Word count: Approx 1.1k
Pairing: vague Priest/Wife, Priest/Black Hat preslash
Warnings: AU: wing manifestation
Prompt: From pooka_07 at comment-fic on livejournal: Priest, Priest/Black Hat, AU; Priest has resented the church ever since he manifested wings and they took him from his wife and soon-to-be-born child. He ignores all of the younger acolytes, but one of them just won't leave him alone, even in the flight cages.

A/N: So, I was doing some reasearch for this monster of a fic outline I've been playing with (don't ask) and I ran into a priest fic that was actually pretty good. When I went looking for more there wasn't much and I was saddened. Found this prompt and was done for...

WINGS! MY WEAKNESS.

Anyway, I haven't slept in about 40 hours and I confused myself a little with the pronouns since, you know, after you join the order they pretty much make you flush your name. Sorry if there are any glaring mistakes or it gets confusing - this isn't beta'd. Let me know so I can fix it okay?

I don't remember where I got the names from at the end either, but for some reason they're my head canon. I think at least one is from the manhwa... or something.

I kind of wanted to take this further but, again, no sleep in 40 hours rofl. I'm going to NAP. Hope you enjoy the ficlet! *flops into bed*

His wife – his gorgeous, wonderful wife – had startled as they were walking. He could feel the small jolt through their linked hands, could almost sense her surprise. He had turned her around in concern, asking what was wrong. When she smiled and rested a palm on her belly, he'd mirrored her; grinning ear to ear and covering her delicate hand with his own. There, under their joined hands, a kick.

Her joy was contagious. His heart thumped hard in his chest with the rebound of her happiness.

Then pain.

He had dropped her hand as he stumbled, barely registering her surprised shout.

Waves of agony had coursed up and down his spine as he clawed at the ground, screaming himself hoarse.

The world had gone dark, and when he awoke it was to a white, featureless room; strapped to a cold, stainless steel table.

His forehead stung incessantly and he had fought the bands cinching his forearms to the metal in order to clutch at his face. Unfamiliar weight tugged against his shoulder blades, pulling him down as he fought for leverage against the slick tabletop, and he turned his head sharply to the side.

Completely forgetting about the stinging between his eyebrows, his jaw had gaped as he stared at the silver-blond wings that he could see out of the corner of his eye, crushed beneath his body. He had jerked at the restraints again, experimentally. The wings gave a jerk of their own in reflex.

He had collapsed with a groan, then able to feel the uncomfortable way the feathers pinched as he lay on the wings; his wings.

He knew what that stinging was now.

There was only one place for manifests like him.

That had been months ago now, and even though he has trained – been trained, more like, as if he is a dog in need of discipline when he's long since been a man fully grown – he still feels dislike bordering on hate when he has to have a face-to-face with a superior.

They are to be taught to suppress such things. Emotion; it is a weakness. One that the manifested can ill afford when they are expected to leave the compound as soldiers, fit to murder in the name of the Church. Oh, sorry, in defense of the Church.

He manifested late. All of the other acolytes are younger than him, some by a decent margin.

He keeps to himself most of the time. It's strangely upsetting to see such young men and women, sometimes merely children, with blank masks for faces, perfect posture, and a formality to their speech that sets his teeth on edge.

He tells himself that he won't become that. He won't lose himself.

Hard to believe his own lies when the brightness of his wife's smile dims in his memory each day.

There's an impact on the other side of the chain-link fence he's leaning against and he flips around, startled.

Another acolyte clings to the fence upside down, their faces level. His robes are a little large for him, and sag comically due to his position. The acolyte is grinning largely, one of his canines resting against his lower lip in a manner that makes him look young and feral. Adding to this image is short, messy brown locks – and isn't that against the rules?

He wonders how the guy got up there like that until the other lets his shoulders relax, fingers clenching tightly at the fence as his arms take his weight. Rust colored wings flow open elegantly behind him and he lets gravity stretch them out until they're partly resting on the ground.

And he thought the blank, staring, mask-people were weird.

"Well hello there, stranger," the upside-down man asks in a gravelly voice with a deep, southern drawl. His 'there' almost sounds like 'thar.'

He says nothing and the younger acolyte's grin fades into a smirk; complete with eyebrow lift. The effect is lost on the man, however, when his clothing gives up to flop over and into his face.

The younger acolyte's wings spread in surprise – an unintentionally obscene display. He's glad the younger cannot see the blush that he can feel burning against his cheeks and ear-tips.

The younger acolyte lets go of the fence, which causes him to gasp in fear that the young man will fall and hurt himself, but instead of falling he twists his body in a sinuous motion like a cat – landing in a crouch.

He stands and brushes himself off with a huff, wings folding closed with a roll of his shoulders – which makes his own wings flare slightly and resettle, though he is unsure why.

The young acolyte is back to all smiles again, and the expression unsettles the elder. It is strange to see such exaggerated emotion after months of brainwashing telling him it's wrong.

The young man leans against the fence casually, "what're ya doin' on that side of the flight cage, darlin'?" he asks, tone merely curious. "All the fun is ta be had on this side ya know."

He just stares – what is so great about the other side of the fence. Being in a cage doesn't sound fun.

He doesn't realize he's spoken that last thought aloud until the young acolyte is chuckling darkly, the sound sending a pleasant chill racing down his spine.

"Ya can't fly outside o' the flight cages," the young man is looking at him as if he's grown a second head.

Well that makes two of them.

They stare at each other, the young man's face smoothing out. The transition is jarring and he finds himself missing the easy grin.

The hazel eyes clear with understanding and he smiles, soft.

"Well c'mon then. The gate's this way," he says, turning to walk along the barrier.

Without thinking about it, he's already jogged the few steps to catch up, walking side by side his new – friend? – acquaintance.

"M'name's Ezekiel," the rust-winged manifest says, almost startling him into stopping.

Rule number one; you have no more name.

You are part of the collective; a whole. You are no longer an individual.

They walk in silence for a beat. He trails his fingers absent mindedly along the fence.

"Isaac," he replies quietly.

Fingers brush against his from the other side.