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A little over a week passes before Jason hears from Tim.
He’s been doing pretty well for himself. He tracked down the perpetrator behind a string of B&E’s, busted a couple dealers cutting their supply with sawdust, and also stopped a number of petty crimes-in-progress while dealing with the other stuff. Nothing major in the grand scheme of things, but it’s kept him busy. Almost busy enough that he can go straight to sleep instead of lying awake, feeling the phantom touch of long, elegant fingers buried in his feathers, sending pleasant tingles all through his body.
Almost being the operative word.
There's nothing to distract him right now, despite the book propped up on his knees. Not until his phone buzzes. He checks it reflexively, half-expecting some stupid meme from Dick—his latest attempt at reaching out, as if Jason bothers to keep up with current internet culture. (Not that he thinks Dick's memes are current. He imagines Dick is only slightly better informed than he is).
Jason mostly leaves him on read.
Not out of malice. He won’t lie and say that he didn’t resent Dick for a while—that he wasn’t envious of the relationship Dick has with the younger birds. It’s not that Dick wasn’t there for him. There are holes in his memory, but he remembers train-surfing and patrols that were just the two of them. He even remembers the occasional, rare nights he would spend at Dick’s New York apartment where they’d watch bad movies and eat the kind of junk food Alfred wouldn’t be caught dead keeping in the Manor’s pantry.
He just… also remembers shouting matches between Dick and Bruce, and weeks of silence—like his relationship with Jason couldn’t be separated from his relationship with Bruce. He’d learned never to bank on plans made with Dick, always aware that they could fall through the moment Bruce pissed him off enough.
It’s different for Tim and Damian. They can count on Dick in a way Jason never could and that… hurts. But he’s over it now. Mostly. Dick was younger then, more volatile and impulsive. And now he's older, more settled... with a guilt complex to rival Bruce's. You leave a guy one voicemail and all of the sudden he thinks he had a hand in your death. Dick splits his time between tripping over himself to bond with Jason and being self-righteous about the way Jason approaches vigilantism. Both are exhausting, so Jason keeps him at arm’s length.
Some people might call that cruelty. Jason calls it protecting his peace.
But when he looks at his phone, it’s not a meme from Dick. His relief is entirely canceled out by the way his stomach flips at the sight of Tim's name instead.
He swallows, and then thumbs the message open.
TIM: u bsy 2nte?
It’s just 3 words. Jason’s not even sure they should qualify as words. They shouldn’t have the power to make him blush.
And yet, somehow, despite that, Jason feels a tell-tale warmth in his cheeks. Knows, if he were to check, that his skin would be pink. His wings have probably puffed up too. He can feel them raising slightly, feathers flaring outwards in subtle display.
Not that there’s anyone here to display to.
He forces them back down again, tucking them perhaps a little tighter than he would normally.
Jason taps the little message bar and types,
JASON: No.
TIM: ❄️ mnd if i stp by? wngs r knda rgh
Tim’s seeming allergy to vowels should not be charming, and yet, somehow, Jason finds himself charmed anyway. God, he’s so stupid.
JASON: Would it kill you to text like a normal person?
TIM: y 👍🏼
Despite himself, Jason laughs.
JASON: Be here by 7. I’ll order pizza. Want your usual?
TIM: 👍🏼
u dnt hve 2 do tht
JASON: I know. I’m going to anyway.
Tim doesn’t reply with an actual text—just marks Jason’s message with a heart. There’s a squirming, fluttering feeling in Jason’s abdomen. It’s not… entirely unpleasant.
It is unwelcome.
He tamps down on it as best he can and calls his favorite pizza joint—a local place, only a few streets over from where Jason lives. He arranges a delivery for seven, and then flutters around his apartment.
Unlike Tim, Jason doesn’t have a proper preening chair to offer. He never saw the point in buying one. It would just sit there, unused; a reminder that, once again, Jason is on his own in the world.
Jason isn’t that much of a masochist. That’s more Bruce’s thing.
Tim arrives before the pizzas do. He shows up at the balcony entrance, landing so quietly that Jason doesn’t notice his arrival before the motion detectors alert him to Tim’s presence. Motion detectors Tim could easily have evaded or disabled. That he didn’t is strangely touching.
So Jason returns the favor by waiting for him to knock before opening the door to let him. It's a clear night, but Tim still gives his wings a shake before stepping over the threshold. A few feathers come loose, drifting down to rest on the balcony. Jason has the inane, impulsive urge to grab one.
