Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Static filled the room, in the cold silence it was like a breath of fresh air after being inside for so long. It was loud, far too loud from what he was used to at least, but he was somewhat glad, it was a proof that he wasn't that alone in this empty land he had stumbled upon, more or less against his will. The sound changed into a different kind of static, bouncing off the walls to surround him in eerie relief. The sound gave him goosebumps but he couldn't stop the smile that grew in his lips, touching his eyes with that familiar emotion his body had forgotten existed. Unfortunately, his ears did not agree with his mind, growing strained after minutes of static, starting to hurt.

"... -o leave the north region. The storms seemed to have ended but it does not mean you are safe, the -------------- will offer shelter to those who need it but it is not recommended to stay. This winter has caused -------- casualties because of the-" Static filled the room again, redacting some parts of the transmission, but hearing a coherent voice that is not his own thoughts filled him with an urge to claw at his skin. It sounded wrong to him, wrong in a way that meant that he was wrong, that he was different, that the man talking wasn't disturbing, like he was.

The static stopped playing. Just the way it started. He had a radio, where the sound came from, but he didn't operate it. He tried but couldn't go anywhere so he stopped, leaving it there like it would one day turn on and tell him there was still something outside the vast desert of snow surrounding the cabin he started calling his home. It did, he doesn't know how much time it passed since he started working on keeping the house liveable, but it worked, telling him useless information. He doesn't know where he lives, he doesn't know if this is the north and there hasn't been any storm since he got here. But it meant it could work again.

So that's what made him keep a schedule, wake up, go out to find what to eat, make no sound, if the static came back he needed to listen to what it had to say next, draw with what he had in any superficie he found, go to sleep and keep the loop. He knew he couldn't go mad if he kept his thoughts on a tight leash, any thoughts he had he would transform it into a shape and carve it somewhere, he always had something new to fix, to get, to make, in this wood cabin in the middle of white. It kept him occupied as he waited for this new thing, the radio.

After that month, he found himself unable to find food. The trees had nothing, the bushes lost its flavours, the white snow became lonely, nothing passed, nothing changed, the painting that was outside had become empty of what he had found interesting. It became useless to him.

So, after he got annoyed since it had nothing to give him, he took off into the sky. Using what he always had, his big wings stretched far and wide to the big light sky as white as the snow. He never thought he would use them again, yet he never did think this far, too.

Everywhere he looked he saw the white, begging to be filled with colour. That day he found no food, his stomach never ached anyway, but it angered him the fact that his schedule changed. So he carved an angry face on the wall, right next to a diagram of a bone sculpture if he ever found any bones.

The next day he found himself not waking up, he stayed still, not that he couldn't move, but he didn't wake up. He didn't want to anyways, but that made him even more angered, annoyed, so he traced a pattern into his palm.

It was a new schedule without eating.

After that he woke up normally, staying at home, drawing, carving and creating. Hoping to hear the static again. It sure was boring, he itches to do more, something different. But he can't, so he stays. The floors have already been filled with drawing, carvings, sculptures, anything that he thought was, somewhere, someway in this house.

The old tables were the first to be fully covered, filled with hopeful fantasies from when he was still fresh and new. Then went the floorboards, most of them had a lot of holes, so he fixed it by carving some pieces of wood that were next to the fireplace, the exact size of the holes. After that, the floor was filled with the same things as the tables.

The outside of the cabin is as plain as the snow around him, inside it's almost surreal. Nothing would look so filled yet so lonely, vast, empty. The interior was simple before, now it was this complex space, one who looked upon it would probably be live they were dreaming. He hopes the cabin doesnt mind being filled empty.

Not eating was a pain.

Not physically, but he began to feel annoyed. He wanted to eat. Bite. So he went out again. It was snowing this time. And he felt the snow slowly fall on top of him. He looked around, still no food, but he decided it didn't matter and took off. Flying around in the snow was enough for him.

The view was pleasing, the moonlit forest below him was white in its whitest form. But, as he flew, something dark red catched the corner of his eye. He couldn't not continue without finding out what it was, so he immediately changed directions and went to the blotch of colour.

He dived, his landing was a close call to hitting a tree, but he landed on the soft snow. The spot of colour was slowly moving, not forward but up and down, laid on the ground like it was trying to become one with the snow – and it was working since some snow had fallen on what he assumed was its back.

