#finding flight

chapter 8/?

(ao3 link in comments)

**

“How do the blueberries look?” Charlie’s sprawled on her back on the counter in the lab, staring at the ceiling.

Kevin doesn’t bother to get up from the strawberry plants he’s potting. “Exactly the same as they did five minutes ago. And five minutes before that. If you don’t believe me, get up and look yourself.”

“It’s not like you’re doing actual work,” Charlie says. “What are you doing with strawberries, anyway? I didn’t put them on the worklist. Greenhouse Six is full of them.”

Kevin rubs the back of his neck, typically forgetting that his hand is covered in soil. “There’s this girl,” he mumbles. “She told me she likes strawberries, used to grow them in her backyard at home. I thought, if I had some in my room…”

Groaning, Charlie says, “Ah. That explains the fancy ceramic pots. Pots shaped like tropical fish, though? I’d expect something more...I don’t know, nerdy, from you. Maybe like Pac-Man, Blinky, Pinky, Winky, and Clyde.” She waves her arms in a semi-dramatic gesture, then goes on absently, “Wish I had a pretty girl to plant strawberries for. Or blueberries…” Seeming to come to herself again, she asks, “How do the blueberries look?”

Kevin taps his fist a few times on the counter, then bursts out, “It’s Inky.” There’s more than a hint of distress in his voice.

Charlie sits halfway up, propping herself on her elbows to look at him. Even from behind he looks upset. “What in the galaxy are you talking about?”

“Pac-Man, Blinky, Pinky, Inky, and Clyde. Not Winky.”

Charlie slides back down onto her back. “Nothing like an incorrect retro video game reference to get your hackles up.”

Finding Flight 7/?

tumblr: ch1 / ch2 / ch3 / ch4 / ch5 / ch6 / ch7

ao3: ch1 / ch2 / ch3 / ch4 / ch5 / ch6 / ch7

***

“You look terrible, Clarence. What’s got your feathers all ruffled?”

Startled, Castiel looks up from the dinner he’s barely tasting to meet Meg’s level gaze. Without thinking he answers. “The walls in my room get closer every day. Eventually I’ll be crushed into a tiny cube and jettisoned into space. I don’t particularly want to be out where everyone stares at me, but the extra space to spread my wings is preferable to suffocation.”

They stare at each other for a moment; Meg surprised, Castiel wondering what made him speak in such a forthright manner. Meg breaks the silence by bursting into laughter. “You’ve been watching too much Star Wars,” she says drily. “You’ve got the reference and the melodrama.”

Castiel squints at her, tilting his head. “What star wars? When I look out my portals all I see are routine patrols, there are no wars in this sector. And the closest star is many light years away.”

She laughs again, harder this time. “You’re precious, Clarence.”

He shakes his head at her, but his smile is genuine. “I still don’t understand that nickname, either. You know my name is Castiel.”

“You don’t say,” she says, sitting on the empty chair across from him.

For a few minutes they eat without speaking. The silence between them isn’t uncomfortable; on the contrary, Castiel is thankful to spend time with someone who isn’t staring at him. Eventually he says, “I wondered if I’d ever see you again.”

Meg’s face is expressionless when she says, “I can leave if you want me to.”

Castiel’s response is fast and sure. “No. Please stay. Everyone else watches me as if I’m an oddity, something to be studied. Even many of the Preet. You, though…” He tilts his head, squints. “I honestly can’t figure out what you want, Meg.”

Castiel can practically see the walls come up around her. “I don’t want anything from you, Clarence. I just thought you could use a friend.”

They both relax. “I could,” Castiel says. Especially one who has nothing to do with the diplomatic corps, he thinks.

“So where have you been? I know it’s a big station, but it’s not that big, and your wings aren’t exactly easy to miss.”

He appraises her silently, contemplating how much to tell her. She’s not a part of the diplomatic corps, has nothing to do with the Preet. He thinks. But should he draw her into his mess? It would be nice to have someone to talk to.

He opens his mouth to brush her off, to say, “I’ve been around,” but something—her almost stony expression? the mischievous glint in her eyes? his own need for friendship?—changes his mind, and the whole story pours out of him. He tells her about the strange meeting with the Preet, and the creeping realization that they are using him for more—or less—than his skills as a negotiator. He tells her about meeting Dean in this very lounge, about pushing him away the last time they spoke. He tells her about how cramped his quarters feel, and how desperately he needs to get out and fly.

