I had a thought last night about Graves being on a boat that goes kaboom—
And waking up after being washed ashore on a random island.
He's covered in burns, sore all over, and dehydrated. He knows he's not going to make it, simply laying there and feeling a deep well open up inside him as he realizes he's going to die here, alone, slowly.
It makes the unreligious man offer up a quiet prayer for the first time in decades and mean it.
His eyes slip shut and he doesn't think he'll wake up again.
Only to come to hours later, body dragged under some tree. A fire crackles nearby, and before he can look around through blurry eyes, a coconut is pressed to his lips.
A word is said, but he doesn't understand it. Still, he can get the gist of it especially when the water touches his chapped lips. He swallows greedily, humming in relief as his thirst is quenched.
He leans back, sighing. He doesn't mean to fall back asleep, but that's exactly what he does, drifting back into an uneasy slumber, stirring every once in a while.
The next time he wakes up, he's been stripped to his boxers and is covered in green goo. He sniffs himself, realizing it's aloe vera.
Another coconut is pressed to his lips, but this time he has enough strength to begin chewing at the meat.
It's only after he's taken a few bites that Phil realizes his unknown saviour is here and he can see them, gaze no longer blurry and dark.
When he looks up at you, he freezes.
You're nothing like he imagined.
You're a woman, bare, hair long and well taken care of despite the previous fact; it falls down your front to cover the peaks of your breasts.
But that's not the shocking part. No, it's the feathers growing along your neck and collarbone, along your arms and outer thighs. It's the shiny smooth scales along your legs and stomach. The massive wings and sharp talons at the ends of your fingers and toes.
Graves stares at you and wonders if he's hit his head, still recovering. Because there's no way you're real, right?
As Graves unabashedly stares at you, you eye him back, tilting your head in a very bird-like manner. When he doesn't say or do anything, you nudge the coconut towards his mouth, saying something again.
Despite his coherence, he still can't place the language, only that it sounds old.
Days pass by in a blur, Graves sleeping for long hours and only waking up to eat, drink, and embarrassingly, gesture that he needs to go toilet.
But the embarrassment is quick to die after a few days of this routine, especially when you don't react to it. He supposes it mustn't be too weird, considering you've already stripped him and lathered him in goo.
Sometimes, when he's not recuperating from his injuries, he lies on the grass and watches you– watches your wings shift, watches you groom your feathers and brush your hair with a wooden comb. He's fascinated by this creature from mythology that's saved him, fingers twitching to reach out and see if you're really real.
Stupid, he knows. But sometimes he has doubts about all this, wonders if he died on that beach and this is some weird afterlife.
If it is, it ain't too bad.
As time goes by, his strength returns little by little, wounds healing. You keep an eye on him as he stretches his muscles, moving and trying to get a bit of strength back.
When he stumbles, you're by his side in a flash, one wing stretched over his back, another ancient word falling from your lips. A warning.
Phil just gives you a charming grin to cover up his embarrassment. "I'm fine, sweetheart. Just need to..."
He trails off when you touch him, squeezing his arms with a frown.
Then he's guided back to camp, stuck on the ground as your wings unfurl and you shoot up, heading towards the water.
Even at a distance, he can see you shoot down into the waters, disappearing for minutes at a time. It makes him anxious, worried that if something happens to you he'll be all alone.
But his worry is for nought, as you return barely half an hour later with fish gripped in your talons.
Eat, you seem to say, holding a fat fish up to him.
Then moves towards the fire to cook it.
When he looks back, he swears he sees a hint of embarrassment on your face as you mutter something to yourself, hand on your head.
You help him cook, cutting the fish open and then skewering them with branches.
When they're done and Phillip finally tastes something other than coconut for once, he moans in sheer enjoyment.
At his side, you stare at him, feathers puffing up a bit.
This routine goes on for over a month, time passing by with few changes.
He heals, begins to regain his strength, but most of his days are still spent in the camp, lounging on the grass as he helps you with whatever needs to be done that day.
Preparing a meal, carving something or another, gathering material for the fire...
