entire drugstore’s worth! I have to think about this!”
“That’s perfect, because I’ll need to clean up your nails first. Take as long as you like.”
Jon picked up his file again and reached for her hand. She placed it in his wordlessly. Her nails looked wonderful, actually, and he ran his thumb over the edge of each one to feel for roughness or flaking, just in case. Jon was totally absorbed, so it wasn’t until she started to sob that he realized she was crying. Daisy turned away, covering her mouth with her hand.
Jon hurried around the table. “What’s wrong? Did I…”
She shook her head, wiping her eyes roughly with her sleeve and sniffing.
“I’m fine. It’s okay.”
Jon studied her face. She avoided his eyes, but left her hand in his. Jon relaxed a bit; it seemed that whatever was upsetting her wasn’t something he’d done.
He held out his arms tentatively. “Would you like a hu—”
Daisy slammed into him, and Jon had to flare out his wings for balance. It took him a few seconds to realize it wasn’t an attack, and he relaxed, wrapping his arms around her in turn. She didn’t seem to be sobbing anymore, just leaning against him, breathing.
“You’re nicer than I remember. You seem to actually…care.”
Jon glowed. He felt his feathers puff out at that, though, and winced.
Daisy laughed. “What was that? Does that mean…are you proud of how much you’ve changed?”
“I am happy to be a better boss, yes,” Jon muttered. He missed sounding stern by a mile, but that was fine. “Now, would you like me to do your nails or not?”
(Jon almost agreed to do matching nails, but the orange would have looked terrible with his new tail feathers. Daisy laughed again when he told her his reason.)
— — —
It had been a week since Martin had felt that strange pull to stack tape recorders around a coffin. In that time he’d thought a lot about what could have been compelling him to do that, so when he felt the pull again, Martin was instantly on high alert. He still had no choice but to act on it, but at least he had the freedom to reach into his coat pocket where he kept his knife, just in case. Martin rubbed his thumb over the smooth handle as his feet carried him up to his office. He was glad he’d just finished his lunch break; Martin would hate to suffer through something spooky and ridiculous on his personal time. Again.
But there was no one—person or entity—waiting for him when he got back to his desk. Instead, placed carefully on top of his empty mug was a small handheld tape recorder. He reached out with his knife and poked it.
Nothing happened.
Martin breathed a sigh of relief. He opened up the player, again very carefully, and pulled out the cassette. It looked normal. The label, where Martin was used to seeing a case number, was blank. Furrowing his brow, he popped it back in and pressed play.
Martin wasn’t sure what he was bracing himself against, but it definitely wasn’t Jon’s calm, measured voice, a little rough with sleep. He stared. It took a moment before the words began to register, and Martin cursed and rewound it slightly, not wanting to miss anything.
This was… Martin’s blood ran cold. Jon was describing a suicide attempt. He managed to listen until the tape played out, but as soon as he heard the sound of Jon clicking the device off he was on his feet, swinging his coat back around his shoulders. How long ago had Jon recorded this? Was he still at risk??
Martin had filled many notebooks with poems dedicated to Jon’s wings in the months he’d sat by the comatose man’s bedside. He’d loved the image of Jon being able to fly, but he knew intellectually that that just wouldn’t work. It was obvious, which meant that Jon had been aware it wouldn’t work. An image flashed through Martin’s mind of Jon’s body, lying broken and glassy-eyed in a hollow alleyway. Oh, god, and the Archivist job was hard enough to survive as it was. If a person didn’t…care much one way or the other, it would be very easy to—
Martin skidded to a stop in the middle of the Archives. He heard something coming from the breakroom. Some shuffling, a murmur of “I’ll go check, it’s fine.” It was—it sounded like—
Jon stepped through the doorway, the remnants of a laugh in his eyes. His hair flowed over his shoulders, black and glossy, and his blue silk blouse and trousers glowed against his shimmering wings and massive, gorgeous train of feathers. His skin looked soft and healthy, and his eyes were dusted with the same gold that shone in his wings. Martin was struck dumb.
Jon’s perfectly painted lips parted in shock. “Martin?”
