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Jason feels the blood feather break.
A sharp, pinching pain; over almost before it begins. If it had been anywhere other than on a wing, he would have ignored it.
He almost does, still.
But Jason has seen the damage a broken blood feather, left untreated, can cause. It’s something he would wish on very few people.
Jason drops the man he was fighting with a well placed blow to the sternum, knocking the breath from his lungs. From there it’s easy to restrain him and contact Oracle for a pick-up.
He sticks around until he sees the flash of sirens. Then he leaves, pulling his wings in tight and relying on his grapple to carry him between rooftops. His wing twinges again, low on his left wing, in one of those awkward places Jason isn’t able to reach without some creative twisting—or see without the use of mirrors.
Jason grimaces.
He could… maybe attempt to remove it on his own, but— It’s one thing to stitch himself up one-handed, or use a mirror to dig a bullet out of the back of his shoulder. It’s another to go fucking around with his wings.
They’re in poor enough condition as it is.
He’ll need help.
Leslie is the obvious choice. But—Jason imagines heading to the clinic; lying on an exam table in a sterile white room, wings splayed open, the backs of them exposed and vulnerable…
And he can’t.
He reaches for his comm—hesitates—and then, before he can talk himself out of it, switches to the private channel he shares with Red Robin.
“Red. You busy?”
For a moment, there’s nothing but dead air.
Then— “Just wrapping up. Everything okay, Hood?”
The comms they use have come far since Jason was Robin. There are still traces of static, but voices come through with sharp clarity, almost as if someone is speaking directly into his ear.
Still, there are limits.
Jason doesn’t know what to make of Tim’s tone. Guarded? Cautious? Wary? Anticipation? Some mixture of all of it, perhaps.
“Yeah. Just… could use a hand with something. Mind if I stop by the Nest?”
Jason can almost see the quizzical tilt to Tim’s head; feel his piercing stare, even separated as they are.
“I’ll meet you there.”
Jason closes the channel and reaches for his grapple again.
The Nest is closer to the clinic anyway.
Some time ago, Tim had given Jason his own access codes to the Nest. He’d done it casually—so casually that Jason could almost believe that it really was no big deal instead of a significant display of trust.
Jason has only used them a handful of times. Breaking in is just so much more fun. Keeps his skills sharp—or, that’s what he tells Tim, anyway. There is some truth to it, but the real prize is the pissy face Tim makes when he realizes what Jason has done.
Tonight, though, he’d rather be on Tim’s good side. Jason uses his codes at one of the side entrances. Tim is already waiting in the main area of the Nest when he comes in. He’s standing in front of the monitors; arms braces against his desk chair. The way his cape drapes over his shoulders, the ends sweeping over the floor, past the ends of dark primaries…
It reminds Jason so strongly of Bruce that he has to stop and blink to clear the image away.
He waits for the anger to rise. Prepares to swallow it down, stopping himself from lashing out at someone who—currently—doesn’t deserve it.
It doesn’t come.
Grief hits him instead; swelling in his chest and climbing up into his throat, threatening to choke him. He swallows hard and shakes himself before forcing his feet forward.
Tim turns. If he’s surprised by Jason using his codes instead of breaking in like usual, he doesn’t show it. His face is pinched; a slight furrow between his brows. He’s already taken off his domino. Jason can see traces of the adhesive around his eyes.
The lack of a mask doesn’t make his scrutiny any less intense.
“You said you needed my help with something.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did. Do.” Jason shifts, wincing at himself. His wings flutter slightly; the broken feather twinging. He grimaces—then reaches for his helmet, disabling the security before pulling it off with a low, mechanical hiss.
Cool air washes over his face; a balm to flushed, sweaty skin. He balances the helmet on his hip. “I, uh… broke a blood feather.” He can feel the blood oozing out of the wound. It hasn’t started to drip yet. He imagines it staining the feathers; matting them against his skin.
It’s gonna be a pain in the ass to clean.
Tim’s eyes widen. It’s almost imperceptible, but Jason has spent longer than he would like to admit studying Tim. He knows, intimately, the lines and curves of Tim’s face; the way his mouth usually sits, the sharp slope of his nose, the droop of his eyes. If he had any talent for art at all, he thinks he could sketch Tim from memory.