He came closer, poking it on its side. Any wounded animal would've run away, high on adrenaline or instincts. It didn't move, apart from the shaking. He looked more closely and it had a stick on its side. Very different stick from the tree's, it was the same colour as its skin… Or fur. He didn't know what it was. But it was alive and he wasn't hungry anymore, so he grabbed the stick and tried grabbing it too. But it was strangely heavy and wasn't cooperating at all. So he brings out his other arms – he also didn't think he was going to have to use these – to make it easier to carry. He succeeds with the added muscle power, setting off with something in his arms and a pretty stick in his hand.

Of course, the sky was empty of any life, so he flew just a bit over the tree line, if he flew any higher it would get harder to breathe, and it was in no condition to do so. He flew, his wings cutting through the freezing air, he hoped his arms were enough to keep it somewhat warm, the snow falling from the sky didnt help. When he gets back he will need to make a fire, he doesn't remember last time he lit something up.

He approaches the cabin, slowing descending, the opposite of what he usually does. The snow beneath his feet moved around him with the flaps of his wings. He landed as softly as a paper fell on the ground, for the first time in ages.

He quickly enters what he calls his home, closing the door behind him and stopping the cold from coming inside. That didnt help much since his cabin was already very cold, but he laid down the thing he carried on top of his makeshift bed and put the pretty stick next to the table. The creature groaned, seemingly still unconscious.

He grabbed some of the wood he didn't use to repair the floor, throwing it in the fireplace. Next thing was to find something easily flammable. He quickly went outside and picked out two big pinecones, adding them to the pile. The next move was creating a spark, so he grabbed a rock – flint – that was already next to the fireplace and metal, making friction between the two. After some tries, he finally lit up the fire. He had forgotten what was warmth.

He gets up and brings the thing closer to the fireplace, placing him on top of his moved bed covers. He sits down next to it and watches it move around. It moves enough for him to see its face.

It's a human.

A scarred, sick looking human. He doesn't remember the last time he saw one, but he knows how to treat one. So he does, he brings his hand to the human's forehead, its boiling hot. Not good. He needs cold water. He gets up and pick a bowl he found inside one if the wooden cabinets, leaving the house and shutting the door. He flies as quick as he can to the nearest river. He know running water would never freeze, but he knows its close to freezing. He fills the bowl on a small waterfall, without landing, he flies back. The water splashes around the bowl, sometimes falling, but not enough for him to need to go back.

He lands not as softly as he did before, opening and closing the door as quick as he can for the heat not to escape. He feels already it getting warmer, but its not enough. He brings the bowl and puts it on top of the coffee table, near the fireplace. He remembers trying to write in a towel when he first got here, it wasnt a nice place to write on so he left it aside. He uses the towel to dip on the water and squeezes it, the towel now being cold and lightly wet.

He lays it on top of the human's forehead, moving the body to be perfectly parallel to the floor, facing up. Then he waits, sitting down next to the human and the heat, waiting.

It moves around, slightly every time, it sighs, breathes more loudly than he'd ever heard, so he waits.

It's likely that a day passed, maybe more, the moment the human awakes. He already had to go back to the river to get more water, with a bucket this time. It moved enough for the cloth to drop, so he put it back, moving the human again so it could face up. The human moved again, slowly opening its eyes, reaching to touch him. He backed away, of course, the human had not moved in that way yet and he didn't know what to do. The human's mouth moved, making some kind of sounds, abruptly cutting off into a series of coughs.

He, of course, panicked immediately. Getting up and trying to find the bowl he used before, he had read somewhere that humans also needed to drink water to live, the water in that bowl being warmer than the freezing one he was using to cool the fever.

He came back, the human still convulsing, trying to sit up at the same time. He bought two of his arms to hold its back, using the other two to feed it the water. The human stopped coughing, focusing on drinking the water it was given. He hoped the water helped somehow.

"Ugh…." The human coughed out, after drinking the water, since it wasn't using its own limbs to support its weight, it rubbed its head with one hand. It tried speaking. "Where…?"

He saw the human's eyes change sizes, the pupils getting bigger and smaller very quickly. It fell limp in his arms, eyes closing again. Nothing to be done, but at least it had drank water now. He laid it down on the covers, laying the bowl down next to the cooler water and refreshing the towel.

He hadn't had this much fun in a while.

Chapter Text

The next time the human woke up, he was trying to make some kind of stew. He had found a cookbook while searching for anything to give the human and found a page that said hot soup was preferable for when humans are sick. Then he spent his next hours trying to find the mushrooms and vegetables he needed, coming to check on the human almost every thirty minutes. He found an extraordinary amount of the mushrooms he needed underneath the snow, the vegetables were more scarce, but he eventually got one or two.