Martin forced himself to blink. He could do this. He could talk, with words, to his devastatingly attractive former boss who seemed to have gone through a major glo-up since he’d last seen him. His beautiful former boss, who was…fanning out his tail? Oh, oh god, it was massive. Martin stared at the wall of gold and green and for a second he felt like it was staring back. Jon followed Martin’s gaze, turning to look over his shoulder.
“Shit, sorry. Let me just, uh…” Jon seemed to be trying to push it down with his hands. He stilled, frowned, and made a little noise of frustration before gritting his jaw as his train slowly, slowly lowered again on its own.
Martin, trying very hard not to think the word ‘display,’ was still stunned when Melanie pushed around Jon to get through the doorway.
“Martin? What are you doing here?”
He could see Basira and Daisy perk up in the room behind her, heads visible over the back of a large couch.
“Um, I…” Snap out of it, Martin told himself. The tape. Right. Suicide. “Fuck. Okay. Jon, this is an intervention. How—how long have you been suicidal?”
No one breathed.
Martin sighed and pulled the tape recorder out of his pocket. “Found this on my desk just now.”
“O-oh!” Jon made an aborted movement as if to reach for it.
Melanie’s eyes had gone very wide. “Jon. Jon. You—why didn’t you say something?”
Martin winced. “Maybe you guys should hear this too. We could sit down?”
Melanie nodded so vigorously Martin was half-worried her head would come off, and dragged Jon by his sleeve into the old breakroom. Martin drifted over to the kitchenette almost before he knew what he was doing, but he decided that actually yes, some tea would be nice right now, and kept going along the familiar motions of filling the kettle and putting it on. When he turned away from the counter, the first thing his eyes landed on was Jon, who was watching his movements with something like reverence.
Martin could feel his ears burn. “Right. Tea will take a minute. We can listen while we wait.”
He adjusted the device with sweaty fingers, then hit play.
Chapter Five
Jon had no idea how he felt. On one hand, Martin was back in the Archives! Making tea! On the other hand, his employees looked as if they were listening to the sounds of someone drowning a kitten. He burned with regret. If he hadn’t spilled his guts to a supernatural tape recorder, like an idiot, he wouldn’t be in this mess. However, he also wouldn’t be watching Martin pulling mugs and boxes of tea from a cabinet. It was a tough call.
He tried to ignore the sad and horrified looks Melanie and Daisy and sometimes Basira kept shooting him. He tried to ignore their little gasps or hisses when his voice on the recording said something especially concerning.
It was almost a relief when the recording ended. Martin went around handing out mugs, and Jon’s heart picked up when he accepted his. At his quiet “thank you,” Martin turned away with a strange expression on his face, but Jon didn’t have time to worry about what it meant because all four of them began pelting him with questions.
Jon spoke over them. “I’m sorry for worrying you. Truly. It’s…that was a while ago now. I’m in a better place. You heard me say that. Listen. I know, this may be alarming—”
“Alarming!” Martin yelled indignantly. “We care about you, Jon. It’s, it’s good to hear you’re feeling a bit better, but the fact that this happened at all is really upsetting! Jon! You could have died!”
“Well, it’s not…” Jon realized what he’d been about to say and cut himself off in alarm.
Melanie must have seen some of that in his face. “Jon. Can you finish that, please?”
Jon winced. “I’d really rather not.”
“Please?” Martin’s voice was so low and gentle that it took Jon’s breath away.
“Okay. Okay. I was going to say…that it’s not like any of you would have cared much back then. Well, Martin, maybe?”
“Shit.” Jon hunched down at Basira’s tone. She seemed to notice. “No, Jon, I mean—sorry. Look. We would have been upset, yeah, obviously, even if you didn’t think so. A coworker dying? That would be such a—Look, the point is that it shouldn’t be about whether we would miss you. I mean, maybe that’s fine for now? But you should want to live so you can live.” She paused. “Does that make sense? Tell me if that makes sense.”
Jon stared into his tea. “Well, obviously I should want to live for myself. That’s maybe not realistic yet, though. Sorry.”
