Clipped Wings

Lovebird

The world is almost stifling when you jerk awake. Nausea tumbles through your stomach and up your throat and you roll to be sick over the edge of the bed.

The world slowly stops its wave-like motions and comes into focus. You lie on your stomach with your head right there on the side of the bed. Crimson lines your cheek, soft and cool against it. It's the sheet covering the bed.

You groan as you roll over again, this time to survey the room.

The bed you're on is gigantic. You didn't know they make mattresses this large, let alone frames to hold them. It and the bedding must be special order.

The bed is piled with pillows, the comforter black with gold and red tooling, and there are more blankets folded down by your feet. It's a four-poster and drapes are tied to the stanchion-like posts.

The rest of the room is cozier given that the bed takes up most of it. There's furniture to match the elegant cherry wood bed— an armoire, a dresser, night stands— and three doors; two on one side look fairly normal, but the one directly across from you is foreboding. There's a keypad or something beside it and it gleams like matte-painted black metal. There is no doorknob.

If you were strong enough to stand, you'd be checking it out. As it is, you startle when the door pushes inward. You hadn't heard anything on the other side of the room.

When Hawks enters, his wings folded elegantly against his back, somehow you're not surprised. You should be, but no. Who else would have flown you here? Or, for that matter, who could have kidnapped you at the Hawks agency other than the hero himself?

There's no doubt that's what this is, a kidnapping. You wake up in a strange place, a door like you'd see in a rich villain's fortress blocking freedom, of course you've been kidnapped.

But it makes no sense. Why in the Hell would Hawks kidnap you?

"Hey there, pretty bird." His usual smile graces boyish features, but he's in a v-neck and jeans rather than his hero suit. He'd look good if you weren't feeling like shit and trying to come to terms with what the fuck was going on.

You watch him through slitted eyes. "What's going on, Hawks?"

His smile doesn't falter as he replies, "Call me Keigo. That's my name and it'd be pretty nice to hear it now and then."

"Cut the crap and answer the question."

"Do you like your nest?" He circles around the bed closer to you and you shuffle toward the other side. "I've been collecting everything for it for months."

The word echoes in your chest. Months? It's not like you've been working for him very long, about six weeks at most. That means...

"How long have you been planning this?" Your mouth is cotton and you don't know whether you just realized or whether it's been like this since you woke up. It could be either with how muddled your mind is right now.

Hawks— Keigo— brushes a hand through windswept hair and shrugs. "When you put in your application I was intrigued. My secretary told me someone with wings applied and—"

"That was six months ago!" You can't believe it. There's no way.

But Hawks is blushing and his hands are jammed in his pockets. "It took a while to make an opening without too much fuss. I wanted everything to be perfect."

You think back to last night, how your supervisor had an 'emergency,' the emptiness of the agency, the cameras...

"Who else is there?"

"Hm?" His brows rise at the question but you're not buying this awe-shucks act.

"The other person last night," you elaborate. "The one who helped you kidnap me."

He sits and the mattress doesn't move near you; it's a good quality mattress.

The stray thought annoys you.

"Oh. Well, I guess you'd find out soon enough anyway. Eraserhead."

You frown. "But he— I— we're friends."

"Yeah, sure. You and your two-week snapstreak are totally just friends. He shares, y'know. Has a secret app that lets him screenshot without notifying you and everything." Golden eyes consider you carefully. "You don't like him more than me, do you?"

"What?" You scoff, disgusted by the question. Given the circumstances, you can't dredge up any affection for either hero.

"Because eventually, I'd like it to be just you and me. Lovebirds in our little love nest."

"Fuck you; let me go!" You shout at him as much as your weakened state allows, but it doesn't phase the hero one bit.

Instead, he stares at you with a terrifyingly cheerful visage and says, "It's alright; you'll come around in time. Redtailed hawks mate forever, you."

"Finches don't," you spit back venomously. "And I'll never 'come around' anyway."

The smile twitches. "It's instinct. You'll see. Let me get you something to eat, eh?" He rose from the bed and walked toward the door.

"Wait, Hawks." You have to try anything to get out of here. He halts, back facing you. "Please let me go. I won't tell anyone about this."

He shakes his head and leaves You alone. You're sore and nauseous and tired and you break down sobbing over the pile of pillows.

Once you've cried yourself empty, you sniffle and take stock of your body again. You need to pee. Logically, one of the doors has to lead to a bathroom. There's no way they'd lock you in here without one, right?

You slowly stand and toe your way toward the doors, twisting a handle with each hand to check them out. Like you'd thought, one gleams with the reflected light off tile and toilet and spa tub. The other is darker, seems to suck in light. You can make out the shapes hanging to either side though. It's a closet, a big one.

You shut that door and go into the bathroom, which unfortunately has no luck to engage. You'll just have to hope Hawks lets you take care of your business in peace.

It's a nice bathroom admittedly, big, with a standing shower that could easily fit multiple people. You gaze around and see toiletries neatly lined up, all your preferred brands and some that you know are far nicer but would be suited to your skin and hair types.

These guys did their research on you. How else would they have everything right down to the color of your toothbrush? It's creepy.

You stall by washing up as much as possible, but eventually, you run out of things to do, so you go back into the bedroom. There you find a tray on the bed laden with food. There's juice, a little bowl of mixed berries, yogurt, some ham that smells delicious despite you not being much of a meat eater, and buttered toast. He really wants to make sure you have everything. It just pisses you off more.

You grudgingly poke at everything, smell it to check if you can detect anything suspicious, and take a bite of the berries with the yogurt. You hadn't noticed there was granola in the later. It's a crunchy surprise.

Why did he have to feed you so well? You hate it. You hate him.