“I know my quarters are bigger than most, of course. I can actually unfurl my wings in them. I can stretch, but I need to fly.”

Meg looks at him, a thoughtful look on her face. “I may have some suggestions for you there. But first, how are the negotiations going?”

Castiel actually laughs. “The negotiations are going nowhere. That’s not much of a surprise really, they’ve been fighting for decades. But now I can’t leave my quarters without feeling like I’m being watched.” He sighs, a long, drawn out release. “I do, of course. I have to. I meet with humans who fawn all over me. I meet with Preet who gaze adoringly. I constantly have to pull my wings tight to my back because everyone wants to touch them. I smile at everyone. I answer the same questions over and over: no, I’m not actually part bird; no, I don’t actually sleep in a nest; no, I wasn’t hatched from an egg; yes, Astorian children learn to fly not long after they learn to walk and yes, that does make parenting a challenge. And that’s just a few. I eat at least one meal a day in a lounge or mess hall, making myself ‘visible’ and ‘available.’ Although until today I’ve been avoiding this particular lounge.” Castiel looks around. How can he explain that he felt both relief and disappointment when he didn’t see Dean sitting by the huge viewport? He wants to see Dean, even if only for a moment, but how could he explain his actions at their last parting?

Meg actually snorts. “Just couldn’t stay away, huh. Looking for the green-eyed boy?” She raises her eyebrows suggestively.

“What? No! He’s just a…I just…it doesn’t matter.” Castiel looks down, avoiding her knowing gaze. “Since he’s not here anyway,” he adds, mumbling.

Meg chuckles. “Let’s get out of here, Clarence. You need to get your mind off of…other things…and although you obviously know a lot about humans, your lack of education in other areas is glaring. So choose: Star Wars or It’s a Wonderful Life.”

“I don’t know what any of that means.”

“And that’s exactly why we need to get started.” Meg stands, picking up her tray to carry it to the counter for cleaning. “Star Wars, I think. We’ll save angels for later.”

Castiel smiles. “My instruction is in your hands,” he says, following.

*

“So that’s why he didn’t want to have dinner with me,” Dean says to Charlie. He’s watching Cas smile—not at him, but at Meg Masters.

***

Thanks to @bend-me-shape-me, my awesome beta, for some great insights, and for always shrieking at all the right places. *hugs*

ao3

Dean stares at the passing stars. This may be a boring gig, he thinks, but the view makes it worth it.

If I ignore the noise, and squint, I can almost imagine I’m out there. Flying. Instead of stuck in here with my feet on the-- He looks down. It isn’t the ground, not exactly. He is in space, after all.

Dean is a diplomat. A low-level diplomat. It’s not that he’s bad at his job; he’s actually pretty good at talking people into things. He just doesn’t have the drive to move higher in the diplomatic corps. He’d only joined to get off Earth and into space. It had been pretty great at first: new planets, new species, the stars. The stars alone were worth everything else.

Then, after six years in the diplomatic corps, Dean had been assigned to the Virginian.

The Virginian, where diplomatic careers go to die.

The short story: Humans and Preet have been fighting over a planet (the humans called it Avalon, the Preet called it Chrrt) for over 30 years. They’d colonized it at almost exactly the same time. They both have a legitimate claim. They could not (would not) live with each other.

For the past seven years, the Virginian--a space station on the edge of Avalon’s solar system--has been host to “peace talks” between the humans and the Preet. The talks have not gone well.

But the lounge Dean frequents has a viewport that covers an entire wall, and they serve microbrews that are almost as good as he could get back on Earth, so he doesn’t complain. Much.

Dean leans back in his chair and sips his beer. At least I have the stars.

There is a rustle and a breath of wind, and Dean looks up to see--

Blue eyes. Dark hair. Black...wings?

A surprisingly deep, raspy voice says, “May I sit here?”

Dean chokes on his beer and nearly loses his balance as the front two legs of his chair slam to the floor.

“I often get that reaction from men,” the man--being?--says drily.