Tim’s surprise leaves Jason uncomfortably aware of what he’s asking. Offering.
It’s not the first time he’s come to Tim for help with an injury… but he’s never offered up anything so vulnerable as an injured wing before.
For a moment, he’s tempted to take it back. Go to Leslie instead—or take his chances with a bathroom mirror. He’s no Grayson, but he thinks he’s bendy enough to manage…
“Let me look at it,” Tim says, surprise gone as quickly as it had come. Determination replaces it— and Jason knows there’s no turning back now.
Tim leads him not to the medical bay, as Jason might have expected, but out through the study and into the apartment proper.
“We’ll have more space out here,” Tim says, directing Jason to a chair.
It’s a preening chair, with a cushioned front to rest against; a slight dip at the top and curves in the sides for resting the head and arms. There’s another cushion to support his middle, allowing him to recline on his stomach, but still be sitting up.
Jason settles in it awkwardly; his wings fluttering. It takes more effort than it should to still them.
Tim doesn’t react, though Jason highly doubts his display of nerves has gone unnoticed. Instead he leaves Jason alone for a few moments, then returns with a first aid kit. He sets it on a low table before pulling up a stool to settle on.
Jason pillows his cheek on folded arms, and unfurls his injured wing. He keeps the other tucked close. The wound twinges again. He wrinkles his nose; mouth twisting.
“I’m going to touch your wing,” Tim warns. Jason nods. The first brush of Tim’s fingers against his feathers is so light Jason barely feels it. His teeth dig into his lower lip. He realizes his shoulders have started to climb toward his ears—he forces them back down with a slow, deliberate exhale.
This doesn’t go unnoticed either, but again, Tim doesn’t comment.
Instead, Jason hears the first aid kit open, and the sound of paper tearing. Then he smells alcohol.
Despite expecting it, he still flinches at the first touch of the wipe to his wing. Tim murmurs an apology—Jason dismissed it with the flick of a wingtip.
Tim cleans away the blood with slow, gentle strokes. Then, he discards the wipe and begins to handle Jason’s wing again. His touch is not as light this time. Instead, his grip is firmer, though still careful, as he manipulates Jason’s wing to better look at the feather.
Finally, Tim hums, and one of his hands leaves Jason’s wings.
Reaching for the tweezers, Jason’s mind supplies.
He doesn’t twist his head to see if he’s right. Instead, he shifts, getting a little more comfortable in his seat.
“This will pinch,” Tim says.
It’s not Jason’s first broken blood feather. He nods against his arms; exhaling and forcing the muscles of his wing to relax.
He feels the metal of the tweezers against his skin. His hands clench.
There’s a sudden, sharp pain that makes his breath catch in his chest, the muscles in his abdomen and shoulders tightening, and then—
It’s gone, leaving only a dull ache behind.
The tension leaves him. He slumps back down against the chair. Tim sets the tweezers aside before pressing gauze against his wound. He holds it there until the blood begins to clot.
Then, finally, he tosses that aside with the rest.
Jason expects that to be the end of it.
But Tim’s hands linger; one finger carefully smoothing a feather back into place.
Jason stills. He realizes, abruptly, what Tim must see—the disheveled mess of feathers, solid, flat black where they should shine like an oil slick.
Grooming has always been a social activity. A way to bond with the flock, smoothing oil over hard to reach places; waterproofing feathers to make them shine. The last person to groom Jason’s feathers was Talia—and that had been long before he returned to Gotham.
Since then, he’s been on his own. He’s done the best he can with a shower and some twisting but—
It’s not enough.
Anyone who looks at his wings will know, immediately, that Jason is flockless.
The urge to snap his wing shut is strong. He should leave.
“While you’re here, I, uh. I could preen your wings. If you want.”
For a moment Jason isn’t sure he heard Tim correctly. He replays the sentence in his head, sure that he must have missed something.
There’s an angle here. Jason doesn’t know what it is, not yet, but he knows there is.
There always is with a bat.
And Tim, clever, calculating Tim, is a bat to his core—even if he is slumming it with Jason more and more these days.
He twists, turning to look at Tim. Tim is pink; the arch of his wings raised further over his shoulders than usual. When he catches Tim’s gaze, though, he watches those wings lower. His shoulders follow.