He doesn’t.
“Nice shirt,” he says, closing the door behind Tim. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Tim in “normal” clothes. Not that Tim doesn’t pull off the slightly rumpled suit look, but… There’s something nice about seeing him in a faded Enya t-shirt and ripped up jeans.
Tim’s gaze flickers downward, like he'd forgotten what shirt he put on, before he shoots Jason a small smile. “Thanks.”
The awkward silence that falls between them is unexpected. They’ve spent so many late nights together, laughing and cracking jokes—or sitting solemnly, sharing the weight of responsibility between them that it chafes now, to be at such a loss for words.
But—that’s different, Jason supposes. All of that was centered around the Mission. Even when Jason had come to him with his broken blood feather, their vigilante lives had been at the forefront while the grooming, the intimacy… that had been happenstance. And now they’re opening themselves up to experiencing it again, on purpose, with no pretense of casework to distract them. It's understandable that would be a little awkward.
And... even ignoring that, as he stands across from Tim now, Jason realizes just how little time he’s spent with him outside of the Mission. How little he actually knows about him, when it comes down to it. Oh, he can recite a pretty list of facts, but they’re all surface level. Some of them might even be dated; true when he’d first returned and done his due diligence researching (stalking) Tim, but false now, left behind in the vestiges of his childhood.
It’s an uncomfortable realization. One Jason’s not sure he knows how to mend.
If nothing else, though, he can fall back on the manners instilled in him, first by his parents, and then later by Alfred and Bruce: “Want anything to drink?”
“Yeah,” Tim says, after just long enough for Jason to know this awkwardness goes both ways. He doubts anyone else would have noticed. “I don’t guess you have any Zesti.”
“Correct,” Jason says, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “If you want caffeine, I’ve got coffee and tea. Otherwise it’s beer, juice, or water.”
“Water,” Tim says, after a moment of consideration.
Jason nods, and get them each a bottle. He debates grabbing a beer for himself, but the knowledge that he’s gong to have his hands in Tim’s wings soon stays his hand. One drink likely wouldn’t make much of a difference, but he'd rather not take the risk.
When Jason exits the kitchen, he finds Tim settled on the couch, wings draped over the back, long primaries brushing the floor. The feathers are more dull than the last time he saw them, lacking the iridescent sheen Jason is used to. There are a few poking out of place, ones in awkward places that are difficult to reach. Jason feels a phantom itch in his own wings at the sight—but Tim isn’t even twitching.
“You rearranged the furniture,” Tim says. It’s an idle remark; just an observation, with nothing lurking underneath. The back of Jason’s neck heats.
“Yeah. Figured we’d need the space,” he says, shrugging casually like he hadn’t spent half an hour figuring what layout would work best.
The way Tim smiles at him says he sees right through him. Jason wants to be irritated, but he just feels warm.
“I could have helped, you know.” Tim’s voice is too warm for it to be a criticism.
“Wasn’t that hard.” His neck heats up even more. A lot of it had mostly been Jason being picky about placement, before he’d finally found something that worked.
Tim lets it drop, and Jason is saved from having to find something else to say by his phone buzzing. He’s barely glanced at the screen before there’s a knock on the door. He checks his cameras and finds a guy holding a stack of pizzas standing outside his door. He pays, tipping generously, then sets the pizzas—two of Tim’s monstrosities and three Supremes for Jason—on the coffee table.
Food is a great excuse to avoid making conversation. One both of them latch onto greedily. However… it doesn’t take either of them long to demolish a pizza, and when the food is gone, so is the easy excuse to avoid talking. Another beat of silence passes. Then Tim rises to his feet.
“I’ll take care of the trash,” he offers.
Jason nods once. “I’m just gonna… wash my hands.” Don’t wanna get pizza grease all over Tim’s feathers or in his preening glands. “And get the stuff.”
It’s Tim’s turn to nod, and then they split off. Jason scrubs his hands until the skin is red. Once they’re dry, though, he can’t make himself leave. He’s been doing a decent job of ignoring the anxiety brewing in his gut but now… it’s harder. What possessed him to make the offer? What possessed Tim to take him up on it? He barely remembers the last time he preened someone’s wings.