The recipe was easy enough to follow: boil water, cut the ingredients, put them one by one and mix it until it smells good and tastes good. He had the most fun cutting the mushrooms, really easy to do with four arms.

He was stirring the pot, when he heard a thump, followed by a groan. As he read in the book, he slightly put out the fire, leaving the lid closed, and quickly sat next to the human.

"Where… Where am I?" The human said, in which he responded in a sequence of chitterings, that could only come from his unused, unprepared throat, making a sound that can be described and someone tone-deaf singing. The human turned his head to him faster than he should, probably giving him a terrible headache, but he just looked at him, perplexed. And then he let out a scream. Not a long scream, a quick bone-chilling sound, more like a wild sound just to be sure the human was still in control of itself. Of course, that sound made him jump back, wings puffed out behind him somewhere between anger and fright.

"You're scary." The human says, after screaming out of nowhere. He, of course, is vexed. He is the one being scary in all of this? His wings puff out, in irritation, and he probably pouts, since the human is quick to change its scared expression to a small, still wary, smile. "Alright, I'm sorry. But could you change? The eyes are… eyeballing me."

He coos, in response, hiding his extra pair of wings and arms, who are no longer needed. He also deals with his eyes, taking a bit longer for all of them to be able to focus with just two openings. The human seems pleased with the change, even if his hands are still sharper than its own, even if his ears still have feathers that reach his eyes, eyes that are as dark as the night sky when the moon gets angry.

"Thank you." The human smiles, looking around, something changed in its eyes, but he ignores it and brings the soup closer to it. "Oh, stew?"

He nods, waiting patiently, more intensely than the human would enjoy, but with less eyes he feels a bit weaker, needing to stay more alert.

The human coughs a bit, the bowl in its hands shaking slightly, it tries to blow the hot steam coming out of the soup, taking small sips from the bowl. Its hands and arms fail while it's holding it, but he is quick to grab it before it falls and turns its hot contents on top of the human.

"Wow, I- I'm not sure why they did that." The human softly chuckles, so he decides to put the bowl aside and lift his hand up to its forehead. It seems cooler than before, so he smiles and gives the human a nice chirp. "O-oh, I'm not sure what that means?"

He makes the same sound pointing to the fire and to its forehead, basic communication.

"My head is… fire?" He makes a sharp sound, startling the human quite a bit. "My head is hot?" He nods, make the soft chirp he did before, the human laughs again, a deep, light laugh. "I'm sick then. Yeah, I was expecting that."

He flaps his wings, beckoning for the human to lie down again. It doesn't understand, of course, so he uses his wings to push it down, lightly of course.

"Oh, alright. Sure, I'm lying down." Seconds pass by, the only sound being the fire and the wood cackling as background noise. "What about the stew? Shouldn't you eat it too?"

He gives it some thought, and yes, he reckons the human is right. He picks up the bowl, ignoring the heat and drinking it all at once. He can make more later. His throat doesnt protest, he's more sure its thanking him right now. He gives a chirp again, a lot of clear sounding than before.

"There we go." The human looks pleased with itself, closing its eyes and moving to get more comfortable. "Now we're both well. Goodnight."

It wasn't night, and he's sure the human also saw that the sun was there up in the sky, not perceivable, but the unblinking light was there.

Still, the human difted off to sleep, not worried if he would kill it while it wasn't awake. He remembers humans being a lot more sceptical, keeping him at an arm's length, more trusting of his bad deeds than his good ones.

So, while the human rested, he went and drank all the soup he had made. It wasn't delicious, he's sure it tasted terrible, but feeling something in his throat was very nice for a change.

He went out again, with the cooking book this time, so glad it had pictures, and looked around more closely. With more time than he had before. He finds different mushrooms, ones looking more like the pictures than what he used before. He finds carrots, small ones, he's sure they're not that good, but he picks them up anyways. With the white rivers of snow covering the land and the sky, it is very hard to find anything, so after a few hours he comes back.

When inside, he puts his findings on the counter, prioritising to keep the dying fire ablaze to keep his guest warm rather than learning a skill he doesn't really need. Then he gets to work again. Finding cooking for someone more satisfying than cooking for himself, since one of them actually needs the food, and for the other is a simple pleasure.