“Are you--” Dean starts to say, coughs, clears his throat, then starts again. “Are you...an angel?”

The man--I’m just going to think of him as a man until I learn otherwise, Dean thinks--tilts his head to the side, blue eyes puzzled.

Well that is adorable, Dean thinks.

“You’re the third human to ask me that since I arrived on the station,” the man says. “I’ve done extensive research on Earth and its species. I’ve never read about these ‘angels.’ Are they extinct?” He actually makes air quotes with his fingers when he says the word angels.

“No,” Dean says quickly, “not really. Angels aren’t...anything. They’re stories, I guess. Winged guardians, protecting us. When I was a little boy my mom used to tell me that angels were watching over me. The angels I dreamed of...they looked a lot like you.” He looks away, his ears pink.

The man chuckles, drawing Dean’s eyes back. “I’m no angel,” he says. “I’m Castiel. An Astorian.”

A wisp of memory surfaces in Dean’s mind: Astoria, distant planet, mostly unknown, home to a race of alien known for their wings, their beauty, and their vast intelligence. He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Of course. I’ve read about Astoria, but I’ve never met an Astorian. I’ve never even seen a picture. Believe me,” he says, transfixed by the glossy black feathers, “the descriptions I read don’t do justice to the real thing.” He forces his eyes away from the wings and finds himself once again gazing into deep blue eyes. It’s not only the wings that make him beautiful, he thinks.

One of the eyes winks.

Flustered, ears pink--again--Dean gestures toward a nearby stool. “Please, sit. I think the stool will be more comfortable for you than a chair, with those wings. I’m Dean. And welcome to the Virginian, Cas.”

“Cas…” repeats Castiel, as if tasting a new flavor.

“Oh...sorry...I just--” Dean stammers.

“On the contrary, I rather like it. Astorians aren’t prone to nicknames. Ours is a very rigid and and regimented society...which is one reason I spend as much time as I can away from home.” Cas smiles as he perches on the low stool, his wings trailing behind him.

“So what brings you to the Virginian, Cas? I hope you’re not here for the never-ending peace talks.” But I hope you’re staying for awhile, he adds internally.

read it on ao3: from the beginning / chapter 4

sneak peek:

It’s not that Castiel dislikes his family. He’s just always felt…different. Even when he was very small he knew he wasn’t going to stay on Astoria all his life. He loved to soar above the treetops, to feel the warmth of the sun on his feathers, to smell the damp, rich smells of the forest. But while Astorians were very integrated with their ecosystem, they also spent their whole lives learning, and were actually quite technologically advanced. And Castiel just didn’t have the drive to spend his days in a lab trying to find a better treatment for an old sickness or reading stacks of books to determine the best place to build a new village to have the smallest impact on the local ecology. He didn’t want to sit and study. He wanted to get out and see what was beyond Astoria.

Even if that means living on crowded space stations from time to time.

Castiel suddenly remembers blushing cheeks and moss green eyes, a warm voice calling him Cas. He smiles to himself. Perhaps this particular space station will be better than most. The smile falters a bit. Why did Dean run away? He must have felt the spark between them.  Castiel is looking forward to these peace talks more now: Dean will be there.

tumblr: ch1 / ch 2 / ch 3 / ch 4

ao3: ch1 / ch 2 / ch 3 / ch 4

Castiel is still staring at the fallen chair, wondering what he did to upset Dean, when the silver band wrapped around his wrist buzzes slightly. He twitches his hand at the unfamiliar sensation, then remembers--it’s the Star Voyagers communications device he was issued when he’d arrived on the station. Just one more thing to get used to on this place, he thinks, looking around. He depresses the small indent on the band and says to the air, “This is Castiel.”

A squeaky voice answers, “Ambassador Novak. This is Charruk Tok of the Preet delegation. Please report to Ambassador Flrr on deck 24. You are late.”

Castiel sighs internally but keeps his voice pleasant when he answers. “I was not made aware of any appointments until tomorrow morning’s briefing. I apologize for the misunderstanding; I will be there momentarily.”