He heard the clink of Martin setting down his mug on the kitchenette counter, and Jon stared resolutely at his tea as the man sat down next to him, but when Martin put an arm over his shoulders, Jon was startled into looking up.
Martin was smiling at him, so warmly, so sadly, with tears sparkling in his eyes. Jon found himself transfixed.
“It’s fine if you aren’t there yet. I guess until then, we’ll just have to remind you how much we’d like you to stick around.”
Jon’s throat was painfully tight, so he just nodded. Thankfully Martin seemed to get what he was feeling, because the man put his tea down on the coffee table, then carefully gathered Jon into his arms, wings and all. Jon sighed deeply and draped himself against Martin’s chest.
He heard shuffling from all directions as his three assistants arranged themselves around him and Martin. Melanie carefully shifted his train aside to hug him from behind, Daisy began stroking his hair, and Basira squeezed one of his hands between both of hers. It was—Jon didn’t know what it was, how he was feeling. It was all so much.
— — —
Martin began stopping by the Archives again, after that. Jon was thrilled. He kept puffing up whenever Martin stopped by, though, which was horribly embarrassing, especially when one of his assistants was around to see. Jon just hoped Martin didn’t know what it meant. His assistants had either guessed or figured it out, and their glances kept getting more and more pointed the harder Jon tried to ignore them.
For the first time since Sasha had died, the Archives actually felt kind of okay. Even before everything, Jon had never really been friends with his coworkers, but he had to admit, it felt nice. Sometimes he wondered if this was what it would have been like to have siblings.
In fact, things had been so nice lately that Jon had agreed to Melanie’s invitation to go clubbing together. His archives (plus Martin) had made plans to head over to Melanie’s place tomorrow after work to get ready.
Jon had spent at least an hour the night before trying on outfit after outfit, with only a few vague memories from Uni to draw from as he planned what to wear. Just as he was about to give up on trying a more daring look, Jon spotted something small and metallic under a pile of clothes in the back of his converted supply closet. It was something he vaguely remembered trying on once, then discarding as too skimpy even for his new standards. Something drew him to put it on again, though, and joy overflowed in his chest as he smoothed the cool fabric over his hips. It resembled in many ways the long slinky dress he had, but this was much less formal. The back neckline on this one was also low enough to pass under his tail, but the skirt was tight and ended just halfway down his thighs, and it gleamed like liquid gold. He’d worn a heavy brocade shawl with his black slinky dress for the sake of coverage, but he wouldn’t need something like that in a club. Jon spent far too long admiring the contours of his back left on display.
It was with a fluttering heart that he packed up his dress, shoes, and probably half his makeup to bring to Melanie’s flat.
They left together after work, waiting a few minutes for Martin to finish up before piling onto the bus together with an army of satchels and purses and garment bags. Jon felt giddy. Basira kept teasing him whenever his excitement bubbled out past his attempts to reign it in. Martin seemed to think he was nervous and spent several minutes reassuring him, and ordinarily Jon would have been offended, but Martin sounded so earnest and sweet that Jon didn’t mind.
Melanie’s small apartment was bursting at the seams and Jon felt like he was floating in the pleasant commotion. His friends’ chosen outfits looked incredible. He grinned like an idiot as he elbow-battled Daisy for space at Melanie’s cramped bathroom mirror. Basira asked for Jon’s help with her eyeliner with a knowing glint in her eye that Jon knew to be wary of, and when she offered Jon’s help to Martin, standing hesitantly nearby, Jon realized that this had been her plan. He drew the brush across Martin’s skin with a hand that he prayed wouldn’t shake.
It was incredibly fun, the flock of them wobbling down the street in shoes higher than they were used to, linking arms to walk in a line like migrating geese. Jon found himself next to Martin again, and the early spring evening was cool enough that Jon had an excuse to lean into him. It was really too cold to go out without a coat, but Jon tucked his wings in close and shot teasing jokes back and forth with his coworkers—three present and one former—and felt warm.
