#✨artistic licence✨ baby

[pigeonwhumps]

The storm wasn't that bad.

That's your first thought, when you see the roof of the barn. Or at least, what's left of it. You're glad, suddenly, that you haven't gotten round to doing anything with it yet.

But still. You thought it was the wind playing havoc again, the smashing sound. And maybe it was. But there's a hole in your ceiling like something crashed through and you should probably check that out.

Probably.

After all, you remember what your father's friend's neighbour's nephew claimed happened to him two years ago. Granted he'd been drunk as a skunk at the time, but still.

Still.

You pick up a pitchfork (why is that just lying around, anyway? You should sort that out soon, before it all rusts) and pick your way through storm damage to the barn. You poke your head inside the mostly-intact door (and isn't that weird, that the doors would be like that with such a hole in the roof).

You pull your head back out again.

Shake it a little.

Blink.

That can't be real.

Maybe you whacked your head on the (far too low, it's ridiculous) doorframe harder than you thought.

You peer back in. No, still there.

Okay. Okay, right. Fine. There's a winged... something in your shed. With golden and... and acidic blood. That's... that's fine. Normal, even. Totally.

Did you drink some of your father's friend's neighbour's nephew's homemade dandelion wine without realising it?

No. No, that's ridiculous. You're not prone to hallucinations when drunk, anyway.

Certainly not ones of sprawling... giants, is all you can think of to call it (them? Hell if you know). Its wings are bent in ways you know for sure they shouldn't be, golden blood pouring out of a multitude of injuries to pool, sizzling, on the soil and remains of last year's hay.

Okay. Right. Right. You're not sure what to do, but... you can't just leave it there. Can you? No. No, that wouldn't be right.

Before the creature can wake, lash out with its sharp claws or even sharper tail, like a cornered animal (which you suppose it is), you dash back to the house, grabbing the heavy-duty first aid kit. You stop as you're halfway through scrubbing your face, forcing yourself to wake up enough for this.

What do you even cover acidic wounds with? The blood will melt through normal bandages.

You have some acid- and chemical-resistant boots and gloves, somewhere, that your father left behind. That'll protect you. But what about the creature?

This is mad. It's all mad. No-one could blame you if you left it. Except somehow... you can't. You can't just leave it alone.

You guess the acid is probably burning the creature's skin. That has to hurt. You have a hose around here somewhere.

Actually, you think it might be in the barn. You hope the creature didn't burn through that, too.

You have a spare pair of acid-resistant gloves around here somewhere. If you cut them up, they won't be comfortable, but they might do in a pinch.

You shrug, grab them, and head out of the house. It's worth a try.

You're louder this time. You figure there's no point in being quiet, you'll need to wake the creature up to treat it anyway. When you enter the barn, stomping in your too-large boots, the creature lifts its head weakly.

Those golden-acid cuts adorn its face as well, and you make a mental note to treat those first. It looks at you with sharp, weary intelligence in its eyes, and a cattle-like tag on its ear.

"Ouch. Where you from, buddy?"

The creature rears back at this, or tries to, spitting venomously at you. You duck, raising your hands and dropping your kit.

"Easy, bud. Easy. I'm not..." you gesture, "them. You just crashed through my barn roof. Can you understand me? I got their language but I ain't them."

The creature snarls and growls.

"Tha's a no then. Come on, lemme help. No? Then I'll wait."

And you do. You're not sure who the "them" you referred to are, but they've clearly done a number on the poor devil, and you're not going to just let it die, out of spite if nothing else.

Eventually, the creature tires, and you step forward, hosepipe in hand. It looks up at you resignedly.

"Come on, don't be like that. I gotta treat your injuries, bud, gonna stop the burning. Hold still."

And it must be something in your tone of voice, or maybe it's just given up, but the creature, miraculously, turns into practically a statue. It's a bit unnerving.

"Er– good. Right." You try to make it hurt as little as possible as you run the hose over most of the creature's body, taking the time and a lot of both of your energy to turn it over too, but you still catch the flinches and hitches of breath as the jet of water hits wounds you can't see.

"Sorry, bud."

You dry each wound carefully, after that, running several cloths over the bitingly-cold skin, and cut up the gloves. God, you really hope they last. There's just enough material if you cut it close, and just enough tape.

It occurs to you that its skin is probably adapted to survive being coated in acidic blood. But hey. You need to see the wounds properly to treat them, and a little cleaning can't help.

What has someone done to such a creature? It's an abomination, and you're not talking about the creature itself.

"I'll leave the tag for now," you decide in a murmur, aware that there are more immediate problems. "Wing splints. Right. Wing splints." Okay, so they're a lot larger, but you've done them on other birds. Pigeons and chickens and hawks and the like. Surely they must be similar?

"Your wings," you murmur as you get close enough to gently touch, "are gorgeous."

They shimmer gold and silver, and not golden blood, golden feathers, with an iridescent red-pink sheen towards the scapula. Not a colour you'd see in natural birds but so beautiful. No wonder someone captured it.

It seems such an evil thing to do to a creature such as this.

You splint the wings carefully. You're not going to hurt it. Not any more than you have to, at any rate. It glares at you with one golden eye. Only then do you notice the friction burns around its nose, looping towards its ears.

"Jesus." It flinches. "Hush. Rest. Not gonna hurt you, bud. Oh actually, wait a minute."

You rush out. Somewhere near the back door is a blue and white striped fabric tarpaulin. It's a bit faded, frayed and muddy, hasn't been used for years, no-one's gotten around to cleaning it for years either, but it's all you have. It's not like your usual blankets will fit, and the sofa covers... it would take multiple, and okay, maybe you don't want to end up with your grandmother's quilt eaten by acid. You feel a bit guilty but it's true.

The creature's shivering when you return to the barn. That's... that's probably a good thing, right? At least it means it doesn't have hypothermia.

"Okay, hey, hang on. Let me just– right. I hope this'll keep you warm." You drape the tarpaulin– blanket– whatever this now is over the creature, making sure to cover as much of the extremities that aren't already tucked under its body as possible.

There's an alarmed chirp at first, and then it curls its tail under the tarpaulin, humming. Its body starts rumbling, like a jet engine getting ready for take-off, and you startle backwards, but then you realise, and smile slightly.

It sounds so much like a purr.

Everything taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance

When whumpee flee from their captivity but, because of their physical and mental state, they collapse in the middle of a forest and are found by a complete stranger that turns out to take care of them even not knowing a single thing of who they are and why they were in that state.