He looks—
Embarrassed, but… sincere.
Abruptly, Jason decides he doesn’t care.
It’s been too damn long since anyone touched his wings without the intent to break. He’ll decide later if the consequences, whatever they may be, were worth it.
Tim opens his mouth, but Jason speaks first,
“Sure,” he says, shrugging carelessly. “Why not?”
Tim’s mouth snaps shut. His eyes flicker over Jason—Jason affects to look as casual as possible, paying special attention to his wings so they don’t give him away.
It feels like Tim studies him for a beat too long. When he finishes, though, all he says is, “Okay. Let me just take care of this, and wash my hands. You just… get comfortable.” His feathers rustle, ever so slightly, in the pause between his words.
It’s the only sign of his nerves from before. Even the blush has faded, mostly, leaving behind only a faint rosy hue to his cheeks. Makes him look less like he’s seconds away from dying of a vitamin-D deficiency.
Tim snaps the first aid kit shut and picks it up. The bloodied gauze and alcohol wipe are already in a bag. Tim takes that too, and leaves.
This would be a perfect opportunity to leave, if he wanted to.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he tugs his gloves off before pulling out the bottle of solvent and removing his domino. Tim turned the lights down on his way out, but Jason still finds himself blinking a few times now that the domino lenses are gone. Domino and gloves disappear into his jacket pockets.
When his eyes have adjusted, he shrugs out of his jacket, folding it before draping it over the low table. Then he skims his fingers over the clasps of his armor.
He hesitates.
He can hear Tim moving around in the kitchen—a cabinet door shuts before water hisses from the faucet.
He’s come this far. He’s not going to back out now. Jason ignores his nerves, forcing himself to undo the clasps one by one, bypassing the securities as he goes.
Then he lets the chest piece fall on the table with a thud.
It’s joined by his undershirt a few moments later. Finally, he unholsters his weapons, laying them carefully on the table as well.
Jason stands, bare chested, in the middle of the room, several pounds lighter than he was before.
Maybe he should have left the undershirt on. It would get a little messy, but who cares?
The faucet turns off.
Jason resists the urge to redress, sitting back down instead.
Tim comes out a moment later, drying his hands on a towel. He removes his cape, letting it pool onto the floor, before sitting down again. Jason turns to rest against the chair again; his hands crossed over the back like before. He unfurls both wings, allowing them to stretch across the room. It feels good to stretch them. He’s spent too much time in cramped alleyways and close quarters lately. When his wing heals up some, he’ll do some flying—or gliding at the very least.
Jason is careful not to flinch when Tim’s hand touches his wing, near where feathers meet flesh. It’s harder not to tense when Tim begins to comb through his plumage; fingers sinking deep, all the way to the skin. It’s… a lot, but not more than Jason can handle.
Until Tim finally finds his preening gland.
It’s—
Intense.
Jason’s hands clench tighter, blunt nails digging into the meat of his palms. The pain is grounding. Gives him something else to focus on. Something other than the way nerves light up under his skin; prickling in a way that borders on painful.
Tim keeps stroking Jason’s wing, tugging gently on his feathers to make them lay straight. With each pass, his fingers brush against Jason’s preening gland.
Each touch winds him up a little tighter; the muscles in his back and shoulders bunching into knots under his skin. He has to bite his tongue not to tell Tim to just get the fuck on with it already.
Maybe Tim can tell that Jason is close to bolting. He buries his hand in Jason’s feathers as his thumb presses down on Jason’s oil gland.
The noise he makes is low and strangled—he presses his mouth into his arms, breath hot and humid against his skin. He can feel himself shaking. Despite himself, he finds his wing pushing back into Tim’s hand—and Tim accommodates him, pressing firmer still as he massages around and over the gland. Jason can just feel the oil dribbling from it, slightly warmer than body temperature.
He thinks he might be crying; silent tears beading on his lashes before rolling down his cheeks.
If Tim can tell, he doesn’t say.
When enough oil has built up, Tim drags his fingers through it and guides it over the ridge of Jason’s wing, where it slowly drips down through the upper crest toward his flight feathers. Tim repeats the motion a few times before he sinks his fingers into Jason’s wing again.