It's an extremely simple routine, a simple life, yet Phillip finds himself enjoying it.
But then homesickness sinks in. Then he's laying up at night wondering about his boys, his ma, if that damn houseplant he'd been gifted was alive or dead.
Despite the serenity of this island, Graves missed his life.
He tells you as such. Though you don't understand him (nor he you), you still hum like you do, and that's enough.
You listen, occasionally looking at him when his tone wavers. You reach for him intermittently, a bird's coo leaving your throat instinctively. It makes him chuckle.
"I'm okay, sweetheart." He assures, guiding your hand to his heart– one of the many gestures he's being using to convey things to you. "Just... missin' home."
Despite the language barrier, the sadness in your eyes says you understand.
Your fingers flex against his chest, Phil's heart skipping a beat. Then you guide his hand to yours, and he swallows, staring into your sad, sad eyes as you murmur something to him.
You lean in, brow pressing against his. His breath stutters at the intimacy, and slowly, he presses back, simply basking in the connection you're offering him.
After that... he and you grow closer.
You allow him to groom you, showing him how best to tend to your wings; at night, he sleeps with you against him, wing laid over him like a blanket; during the lazier hours of day, he guides you to the beach and splashes with you, collecting shells to gift you.
And then, one night, his body catches up to the fact he has a very beautiful (if not quite human) woman with him. He's embarrassed when your notice his reaction, but before he can offer any excuses (that you won't even understand), you carefully straddle him, giving him a soft look.
... it ends up being one of the most magical nights on that island for him.
It's also his last, as the next morning a ship passes by, and Phillip can't lose this chance.
They stop for him, help him on board. When he turns back, you're gone.
As he sits on that boat, explaining what happened to the group of rich university kids, he fiddled with a feather.
He hopes he can see you again.
Sat on his couch and watching a documentary, Phillip nursed a beer in one hand, occasionally sipping at it, and fiddling with your feather in the other. He always was, these days.
Ever since he'd been rescued from that island, he'd been thinking about you. Tried finding it, but... it was insane to say, but it was like the place didn't exist. Even those rich kids who'd helped him had been confused when he asked.
They knew it existed, but for the life of them, they couldn't recall how they'd found it.
It was... upsetting, to put it lightly. Though his time with you had come about because of an accident and he'd been otherwise stranded, Phil had still enjoyed his time with you. He missed you every damn day.
Twirling the feather again, he lifted his beer for another sip when a crash from upstairs startled him. He dropped it, nearly snapping your feather from surprise.
He immediately cursed, gently placing it down. Then he stood, grabbing a gun and heading towards the stairs.
Footsteps, a scratching sound, muffled voice.
With a severe look on his face, Phillip Graves marched upstairs silently, gun ready to shoot.
He pushed open the door to his bedroom, the balcony doors having been left open for some fresh air. He expected to find an intruder in his house, but instead–
You cursed, wings tangled in his curtains.
Phil's heart stopped. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.
You ceased all movements at the sound of his voice, turning with a soft, involuntary squawk, then greeted him back with your own endearment.
He couldn't speak, just dropping his gun on the bed and rushing to you, helping you get out of the curtains before pulling you into a bone crushing hug, desperate to feel you again after so long.
But something got in the way, and when he looked down, Graves wondered how the hell he hadn't noticed it until now.
Still bare (he'd have to get you some clothes, huh?), Phil was able to see every inch of your stretched, round stomach.
Once again, he was speechless before he just... began babbling, talking and asking all sorts of questions as you looked at him, uncomprehending yet smiling.
He was stopped from continuing by you taking his hand and placing it on your belly.
At that moment, he felt a flutter against his palm, a tiny kick that had him smiling until his cheeks ached and tugging at his own hair to calm down.
"Fuck," he whispered, pulling you into another hug, this time mindful of your belly. "I didn't think I'd see you again, yet here you are and we're– fuck. Fuck."
He presses his brow to yours and sends another prayer, thanking whatever god or gods was out there for letting him have this– have you.