The first place they went wasn’t as crowded as the places in Jon’s memory. He supposed their distance from a university probably helped. There were still far too many people on the dance floor for Jon to feel safe letting his train drag, so he either positioned himself carefully in a chair or stood by the wall. Melanie joined him, claiming her bullet-removal wound was sore, even though Jon knew it hadn’t bothered her for weeks. Martin’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to say something, but he picked up on the general lack of concern in time and closed it again, shooting Jon a look that said he would ask later.
The ceiling here was high enough that Jon might actually be able to fan out his feathers, and he briefly imagined joining Daisy and Martin on the dance floor before deciding that he’d have to be truly drunk to willingly attract that much attention.
As it turned out, ‘truly drunk’ meant two drinks. Jon found that he got drunk just as easily as he remembered, which was a small comfort. The familiar skin-crawling awareness of his inhumanity felt far away, and when Melanie suggested they dance, he took her hand with an exaggerated chivalry that had them both dissolving into giggles.
If Jon’s feathers drew any looks, he was oblivious. It was a skill he’d cultivated over the past half a year, and it left him free to goof off and feel beautiful down to his toes. What he was not oblivious to, however, were the people who kept trying to get his attention. All five of them got their fair share of approaches—with the effort they’d all put into their own and each others’ appearances, Jon would be offended otherwise—but for some reason, people kept trying to reel in Jon specifically; men, women, or otherwise, it didn’t seem to matter. It was like nothing he ever remembered experiencing. Jon eventually started draping himself over whichever of his friends was closest to try to get them to go away. The attention was tiresome and sometimes threatening, and Jon was just here to have a fun night out with his coworkers.
Daisy ended up carrying her shoes home. Jon’s feet ached but he refused to go barefoot in London. When Martin heard this, he scooped Jon into his arms, who squawked and flailed his wings so much Martin almost dropped him. Jon had to suffer through being compared to a baby bird for that, and he clung to Martin sullenly.
They got back to Melanie’s place well past midnight. The comparative silence pressed in on Jon’s ears, and he grumbled and pulled Basira with him to the couch.
“I can feel you patronizing me,” Jon said. “I need to sit down to take off my shoes, and it’s too quiet in here. Therefore, company.”
He yelped as Basira ruffled his hair, even though it was well past messy by now. She chuckled deep in her chest as she settled next to him on the couch.
“I never would have guessed you were such a softie, Jonathan Sims.”
Jon cursed as he struggled with one of the straps on his platforms.
Basira squirmed into a more comfortable position, ignoring the way it rumpled her latex pants. “I’m glad…it turned out this way. I’m glad I got to know you.”
Jon paused, then gave up on his other shoe in favor of slumping back with her. “Likewise.”
Daisy wandered in, trailed by Melanie, who was shedding bits of outerwear and jewelry as she went. “Martin’s ordering something for us. I hope you guys like bell peppers on pizza.”
Basira groaned and threw a pillow at her. “Fuck, no.”
It missed by a mile.
“Joking. We got plain cheese, too. And barbecue chicken.”
“Oh, fuck, yeah.”
Jon laughed. Everything felt so soft and pleasant.
Melanie flopped sideways across the couch, throwing her legs across Jon’s lap, and Daisy whined about couch hogs before settling herself on top of Basira. Both of them looked tense but refused to acknowledge it. Jon and Melanie shared a wide-eyed look as surreptitiously as possible, which, given their intoxication, was probably not surreptitious at all.
Eventually Martin wandered in, tucking his phone back into his pocket. He looked between the crowded couch and the empty recliner, then sighed deeply. When he sat on the floor to lean against Jon’s legs, Jon smiled softly and reached out to run his fingers through Martin’s short curls.
The delivery driver would be there in maybe half an hour, but until then they could just exist in this soft pile of tired bodies. As Jon looked around at them all, and down at himself, he noticed the scars on their skin, fresh and faded, long and round and big and small. Tangled together, they created a map of old injuries, of documented pain. Jon wanted to trace them with his fingertips, to follow their paths like streets on a roadmap. He wanted to know where they led.
(Bonus! Rough lil peacock Jon I drew :P)
