Curate, connect, and discover
wing!famiglia, 2k, GP POV. some things are different- but some things stay the same. (hi! I describe the accident in more vivid detail than I do in the original famiglia, because I'm writing from GP's POV.)
The rain is slamming down in harsh sheets, pasting Gianpiero's feathers down, and his heart is pounding as they pull over to the side of the road, sprinting towards the crash site.
There's cars strewn across the road, twisted metal scattered around them. His hands are shaking, trying to figure out where he needs to go first. There's so many, too many to handle at once, he needs to-
There's a rasping cry from a van, warbling and distressed. It's rolled over, resting on its a side, a mangled mess. Gianpiero runs over, cupping his hands around his eyes to try and see better in the dark, slamming to his knees to try and look inside.
There's bloody feathers coating the car, dark brown and maroon, and Gianpiero feels bile rise in his throat at the twisted bones rising from the man in front of him, shattered and pinched at unnatural angles.
There's a deep gash in his forehead, blood dripping from his mouth and nose, and his eyes are unfocused, one pupil larger than the other. He makes another desperate rasping noise.
His arms are curled around something, cradled tight to his chest, and Gianpiero's heart flips into an ugly pretzel when he hears a soft chirp.
"I'm here, I'm- I'm going to get you both out of here-"
The man lets out another wheezing cry, wet coughs rattling his chest, blood coating his teeth.
"My son..."
Gianpiero can't save him. He's not sure anyone could, but-
There's a fledgling in there.
He shuffles forward on his knees, reaching in through the shattered windshield, and the man drops his arms, head falling to the side with another wheeze.
There's a boy, one wing tucked tight around him, the other resting unnaturally to the side.
The man's fingers land in the boy's hair, weakly ruffling through it, but his eyes drag to meet Gianpiero's, piercing even in their final moments.
"My champion,"
He hacks again, and the fledgling flinches, curling tighter in on himself.
"My Max."
Gianpiero is going to be sick, can't bring himself to meet the eyes of a dying man as he carefully gathers the boy in his arms.
Max.
The fledgling cries out, hands darting forward to tangle in Gianpiero's shirt, and then he's latching to his chest, desperately chirping, pleading for reassurance.
He still has soft hatchling feathers, smeared red, and Gianpiero supports him with one hand, the other coming up to curl gently behind his head as he coos softly, backing away from the car.
His wings are heavy and waterlogged, but he strains his back lifting them anyways, wrapping around the fledgling to shut out the rain.
He doesn't look at the dying man again.
------
The fledgling's name is Max. He's 14, a falcon subspecies, and he's probably never going to fly.
His right wing is shattered, needs hours of corrective surgery that Gianpiero doesn't think twice about telling them to move forward on.
His blood type is A-, he's small for his age, and he's-
"...most likely imprinted on you, Mr. Lambiase. Fledglings at that stage, after a traumatic event, are going to look to the nearest adult to take care of them, and there is a very good chance he's picked you."
Gianpiero blinks at the social worker. First responders wear masks and helmets to avoid accidental imprinting, but Gianpiero hadn't-
He hadn't thought about it. Hadn't allowed himself to consider the idea that there was a fledgling- barely a fledgling, still with fuzzy little hatchling feathers- in that wreckage.
"I, uh,"
He pulls his wings tighter against his back. The warm blankets have helped to dry them back off, but he tries his best to be spatially aware of his surrounds- having a heron wingspan isn't always a helpful thing.
"I need to call my boss."
------
Max is 16, speaks softly, and doesn't fly. He's had more operations than Gianpiero likes to think about, but he won't even try, refuses to even visit common lift off areas.
Gianpiero wouldn't dream of pushing him- they utilize non-flight spaces as much as possible, and they live on a lower level accommodation, which was both cheaper and easier to access than where Gianpiero had been before.
Most people don't like being so close to the ground. GP doesn't mind- his subspecies means he likes to use his legs, and Max needs the accessibility.
He still works out his back and shoulders. Gianpiero has quietly wondered about it before, why Max chooses to train his flight muscles with no intention to ever use them, but he's never asked.
It's Max's business.
------
Max is 19, leaving Gianpiero's nest for his own place not too far away. There's a light brace fitted around his right wing, overlapping carbon fiber and intricate pulley systems to allow full supported range of motion.
He still doesn't fly.
He'll go up higher into buildings with Gianpiero now- they can frequently utilize skyways and platform spaces up in the sky, as long as Max doesn't get too close to the edge.
He's still Gianpiero's tiny little fledgling, and he still fits perfectly under his wings.
"Dad, you are a heron, I'm always going to fit under your wings."
"Exactly."
------
Max is dating a dove. A high profile, flirty, racing driver dove.
Gianpiero has never approved of anyone less in his life. He'd been a fan of the songbird from uni, now that had been a nice boy.
Apparently, Max and the dove- Charles- have history. Gianpiero doesn't care for him at all, and certainly not for the way he leaves feathers everywhere, bright white against the couch cushions.
------
Charles isn't terrible. He's grown on Gianpiero like a leech, and he's preformed the miracle of at least getting Max within a few meters of a lift-off range before he'd backed out.
It's more progress than anyone else has been able to make.
