Chapter Text
It was impossible to know who would grow wings.
They could appear any time after a kid hit puberty. Some people grew them as soon as they turned twelve. Most people began growing them between sixteen and eighteen. But you were never really sure if you’d grow them or not - there were always the rare cases of people who grew them as late as forty or fifty.
To have wings was a curse.
Ordinary people, people without wings, hated them. They claimed that they were unnatural, a mutation. They they should be rounded up, shot on sight, put down like a dog. They shouldn’t have rights, they shouldn’t have children, they shouldn’t have anything. It was only forty years ago that the same rights applied to winged people as to non-winged people. And people still complained.
They weren’t part of god’s design. They were unnatural. They were a disease, an infection to be cured. They took the body of an angel and corrupted it with the soul of a mortal.
It wasn’t uncommon for people to grab people with wing and hold them down. To hack away at the anomalies, hoping to make them normal. It never worked. They were never destroyed, although they were often damaged. Winged people got into the habit of hiding their wings, doing their best to avoid letting other people know they had them.
***
Richard Armitage grew wings a few weeks after his sixteenth birthday.
He’d discovered the feathery lumps in between his shoulder blades with a feeling of sinking dread. They didn’t disappear, like he often prayed they would, instead growing larger and larger, getting to the point where he couldn’t hide the black feathers under his shirt without binding the wings tightly and painfully. It worked, but his wings aches from their hiding place.
One day, a few years later, he tried to hack them off, taking the kitchen knife to the feathery flesh and bone. The pain had proven overwhelming as the blood spilled over his fingers, and he ended up curled up on his bed, sobbing in despair, injured wings curled around himself.
His parents had found him an hour later, walking in and seeing the hideous black abnormalities that had sprouted from his back for the first time. Richard had been unable to look up as they reacted with disgust and horror. An Armitage, with wings? It was unthinkable, unspeakable, abominable.
They gave him a hundred of their millions of pounds and kicked him out into the street without a second’s hesitation.
A park bench in hyde park became his new home. He discovered quickly that people didn’t want to give you jobs when you had wings. Nor did they want want to see you. His existence seemed to insult their very beings. He tried his hardest to make his hundred pounds last, but he was broke in just over a month. Scavenging through garbage bins for food became a common occurrence, and he quickly found the best places to look.
When winter started he was glad of his wings, for once. The starving twenty one year old would wrap them around himself, burying his head in the soft, black feathers. At least they offered more warmth than his threadbare clothes.
He was in this position, wings curled around himself for warmth as he shivered, when he got approached.
A tall, etherial woman in her twenties sat down on his bench, putting down her unreasonably large bag and gently shaking his shoulder. Richard had carefully retracted his wings, looking up into concerned blue eyes.
“You look freezing,” the woman said softly. Richard gulped slightly, looking down. It was the first time anyone had spoken to him properly in months.
“I am,” he replied honestly, the words sounding odd on his tongue, focusing his gaze on the ground. He’d quickly discovered that people like her people didn’t like being looked in the eye by people like him.
From his peripheral vision he saw her bending over and ruffling around in her over sized bag. When she straightened, he quickly looked away, hiding his face behind his wings in a stroke of fear.
To his surprise, he simply felt a blanket being wrapped around his shoulders. Richard looked up, shocked.
“I hope that keeps you warm.”
Richard opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Shocked at the display of kindness. Gently, he reached up to feel the fleece of the blanket.
“Thank you,” he whispered, clenching the blanket in his fist as if it was about to disappear. “Thank you so much.”
The woman smiled at him, giving him a look of consideration.
“Do you want to grab a coffee or a bite to eat?”
“I...” Richard stuttered, nervous. “I don’t have any money or anything.”
“I’ll pay,” the lady said. “Come on, I know a good place. One where everyone’s welcome.”
His stomach grumbled, and he found himself nodding. The lady smiled and grabbed his hand, leading him into the labyrinth of London’s back alleys until they reached a small cafe.
“Are you sure they won’t object?” Richard asked nervously as the lady pushed open the door.
“I’m absolutely certain.”
He entered the cafe, and found himself in a state of shock.
There were people with wings everywhere.
More than that, they were sitting there and chatting civilly with normal people. One pair of women were even sitting in each other's laps, the wingless one being wrapped in her partner’s large tawny ones as they gently pressed their noses together in affection.
Nobody stared at him. Nobody hissed or curse or even seemed to notice him. He found his hand clutching at the woman who’d brought him there’s shoulder, his knees going weak.
“What... what is this place?” he asked, voice wavering.
“Haven,” the woman said kindly. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the owner.”
She led him to the counter, gently forcing him into one of the chairs as she addressed the young man standing behind it, wiping a cup with a tea towel.
“James, do you know where Ian is?”
“He popped out to get some more coffee about five minutes ago,” the man, James, Richard assumed, replied in a thick Irish accent. “Should be back soon.”
The woman nodded in understanding. “Well, we should get some food while we’re waiting. What do you want?”
What did he want? He hadn’t been given a choice in a long time. “What can I have?”
The Irish server began to rattle off a list of food. It seemed like it would be easier for him to list what they didn’t have. Richard felt his hands start to shake at the thought of making a decision. Of having a choice.
“So, what sounds good?” the Irishman asked.
“I...I don’t know,” Richard said softly, voice wavering, aware that his hands were quivering. “How... what...”
His throat was dry. The woman and the man behind the counter looked at him encouragingly, which only made him shake more. There was pressure on him, and he was suddenly scared. What if he said the wrong thing? What if she was playing a trick? What if he ordered the food and she left and he couldn’t pay? He felt his fingers once again curling around the blanket the woman had hauled over his shoulders, over his wings.
His stomach growled, but he felt sick.
