Beyond Comprehension

Thirty-seven

The next day, Sean ironed his new demiboy pride flag, and I helped him hang it up above his bed. As spring slowly but surely approached, he was eager to once again go around shirtless, this time with his wings stretching and flapping every which way.

"If you fall and break your leg‒"

"I'm not gonna break my leg!" Sean called from the roof. The fading chill of winter still seemed to persist, nipping at my face and fingers, although Sean didn't seem to mind all that much.

I flinched as he stepped off the roof. His wings outstretched to their full 3.5 meter span, and he drifted down rather gracefully, daring to tilt a bit to almost circle me before colliding with a roll onto the grass. I ran towards him, kneeling beside him.

"Whoo!" Sean laughed. "I think that was the best one yet!"

"You have been getting better," I agreed with a smile. I helped him to his feet, plucking out the grasses that clung to the black feathers and his blonde curls. "How do your wings feel? That was a bit of a rough landing."

He stretched them, "Better than last time. I can feel them getting stronger."

"And how does it feel to be 17?" I asked.

"...Old."

I laughed, "Wait until 18."

Sean shuddered, and I kissed his head with a smile. "Okay, I'm gonna go up and try it all again."

I sighed, shaking my head as he ran back into the house. Sean soon appeared on the roof. He repeated the action of somehow casually stepping off and spreading his wings to glide down to the ground.

Abruptly, a gust of wind lifted him up farther. Sean closed his wings, tumbling onto the grass with a pained cry.

I shot towards him, "Sean!" I fell to my knees next to him. "Are you okay?!"

"...Ow."

"Here, let me see," I helped him into a sitting position, inspecting his back, side, and wings. "Okay, no blood, that's good."

"M-my wing kinda hurts," he said with a strain in his voice. He awkwardly stretched his left wing, wincing and holding his shoulder.

"Okay, try to stretch it." I requested after positioning myself behind him.

He complied, slowly stretching out his feathers as I felt his muscles. He stretched the wing as far as he could before succumbing to the pain.

"I think you might've tweaked something," I sighed.

"Great. So much for not breaking anything."

"Well, a tweaked wing is better than a broken leg," I comforted. "Let's go put some ice on that." I helped him to his feet and into the house.

He plopped down on the couch, sighing and still holding his shoulder, as I retrieved an ice pack from the freezer and wrapped it in a washcloth.

"Where's the worst pain?" I asked, sitting partly behind him.

"Uh, around here," Sean pointed to the bend of his wing. "Around the alula. Or, marginal coverts, I guess. I think that's where the tweak is."

"You're so lucky I'm a biologist and actually studied birds for a bit," I muttered, pressing the wrapped ice pack to the alula. "Okay, this is in kind of an awkward spot, do you wanna maybe lay down for a bit?"

Sean nodded, "Okay. My side kinda hurts from my fall."

"Yeah, you might bruise a bit." I shifted off the couch to help him lay down, making sure the ice pack stayed firmly on his wing.

"Did you really study birds?" Sean asked.

"Originally," I nodded. "We did a bit of everything in the basic biology classes, but I later shifted to four-legged animals, primarily felines and canines. And also robotics. Hence why I'm Ice's doctor."

Sean frowned, "The white wolf guy that saved me from those tiger people. And bit you. And also let me touch his weird metal arm.... I have mixed feelings."

"Uh, the arm is probably one of the less-weird parts about him," I chuckled. "He can also turn into a wolf. A pretty big one, I might add. Like, bigger than a dire wolf." Sean's eyes widened. "He also had a chip in his neck that was controlling him. So that was fun."

"He had a what?" He shot up into a sitting position.

"Don't worry, we removed it."

"You say that like it's normal to have a controlling microchip in one's neck!"

I stared at him for a long moment. "Sean. My dear. You are part angel. Caspian's heart is literally a crystal. Ice can transform into a giant dire wolf. Michael is an archangel. One thing I have learned by working with the Federation is that there is no such thing as normal." I playfully swatted his uninjured and fluffed-up wing. "Now lay down and let your wing heal. I'll bring you a charcuterie board and we can watch that kids' cartoon you love so much."

"Ooh, the episode about the Triangle?"

"Sure," I chuckled, walking towards the kitchen.

"Oh! Ice! The wolf guy you have a crush on!"

"I do not!"

"You so do! I saw you blush that one time! And he looks at you funny!"

"What do you mean 'looks at me funny'?"

"You know, like he... wants you!"

I rolled my eyes, muttering under my breath, "Wants to dissect me, maybe."

I cut up some cheese and meat and two apples, laying out slices of bread and grapes and the different slices in interesting patterns. I poured two drinks, and carried the semi-meal out of the kitchen and to the living room. Sean had turned on his favorite cartoon, specifically the episode about the Triangle. His favorite episode.

I smiled as the scientist's young yet genius daughter said, "You always said it was all hogwash!" And, in reply: "It may be hogwash, but, when you wash a hog, you may discover that it was never a hog to begin with."

"That's your favorite line," Sean giggled.

"Yes, it is," I smiled in return. I joined him on the couch, adjusting the ice pack on his wing before settling into the cushions.

Two episodes in, Sean asked, "Hey, Dad? Could you get me my sketchbook and pencils from my room? And then, like, stay still for, like, half an hour?"

I chuckled, "Sure." I got up from my place on the couch, finding my way upstairs and to his room.

His pencil case was easy to find: a leather wrap that held the multitude of pencils, erasers, sharpeners, and paper blending pencils. After a short moment of searching, I found his current sketchbook, spiral-bound with a collaged cover. He worked almost exclusively in charcoal and ink.

I carried the sketchbook and pencils to the living room, giving them to my son before switching out his half-thawed, lukewarm ice pack for a new one. I settled down next to him, getting comfortable as he opened his sketchbook to a fresh page.

"We're working on anatomy in art class," he explained. "So stay really still."

"Is this for an assignment or for fun?" I chuckled.

"...Both?"

"Okay, at least let me get a fresh glass of water first," I stood up again, earning an annoyed groan from my teenager.

"Done?" Sean sighed when I sat back down.

"Yes. Commence with the drawing," I chuckled. "I've never been a model before. Except for my school's yearbook."

"Yes, Father, I know that you won 'most likely to be a CEO' three years in a row and 'most likely to be famous' at least twice.... Why are you looking at me like that?"

"...You called me 'father'." I couldn't hide the crack in my voice.

He blushed and looked away, "Don't take it too seriously. Now stay still! This might take a while." He put his nose to the paper and got to drawing.