“We will be expecting you,” Tok answers. The communicator buzzes again to let him know that the channel has been closed. Standing, Castiel flicks his wingtips, hoping none of the humans in the lounge know Astorians well enough to recognize it as a visible sign of frustration.  The sound of his steps on the hard floor fills him with a flood of…it’s not homesickness, not exactly. This place is metal and glass, shiny and black and grey, hard and bright. What he misses is the softness of home, the green and brown. Astoria is towering trees and trailing vines, flowing rivers and wide lakes. Even the sun, due to the makeup of the stratosphere, gives off a pale greenish glow.

He also misses having a place to stretch his wings.

Castiel has been a negotiator of sorts for the past ten years. He’d been traveling off planet—a very un-Astorian thing to do, as his siblings remind him as often as possible—when he’d found himself in the middle of a dispute over farming rights to a tract of land between two neighboring families. Without even realizing what he was doing he’d stepped in, gentling the arguing neighbors into actually speaking rather than ranting and raving until they’d landed on a compromise that left both sides happy for the first time in several years.

It had been a small thing, really, barely worth notice. But a high-ranking officer from the local military happened to be visiting friends in the nearby village, and she did take notice. She’d been impressed by how he’d known just how to handle the arguing families. She didn’t know much about Astoria--no one did, really--was he a middle child from a big family who was always trying to help his brothers and sisters work things out? Was it something all Astorians learned, a subject taught in school alongside math and reading and coloring in the lines? Or was it a skill specific to Castiel alone, one he’d just discovered one day and nurtured until it bloomed?

Slightly overwhelmed by the expectant, chatty woman standing before him, Castiel had smiled slightly and said, “Actually, I’m not sure how that happened. I’ve never done anything like that before.”

And with that simple statement began Castiel’s second life. The officer, Admiral Amia, took him under her wing...so to speak.  Much to the disdain of Castiel’s people, he left Astoria and studied negotiation and mediation tactics under the Admiral’s direction. Even as he studied he had work; first nearby but then farther and farther afield. Almost immediately Admiral Amia sent him to a neighboring colony world, where he successfully negotiated a compromise between two rival clans who had been vying for a small island in the river that separated their two lands. To Castiel’s surprise--but not to the Admiral’s--his reputation spread quickly, all across the galaxy. He didn’t work specifically for her government; soon he traveled from planet to planet, living mostly aboard spaceships, going wherever he was needed. Soon he was in demand, and he could go where he wished. He enjoyed the freedom to choose, something he never really had on Astoria, but he did miss waking up with the sun on his face and the wind ruffling his feathers, the way it did on the open aeries of his homeworld.

tumblr: ch 1 / ch 2

ao3: ch 1 / ch 2 / ch 3

Most of the time Dean hates his quarters. He has a small living room with an even smaller sofa--his mom would probably call it a love seat--and a coffee table. The far end of the room doubles as a dining room on days he doesn’t want to eat in one of the mess halls or lounges, complete with a tiny round table and two chairs. The bathroom isn’t even big enough to have a bathtub, and if not for the bed the bedroom could possibly be mistaken for a walk-in closet. There is a viewscreen he can activate to view entertainments, to make calls to other people on the Virginian, to use the computer system, or to mimic any view he’d like to see, but there are no viewports. He isn’t nearly senior enough to warrant quarters on the outer edge of the station.

Most days Dean fervently wishes for a window. But after seeing the Perigrine flyby he’s thankful for his blank walls.

That was a total disaster, he thinks, throwing himself onto the sofa. Cas probably thinks I’m crazy. He looks around his quarters then says, “Maybe I am.”

Dean has been dreaming of flying as long as he can remember. For his fifth birthday his mom gave him a telescope and his dad built a bench along the window in his bedroom so he could spend as much time as he wanted looking at the sky. When he was twelve--the earliest age they’d take you--he joined the Junior Star Voyagers and started learning how to pilot small spacecraft. It was mostly simulators, but to Dean it was the start of his dreams coming true.

And then, when he was fifteen, there was the accident.

He doesn’t blame his little brother. It hadn’t been Sam’s fault. They’d been playing catch in the backyard, and Sam had thrown the football a little past Dean. There had been a branch on the ground, and Dean had fallen into a bush, and two weeks later the doctors were telling the Winchesters that it was a miracle that Dean could see at all. He shouldn’t be upset about only having 80% of his vision. He should be thrilled.