(That’s a lie. He remembers it keenly; every moment painted with vivid detail. Talia had never allowed him to reciprocate—had never shown up to him with her wings looking anything less than perfect, without a feather out of place. The last time Jason had groomed someone else, properly, had been before he died. Before he went to Ethiopia. Before Gloria’s suicide. It had been Bruce’s wings; feathers all in disarray after a rough patrol. He had joked that he was picking enough feathers out of his wings to make his own feather pillow. Bruce had chuckled, which was as good as a belly laugh from anyone else. And Jason had been warm, and proud, and pleased.)
The sound of Tim moving around in the main living area jars Jason into moving. Towels. He needs towels. He has some laid out already to catch the excess oil, but he’ll need one to wipe Tim’s skin clear, and another for his hands. He’s not particularly attached to most of them, so he grabs a few at random and then carries them out to the living room.
Tim has already taken off his shirt.
Jason has plenty of practice not reacting to being surrounded by attractive people. Mostly, anyway. He has a much harder time willing himself not to blush, and he can feel his cheeks heating already.
Tim is deceptively lean; muscles showing only when he moves and they ripple under his skin. They’re most obvious in his arms—the supple-yet-firm swell of his bicep, his corded forearms—and his back. The hair on his body is fine, only visible because of how dark it is, and though his chest lacks definition, his stomach doesn’t. He’s adjusting the pillows on the couch as Jason comes in to set the towels on the coffee table, where the pizza has been cleared away.
“That enough?” he asks.
“I think so,” Tim says, giving the stack a testing prod before he drapes himself over it. His wings hang on either size of the couch, dark feathers stark against the white towels Jason had laid down earlier. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “This is good.”
The couch rests lower than a preening table would. Jason supposes the two of them could just sit on the floor, or Tim could sit opposite him in a chair, but… It’s nicer this way. Being able to relax. He pulls a stool over.
“I’m a bit out of practice,” he says after a few long moments pass with neither of them doing anything.
Tim hums. “I trust you.”
Three simple words, and yet they hit Jason like a gunshot to the chest. It takes him a second before he can breathe again, let alone force himself to move. But move he does. The small, downy feathers at the base of Tim’s wings are mostly lying right, though there are a few sticking out like stray cowlicks. Jason drags his fingers through them—feeling large and ungainly as he does despite how careful he’s being. Tim’s wings twitch slightly under his touch. Jason bites his lip. He focuses his ministrations close to the skin, carding through feathers until Tim jerks, his breath catching. Tim’s preening gland is small, about the size of a nipple—a comparison that makes him flush.
He massages the area around the gland instead of stimulating it directly. It’s not long before he works up a healthy amount of oil. It smears over his fingers, making his skin glisten. Jason guides it through short, downy feathers until they shine. By then he’s worked up enough oil to guide it over the outer wing. He only makes it halfway across Tim’s wing before he has to stop. His hand shakes.
He can feel Tim’s wing bone—the coracoid that forms part of the shoulder joint, the humerus, radius, and ulna. They’re not the fine, delicate things found in birds, but they’re still far more delicate than the counterparts found in the human arm. Jason has had his hands here before. He’d held Tim down by his wings. Threatened to break them so completely that Tim would never fly again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He should take his hand off of Tim’s wing—but he doesn’t. Can’t, maybe. He needs to feel the reminder of the bone, intact, under his hand.
Tim’s wing twitches slightly. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says carefully. It’s the kind of tone that would normally make Jason bristle. “It’s okay if you need to stop.”
If he—? “No. That’s not—” Jason exhales roughly. “The last time I had my hand here…”
“Oh.”
Oh, he says. Jason stares at him in disbelief, and hopes Tim can feel it even if he can’t see it.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s fine?” Jason echoes.
Tim shrugs, his wing pushing back into Jason’s hand with the movement. “You had enough time to write your name in blood between me passing out and help arriving. If you wanted to break my wings, you would have.”
That he’s right doesn’t leave Jason any less flabbergasted. He’s pretty sure his mouth is hanging open. “That’s…” He doesn’t know how to begin to finish that sentence.
Tim just laughs. “Some of my friends have tried to actually murder me. What are a couple of empty threats compared to that?”
Empty threats. He’s right, again, but Jason’s offended anyway. “I wiped the floor with your ass.”
“You did.” The agreement is easy. “You probably still could.”
Jason shakes his head. “Christ,” he mutters. “Something’s wrong in your head, Drake.”