The human moves a lot in its sleep, he noted. He also noted that its clothes, not fur, were uneven. They were definitely nice looking, some kind of red coat on top of something green, he couldn't bring himself to move it and try to look closer. He also notices that the snow-turned-water stains have dried, its clothes no longer drenched in the melting white surrounding them. He's sure they're not comfortable at all, but it's not like it has anything else.

Well…

When the stew is done, he will see what he can do.

His form's clothes are connected to him, changing just like he wishes, but he could do with a nice change. Even if he feels like he would never find the same materials his clothes were made, considering where he is staying. He did see a sheep, before the cabin ceiling got covered in his thoughts. So not long ago, he guesses.

The stew is now ready, he keeps the fire low, letting it stay warm for when the human decides to wake up.

He moves, opening cupboards and drawers, looking for something to make clothes. He knows how those are made, he saw his own get made, he just had to replicate that.

He finds one big ball of yarn, something light grey. In the drawer next to it there's two sticks, looking very good as a weapon if there wasn't a weird hook at the end. He knows how to use these too. He grabs them both and sits next to the sleeping human. Starting to intertwine the strings together, slower than what he saw them do, but easy enough to copy.

So he does.

The human murmurs sometimes. Sometimes his breathing changes and he sounds just like a whistling bird. He moves closer to the fire, sometimes. Other times he moves away. But eventually goes back to his position.

He finishes the main part of his first try of making a shirt when the sun sets. While making the second sleeve, the human wakes up, stomach growling. He puts down the shirt and goes to grab two bowls of soup, it's still warm, he takes a sip, it's fairly nice.

When he comes back to the human, he sees it finishing the shirt he was making, adept hands modeling the strings like second nature. His part of the shirt seems loose, the space between the strings very noticeable. While the human's part, who got almost the whole sleeve done in less than five minutes, seems flawless, sturdy and perfect but at the same time comfortable.

"Oh! Sorry- you probably were making- well, I just saw it and couldn't help myself, y'know?." He shakes his head, noticing the towel that was on its forehead fell off – no he did not know, but he offers the bowl anyway. The human puts down the shirt, leaning forward to grab the bowl itself. He notes that it seems more awake, more eager to move. "You're doing great work! There's some parts where it's a lot less pushed together, I can teach you all the neat tricks."

It takes a sip of the soup and it widens its eyes, looking over to the kitchen, even if it couldn't see anything anyways. "Did you make the stew again? It's a lot tastier."

He nods, something in his mind tells him he should smile and show the human his content with the praise, but he doesn't. He sips the stew, giving a low rumble at the taste, watching the human drink it a bit more and lay it on its lap.

"Well, I don't think I've introduced myself." The human gives him a big smile, fixing its hair and taking off its jacket to get more comfortable. With the red jacket gone, it wears a white button up underneath something green, that wraps around its torso fully, leaving a triangle open at its neck, but without sleeves. He wonders if that's a new thing humans created. Well, the green is the same colour of its eyes, so he guesses that was a reason. He also notices that theres no patch of skin that doesn't have at least some scar tissue, some different than the others, but it is quite odd. At least all together with the weird trust the human has in him.

It takes the bowl into its hands again, content with drinking a bit more, to warm up its throat, probably.

"My name is Scar Goodtimes, and you, my bird fellow, are living in my cabin." It says pointing around them. Even if he carved and drew on every surface, he knows the house is fairly the same as it was before. Still, he found it empty, without any light, for more time than a human should stay outside of its house. So he shakes his head, no it isn't. "Well, I love what you did with the place, it seems more… full. Full of ideas, im sure, but it is mine."

He chirps, shaking his head again at Scar.

No.

"Well, its alright. I don't use it anymore anyway, I'm glad someone's using it." It makes an exaggerated sigh, using very theatrical gestures. Weirdly not stubborn, he remembers humans being more territorial. "So, whats your name?"

He doesn't know how to put it. How could he speak, he knows his name is somewhere, but he couldn't say it, he didn't know how to say it. He gives a garbled response, not words but confusing enough to see if Scar understands he also doesnt know.

"Pronouns?" What? What is a pronoun? Is that another human thing? He tilts his head, Scar's eyes lit up, and it understands, it gives him a big smile and opens its mouth to speak. "Its another thing you use to refer to someone or yourself. Not a name, like a nickname."

He points at Scar, tilting his head again, to make himself easier to understand. Some hair falls in front of his eyes, he shakes it away, it really is weird using only two eyes to see. He wonders how the human in front of him lives with it, but he can assume that its not very easy, given the scars.