Each slow, downward stroke of Tim’s hand has Jason relaxing just a little more. His muscles loosen, the knots untangling under Tim’s gentle touch.
Tim takes his time, starting at the soft downy feathers near Jason’s spine and working his way outward. By the time he starts on Jason’s secondaries, Jason has all but melted into the chair.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed this.
“Good?” Tim asks, voice low, almost a murmur.
Jason hums his affirmative. He thinks he might also raise his hand in a thumbs up, but he can’t be sure.
Tim chuckles. He has to rise to his feet as he moves further down Jason’s wing. He stops to gather more oil first, smearing it further down the ridge of his wing, where it starts to coat his primaries.
Eventually Tim finishes with his left wing and switches to the right. Jason turns his head slightly, lifting his head off of his arms so he can bend his wing and look at what Tim has done.
His feathers certainly look better. There’s a gloss to them; the black shimmering with subtle blue and purple hues. Some of the oil has dripped onto the floor; thick and mostly translucent. He’s lost a few loose feathers, as well. They probably should have laid towels down. Jason didn’t think about it.
If Tim is concerned, though, he doesn’t say anything. Jason hears the rustle of the towel he brought out, and then Tim’s hand settles against his right wing.
“Still good?” he asks.
This time Jason nods. “Yeah.” The word comes out in a sigh; his voice soft and almost sleepy.
He doesn’t remember the last time he felt so relaxed.
So well-taken care of.
Tim starts over again; combing through the soft, downy feathers near his spine. The first glancing brush of his fingers against Jason’s second preening gland isn’t quite as overwhelming as the first.
It’s still a lot.
He may have grown used to it on the other wing, but this one is still unused to touch. The nerves under his skin prickle again. Tim takes it slow, just like before. By the time he starts to massage Jason’s gland, the prickling has become a pleasurable tingling. He sinks into it with a sigh.
Jason drifts, allowing himself to lose track of time entirely. Drowsiness weighs heavy on his limbs; his thoughts turning syrupy.
Tim continues stroking his wing long past when he’s finished grooming it. Jason doesn’t notice at first; not until he realizes Tim has moved back to the middle of his wing.
Maybe Jason should say something, but he’s not ready for this moment to be over, either.
All things must end, though, and this is no exception. Tim’s hand slips from his wing.
“I’m going to get some water,” he says, and Jason nods.
He takes that as his cue to straighten, rolling his shoulders and flexing his wings slightly before folding them up again. He stands and puts his undershirt on again, tugging it into place just as Tim comes back into the room, holding two bottles of water.
Their hands brush when Jason takes his, and his arm tingles. Heat warms his face—he ignores it in favor of the water. He drinks slowly before capping it. “…thanks,” he says, voice sleep-rough. He realizes, belatedly, there are still dried tears streaking his cheeks. This time, he doubts Tim misses them.
He still doesn’t comment. Instead, he nods once, slightly jerky, fiddling with the logo wrapped around the bottle. “Anytime,” he says.
Silence sits between them, lingering.
“Do… If you want, I could… return the favor,” Jason offers, wincing internally at how hesitant he sounds.
He doesn’t realize how much he wants to until Tim shakes his head, and disappointment blooms in his chest.
Makes sense, though. In Tim’s place, he’s not sure he’d want himself grooming his wings either.
“Not tonight.” Tim glances at the window. The first light of dawn is starting to creep over the horizon. Jason’s brow furrows.
He hadn’t realized they’d been here that long—that he had taken so many hours of Tim’s time.
He turns back to Tim, opening his mouth to apologize, but this time, Tim is the one to speak first.
“But…” There’s something almost nervous creeping around the edges of his expression. “Maybe another day?”
It’s Jason’s turn to nod. “Yeah! Yeah. Just… call me.”
“I will.”
Jason knows he should get moving, especially if he wants to get home before the morning traffic starts up in earnest, but… He lingers anyway, not quite ready to leave just yet.
He takes his time gathering up his things; slowly putting his chest armor on before holstering his weapons, until all that’s left is his helmet. He hesitates for only a moment before putting it on and forces himself to stride toward the window.
He spares Tim one last look, mouth twitching at the way he’s rolling his eyes.
Jason gives him a two-fingered salute. “‘Til next time,” he says, and then slips out the window, and into the morning light.