“Are you okay, lad?” James asked. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”
“I don’t know what to order,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he felt his cheeks turn red.
“Well, what do you like?”
What did he like? Something that he couldn’t get from a garbage bin.
“Something hot,” he said quickly, voice wavering. He paused, before reaping the statement, sounding a bit more confident. “Something hot.”
“D’you like pumpkin soup?” the woman suggested, seeming to realise that they weren’t going to get very far without guidance.
“Yes. Yes, pumpkin soup sounds good.”
“One pumpkin soup, coming right up,” James said, disappearing into the kitchen. He emerged a minute or so later with a steaming bowl of orange soup, placing it in front of Richard.
The young man found himself looking at the woman, as if asking permission to eat. She nodded, and Richard carefully took a spoonful of soup and tucked in.
It felt like heat was radiating through his body. The soup was rich and warm, and suddenly Richard felt his hunger.
The bowl was empty in less than two minutes, and Richard found himself trying to refrain from licking the bowl clean.
“Jesus, Cate, where’d you pick this one up from?”
Richard looked up, startled, as James addressed the woman, his heart in his throat.
“Hyde park. He was sleeping on a bench.”
Richard ducked his head, pulling his wings further around him, trying to make himself as small as possible. James noticed the movement, glancing over at him.
“Hey, mate, want some more soup?”
Richard looked up, nodding ever so slightly. The man smiled and grabbed the bowl, again returning promptly with it filled with soup. Richard grabbed his spoon and once more ravenously devoured the soup.
“God, when was the last time you ate?”
Richard looked up, startled at the question directed at him, grabbing the bowl of soup and holding it close, afraid of getting it snatched away.
“I don’t remember,” he said quietly. James swore, and Richard instincively flinched. Cate noticed, gently laying her hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, relax. We’re not going to hurt you, yea?”
“How do I know?” he asked. “How do I know if I can trust you?”
“You just have to,” Cate replied softly. “Do you want any more soup?”
Richard nodded, and the bowl was once more filled. He was halfway through it when he began to feel queasy.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he said quickly, pushing the bowl away. James and Cate exchanged looks, before Cate gently grabbed his elbow.
“We should take him to the room out back.”
Richard found himself being led around the counter and into a back room with a door leading onto the street. James shoved a bucket into his hands, and he found himself retching into it. The beautiful pumpkin soup came up, splattering the insides of it.
When his stomach was once again empty, Richard curled in on himself, trying to resist the urge to cry.
It was at this moment that the door at the back of the room opened. Richard found himself looking up in shock and fear.
To his surprise, he found himself looking into the kind blue eyes of a man who was past his prime. He was tall and strong looking, but that wasn’t what caught Richard’s eyes. No, what attracted his attention was the wings on his back. They were the largest wings he’d ever seen, and were the purest shade of white.
“I hope someone’s minding the cafe, James,” the new arrival said in a quiet, authoritative voice. James rolled his eyes.
“I’m not stupid, Ian. Adam’s also on at the moment.”
“Ah. And who, may I ask, is this?”
Richard found himself looking down again, breaking contact with those kind blue eyes.
“A homeless kid. He was laying on a bench in hyde park,” Cate replied.
“Does he have a name?”
Cate shrugged, and Richard realised he hadn’t introduced himself.
“My name’s Richard,” he said softly, his voice thankfully not wavering.
“Nice to meet you, Richard. My name’s Ian. Now, tell me, how did you come to be sleeping on a park bench in the middle of winter?”
Richard gulped, his mouth suddenly dry. “My parents... my parents found out that I had wings and kicked me out of home. I... I tried to get a job, but nobody would hire me. I have no food, no money, no nothing.”
He could feel looks of sympathy coming from Cate and James. Ian, on the other hand, kept a calm and even façade, although Richard could feel the rage underneath it. Wings once more wrapped themselves around him, scared that the rage was directed at him.
“Your parents just left you to starve or freeze to death?”
Richard shrugged his shoulders half heartedly, moving his wings away from his face to again study the man. That rage didn't seem to be directed at him. “It was going to happen. Nobody wants a child with wings.”
He didn't spit the words. There was no venom, no fire. Just pure fact.
“Cate, James, please leave us for a moment.”
The two of them exchanged looks, but obeyed without a question, closing the door behind them as Ian sat down next to Richard, gently placing a hand on the younger man’s bony shoulder.
“Richard, look at me,” he said softly. Richard obeyed, meeting the other man’s eyes. “You didn’t deserve to get kicked out of home.”
“Didn’t I?” he asked softly. “I mean, look at me. I’m a freak.”
“Really? Does that make me a freak, too?”
“Yes. We’re both freaks. We shouldn’t exist.”
Ian grimaced slightly, looking at the defeated boy by his side.
“Yet here we are. Here, with so many more like us out there. We’re not freaks, Richard. And we do exist.”
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t,” Richard admitted, his voice once more dropping to just above a whisper.
“Well, you do. And while you’re here, you may as well make the most of life.”
“Make the most of life?" he asked mirthlessly. "How? I can’t do anything. I can’t get a job, I can’t get a place to live. I don't even have a coat. I can’t do anything.”
“You can work here. We always need more staff. There is a spare room above the café where can live there until you have enough money for your own place. And I’m sure James wouldn’t protest against giving you some of his old clothes. Now come, and I’ll show you around.”
Richard shook his head. "This can't be real. You can't be real. I'm dreaming. I'm going to wake up freezing cold on my bench in a minute."
"Richard, I assure you, this is real. I exist. Or at least I hope I do. Now, let me show you around."
Richard stood up, nodding. Once again, he felt himself holding back tears, but for a very different reason.
For the first time since the lumps of feathers had appeared on his back, Richard felt hope.