"Me? Mine are he, him and his." So he nods, that's his too, he's been using them the whole time hasnt he? Human language is tricky. He chrips loudly, trying to catch his attention to this specific matter. Scar seems to catch it again, but its still a bit hard to be understood. Somehow he's sure the human has experience with talking with something that doesn't talk back. "Yes?"

He nods at Scar, pointing at him and then at himself multiples times. Blinking very intently, ruffling around his feathers. Something in him told him that he would understand what he meant.

"Yours… are the same?" Scar asked, tilting his head like a cat would. He, happy that the human understood him, got up to move around, doing little spins, only to sit again next to him. Scar gave a breathy laugh, wincing at bit, that called his attention, stopping the noise.

He tried to look at what was hurting the human, but the clothes he was wearing looked too tight to look without taking them off. He tried reaching the place, planning on making a small hole with his claws. The human stopped him, taking his hand with his own and putting it back where it was.

"It's warm enough, thanks to the fire, I can take them off." He nodded. Okay, that's a better option.

Scar then proceeds to pop the buttons of the weird green thing, revealing a white shirt underneath also with buttons. Fashion is truly a mystery. His thoughts are cut short as he notices the white shirt stained where his side would be, some kind of brown- no, dark red. Its old blood, he can clearly smell it.

Scar hisses again as he takes off the white shirt, he can hear something ripping off as he takes the cloth off his side, he's sure its the dried blood that decided to stay glued to the shirt. He takes a deep breath and finally takes it all off.

He was right, the fresh wound, now without it's unhealthy covering, starts bleeding again. He shakes his wings, distressed, and gets up to try and find anything.

"The room in the back, cabinet on the right, there must be something there." The human helps, keeping his breathing collected and he feels the burn of the infected wound. He nods, going to where he found the yarn before, finding a white bag, made of some very nice material. It was almost like a box but softer and lighter, so he brought it back. Once Scar saw it he gave a pained smile, content with the findings, probably. "That's it, I'm surprised it was still there."

Scar opened the box, having a half filled bottle, some rolls of bandages–he would assume– and a knife. He saw him pick up the bottle and look at it for a minute, so he tilted his head in confusion, what was the human doing?

"Here, I need you to do something." He handed him the bottle, so he grabbed it, still very confused. Scar laid down on the make-shift bed, giving him more acess to his wound but also stretching the skin, making him hiss in pain. He put the box down to his side, grabbing the sheets on his side with a effective grip. "Put the liquid here, it'll be more effective."

He looked again at the bottle, it was a bright pink, he never seen such a bright colour before. He oppened the cork on the top, sniffing it. It smelled horribly, so he quickened his moves and poured a good bit of it on the wound. There was a second before Scar screamed, worse than the scream he gave when he first woke up, so truly painful, it sent shivers down to his wings. He immediately stopped pouring, closing the bottle too.

He moved his eyes from Scar's hurting face to the wound, what he saw was nothing he had ever seen before, but he felt like he knew this was going to happen. The wound, closing in on itself, he could see the tissue forming a stretching to close the wound. Now he knew why it hurt so much.

As he saw whatever he poured do its work, he approached Scar, deciding to softly hold his head, using his lap as a pillow. The human was still screaming, but it turned more into continuous whimpers and groans. He saw tears in the human's eyes, which made him start petting the human's hair. He thinks what he did helped Scar, since he was no longer screaming.

He gave another look at the wound, now closed. There was a big scar, shaped like a piercing cut from one side through the other, where the wound once was. His body was also filled with similar scars, so he let the human rest. Not only coming from a fever but also with a gaping wound, all this time, Scar was far too brave. Very stupid too.

He sighs, shaking his head around.

"You look…" Scar seems to notice that movement, through his dazed state, reaching to lightly touch his hair. His arm fails and falls to his side, seemingly, he falls asleep with a soft smile on his face.

He tilts his head, very unused to that reaction. What he is used to are the wrinkles on Scar's face, from the pain of feeling his skin stretch unnaturally, he supposes. He grabs the wet cloth he used for his fever before, grabbing it from the floor and dipping it in the relatively warm water and laying it on his forehead, covering his eyes too. He heard somewhere that that was relaxing.

He grumbles out a silly noise, shaking his wings around. That was something he's sure his ears didn't appreciate hearing.

Still, he doesn't make a move to leave. Accepting his fate of being a pillow for this very strange human.