They've been dating for a few years now, growing into their twenties. Gianpiero sometimes looks at Max and sees a small bloody fledgling, has to bundle him in his arms and wings until tears no longer burn hot on his lash line.
Max tolerates it.
------
They're at a FIA event, all dressed up for hours of self-absorbed speech giving, something Gianpiero has learned to tune out while still looking like he's listening.
Max had taken a few years to catch on, but he's getting better at it, although he still looks annoyed if a camera ever lands on him.
They're mingling up on the aerial platform, and there's drinks flowing, which is a safety violation that's not usually an issue- but the F3 drivers are here tonight, so everyone is being responsible.
They're supposed to be, anyways.
Gianpiero has spotted more than a few young drivers with drinks they shouldn't have, and he's trying to keep an eye out, but there's so many of them- they're playing some ridiculous game of catch, small wings flapping around as they trip over their own feet.
Hugh pulls him into a conversation with a Ferrari engineer, and his attentions drifts.
It's fine.
It's fine until it's not, fine until there's a terrified screech, fine until he snaps his head around just in time to watch a fledgling fall over the edge, time slowing down.
The F3 drivers should be able to fly and glide short distances. They can't pull a recovery dive, not at this hight, not inebriated. Snapping out their wings- it would tear their muscles, snap their joints.
They need- Gianpiero unfreezes the same time as everyone else, darting to the edge- it's been three seconds, four seconds, they need an eagle or a vulture, six seconds, seven seconds, they need-
They need speed, need someone who can make up those seconds, they need-
A flurry of brown and blonde darts past him, arcs gracefully over the edge before wings tuck in, and the towers emergency lights flash on.
There's a small blur dropping fast.
Max is moving faster.
Gianpiero feels like he's going to throw up when the blurs collide, heart in his throat when Max doesn't immediately flare-
He's still diving, but he's extending his wings slowly, twisting into a arching upward curve, bringing himself to a speed manageable by species other than falcons, and he's curving back towards the tower.
Someone has corralled the other fledglings, and they're trying to clear a space for Max to land- a landing that will undoubtedly be messy, because he's never done it before.
Max finally flares closer to the tower, wings snapping out fully behind him, fledgling clutched tightly in his arms as he lands in a staggered run, crumpling to his knees on impact.
Gianpiero is at his side in an instant, hit with a wave of complicated emotions-
Max has his wings curled tightly around the F3 driver, cooing gently.
Gianpiero had done that once.
Someone has gotten the medical team, and they're making their way onto the upper deck as Max uncurls his wings- it doesn't escape Gianpiero's notice that his right side moves stiff and slow.
There's a flash of vibrant white in the corner of his eye, and then Charles is crouching next to them as well, cooing softly to coax the fledgling out of Max's arms.
It's careful work to disentangle them, but the fledgling finally works with them, moving over with the medical team.
Gianpiero wraps his arms around Max gingerly, wings curling over them both, giving Max the privacy to drop his head onto his shoulder.
"Max,"
Max makes a soft noise, and something hot and wet drops onto Gianpiero's skin.
"Hurts, dad."
"We'll fix it."
He'd worried, as soon as he'd seen Max flare his wings- he has anchors and stabilizers in the muscle and bone, but the speed of the dive, the force of the flare-
There's a chance the muscle is shredded.
Max buries his head further into Gianpiero's shoulder.
"It felt so nice, for a second."
Gianpiero tightens his wings, nudging the sides of their heads together.
"I'm sorry, Max."
Sorry that none of them had gotten off the platform sooner, sorry that Max had put the pieces together faster than the rest of them, done the math in his head, sorry that all the surgeries in the world will never fully repair his wing, sorry that he'll never experience flying the way he should-
He's sorry for all of it. If he could cut off his own wings, give his boy a chance, he would. He'd do it in a heartbeat.
He squeezes the back of Max's neck gently.
Max sniffs, sitting back up as Gianpiero slowly lowers his wings.
"Is Kimi okay?"
The F3 driver is tiny- Gianpiero had heard gossip about one of the junior drivers being a pygmy owl, and it must be this one- but he's standing on his own two feet, dutifully listening to the medical team.
"It looks like it."
Max's shoulders slump in relief, but his right wing stays hitched up behind him, trembling in place.
Gianpiero opens his mouth to say something about it, but a brilliant white wing extends underneath the curve of Max's sharply angled one, offering a rest.
He shares an appreciative glance with Charles, unspoken that in this they're on the same team.
They always are, when it comes to keeping Max safe.
Max laughs softly, looking at GP.
"Maybe if that German hospital had a songbird you could've not ended up baby trapped by imprinting."
Gianpiero narrows his eyes, feathers bristling.
"Don't say that. I could never regret you, Max. I wouldn't have wanted someone to pull you away- imprinting goes both ways."
Hadn't that been a surprise, the first time someone had offered to watch Max while Gianpiero went to a meeting and he'd puffed up, wings spread wide threateningly.
The first few years had been a learning process for them both.
He leans forward, knocking their heads together briefly.
He's so proud of his boy, all grown up and out of the nest, and he hasn't quite processed yet that Max had flown.
"But maybe no more jumping off buildings? I'm getting too old for you to be doing that to my heart."
Max grins weakly at him.
"I think the fledgling rescue thing just runs in the family."
It's not the worst family trait Gianpiero can think of.
"Maybe it does."