Chapter Text
Mothman huffed and adjusted his wings. The cold night wind twisted past him as he gazed down at the forest below. He really shouldn’t have stormed off in this weather without checking his wings, and he could feel old rips and tears aching in the cold, damp air. Now, when he got back, Bigfoot was going to be all concerned and protective, pushing their own problems and anger aside to care for him. He could feel his wings drooping but made no attempt to correct them. No one was out here to see, anyway.
The argument had started small enough, a stupid, shallow thing that spiralled out of control. It had quickly escalated from a humorous comparison of his statue and local fame to their widespread popularity but hidden face to a screaming match about objectification and safety, until he had left in a haze of tears, struggling to force back a growing panic attack.
Flying helped. Drifting between the stars and the lake, the shining lights twinkling and drawing him in, a chill wind whispering through the waves and leaves reminding him, again and again, that he belonged there.
The arguments had gotten more frequent, more angry. He didn’t know why. He didn’t like being angry. Maybe it was Bigfoot. Maybe they’d gotten bored of him. Maybe they’d decided he wasn’t worth it. That he was a burden. Just like everyone else had.
He shifted on his perch, not eager to take to the sky again, as much as he loved it. The cold was seeping under his skin, bringing back the ghosts of old wounds and broken memories. Storms. Fires. Destruction.
He shook himself, spreading his aching wings. He could use the familiar air currents and updrafts to glide back home. If Bigfoot even wanted him there.
No, he couldn’t think like that. This wasn’t the end. They just needed to talk. A queerplatonic relationship was the same as any other: communication was key.
His steps were soft as he landed and approached their hollow. It was late. Hours had passed since he had left. Bigfoot was probably asleep.
He entered slowly, surprised to see a lamp still glowing softly, drawing him into its warm cocoon of light. Were they awake? Had they left it on for him?
They weren't in the den, so he crept towards the bedroom.
They were lying in bed, their back facing him, their breathing irregular. Awake. Waiting?
A twinge of pain had him flinching, the rustling of his wings loud in the peaceful home.
Bigfoot sat up slowly, looking to the doorway where he stood.
“Momo?” their voice was quiet, maybe even hopeful.
He tried to respond, but could only let out a quiet, pitiful squeak. They reached out immediately, inviting him under the warm blanket.
He curled up beside them, slowly soothed by their soft fur and the cozy warmth of the familiar bed. He could feel his eyelids drooping, his unplanned flight taking a toll on his weary body.
“Bif?” he murmured, slowly sliding into unconsciousness.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” they were whispering as sleep overtook him, “just rest.”
His dreams were as peaceful as they always were when he slept in their arms.