But 80% of his vision--and almost no peripheral vision on the right side--meant no flying. Ever. He’d actually been flying small aircraft for two years, and it was everything his five year old self had ever dreamed. More, even. Nothing at all could compare to soaring above the earth, and he’d been counting the days until his 18th birthday, when he could join the Star Voyagers and actually fly above the atmosphere. Then the accident destroyed his dreams.

The diplomatic corps got him above the atmosphere, of course. It had been his mom’s idea. “You’ve always been good with words,” she’d said, eyes twinkling. “Just look at how often you get your way around here.” So Dean had met with the recruiter, who told Dean he “showed real promise.” It wasn’t what he’d wanted, of course. But the trouble was he’d had no idea what it was he did want. He’d been dreaming of nothing but flight for his whole life, or so it seemed to him. It was like having the needle of his compass suddenly disappear. So when someone pointed him in a direction, he went. Six weeks after high school graduation he’d been on a shuttle for training on Moon Base Alpha, and he’d been following orders ever since.

But the diplomatic corps hasn’t erased his dreams of flying. If anything it’s made them worse. Sure he gets to be in space, see new planets, meet amazing people, but every time he sees Perigrines his stomach lurches and he feels faint. Every time he passes someone wearing a flight suit he has to bite back an envious scream. Even the everyday Star Voyagers uniforms make his heart beat overly fast.

Frustrated, Dean runs his fingers through his hair. Maybe I should have just stayed on Earth, he thinks despondently. I’m sure I could have found a place with no stars to taunt me. Hey, I know. I could go home and work in a coal mine. He laughs a short, bitter laugh.

A soft beep--his door chime--jolts him out of his depressed thoughts. “Come in,” he says, his voice deactivating the lock mechanism on the door. It slides open and a smiling redhead bounds into his cramped quarters.

“Dean! You’ll never believe it! There’s an Astorian on the…” Charlie’s exuberant chatter fades into silence when she sees his pale, pained face. She sits beside him on the tiny sofa, nudging him with her elbow until he makes room for her. Quietly she asks, “Was it Perigrines again?”

Dean nods, unwilling to speak. Charlie gives him a one-armed hug and rests her head on his shoulder. She understands. They’d met eight years before; Dean was on his first assignment for the diplomatic corps and Charlie was fresh out of the Star Voyagers Academy. Dean had only been on board a few days when, lonely and bored, he went to a movie night in the ship’s lounge. He and Charlie bonded instantly over a mutual love of Star Wars. He’d only been on that ship for a few months, but they’d stayed in touch, and they’d both been thrilled when she’d been stationed on the Virginian not long after he arrived.

They sit silently for a few minutes, Dean taking comfort in his friend, until he suddenly bursts out, “And I made a fool of myself.” He covers his face with his hands.

After a beat Charlie shouts, “You met someone!” It is not a question; Charlie always knows. “It’s about damn time! I was this close to setting you up with someone in my lab. There’s a new girl who’s kind of cute, although I don’t know if her sense of humor is up to your standards. And there’s a guy who keeps asking about you, but he’s a vegetarian, and the way you are with burgers, I just don’t know if I could see you with a vegetarian. I mean, I know that’s what we do, finding new and better way to grow vegetables in space, but that doesn’t mean we can’t--”

“Charlie!” Dean snaps.

“Sorry,” Charlie says, not sounding sorry at all.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” says Dean. “Even if the flyby hadn’t made me run out of the lounge like I’d seen a ghost, he’s here to negotiate for the Preet. It’s a bad idea, Charlie. Romeo and Juliet was romantic at first, but it didn’t exactly end well.”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Dramatic much? You’re not Juliet, Dean. You’re--” She stops, mouth hanging open. Slowly, deliberately, she says, “Dean. You said the guy you met is here to negotiate for the Preet.”

Tonelessly, Dean answers, “yeah.”

“Dean. Dean.” When he doesn’t respond to her increasing levels of agitation she resorts to grabbing him by the shoulders and squeezing until he looks at her. “Dean. Did you meet the Astorian??”

thanks to my betas, @bend-me-shape-me and @ajacentlee

Tagging: @unlikelyteller