Tim snorts. “I think there’s a saying about pots and kettles that applies here,” he says dryly.
Jason finally takes his hand off Tim’s wing to flick him. “Asshole.” Despite himself, a grin curves at his mouth.
“See: previous statement.” There’s laughter in his voice, and again despite himself, Jason laughs too.
He resumes guiding oil over the ridge of Tim's wing. Once he’s gathered enough, he begins to card his fingers through Tim’s feathers. Gather the oil on his fingers. Comb it through the feathers until they shine, guiding crooked feathers to lay right. Sometimes a stray loose feather sticks to his fingers, and he discards it. It’s slow, repetitive work—but not boring. There’s something almost meditative about it. Jason finds his breathing slowing, deepening, matching the drag of his fingers.
Tim relaxes too, his shoulders loosening more and more the further outward he works. Jason scrapes his nails, gently, through a patch of awry feathers and Tim sighs, heavy and content. Something warm unfurls in Jason’s chest. It drips through his veins, thick and sweet like honey.
Time turns slow. The part of him that stays ever vigilant still stands guard, but the rest of him is completely absorbed in the task before him.
The further outward he works, the more Tim relaxes. The more Tim relaxes, the more Jason relaxes in kind. Periodically, Tim shifts, reaching for his bottle of water to take a sip or two.
He forgot what it was like, preening someone else’s wings—having something warm and living and delicate under your hands, being trusted to take care of it.
It’s overwhelming enough he could cry.
He finishes the right wing before he knows it. There’s a pang of something like loss as he traces his finger over the last, and largest, primary. Tim extends it; feathers spreading, catching the light and showing off their oil slick shine as he caresses Jason back.
Or maybe he’s just stretching, and Jason is reading too much into it.
Tim has so many people in his life, maybe this doesn’t mean to him what it means to Jason. Maybe Jason is just a last resort—the only person currently available to him.
The idea hurts.
It shouldn’t. It still means Tim trusts him—that he’s on the list of people who are allowed to take care of him, the rare times he needs it. But…
Maybe it’s just his stupid, soft, romantic heart. Maybe he’s a fool. Maybe he’s been starved of this, of intimacy for so long he’s letting himself delude himself into thinking this is more than it is.
Maybe he should stop fucking romanticizing before he breaks his own stupid heart.
Jason holds a frustrated sigh between clenched teeth. Some of his earlier tension has returned. It leaves him… adrift. His head swimming, his heart beating a little too fast. He feels, again, the inane urge to cry.
He lets loose the sigh in one long, slow exhale through his nose. Left wing. Don't think about anything except the left wing.
“Doin’ alright?” he asks, keeping his voice gentle.
Tim hums his affirmative. “Yeah.”
He sounds marginally more with it than Jason did, but still drunk on happy hormones. A smile tugs at his mouth; the ache in his chest loosens, ever so slightly. “Need anything?”
Another hum, this one in the negative.
Jason uses the towel to wipe away some of the oil from his fingers before flexing them, giving the tendons a little stretch before sinking them into Tim’s left wing.
The preening gland is easier to find on this side, now that he knows where it is on the right. This time, the sound Tim makes when he coaxes the oil out of it is low, pleased. Jason flushes. The room feels a little warmer than it did a moment ago.
He draws the oil over the ridge of Tim’s feathers and watches it drip through them—admires the way Tim’s feathers shift, the way the muscles in his wing move. It’s amazing that something so delicate can be so powerful at the same time.
It takes a little longer for Jason to lose himself, this time… but eventually, his worries slide to the side again, replaced with easy contentment.
And again, before he knows it, he finds himself finishing. Jason bites his lip… and finds himself lingering. Hesitantly at first, but when Tim says nothing—and, in fact, presses his wing into Jason’s hand—he sinks his fingers back into his feathers and keeps stroking.
It still feels like he’s getting away with something.
Especially when he sinks his other hand into Tim’s other wing. Tim still doesn’t say anything, seemingly content to allow Jason his wicked way with his wings which does absolutely nothing for his soft, fluttering heart.
A peace falls over both of them—or, not falls; it was already there, unfolding bit by bit. Now it settles, getting comfortable, resting its weight on them. Even the vigilant part of Jason couldn’t tell you how long it lasts. It’s as if the apartment has been removed from the normal flow of time.
The spell is only broken when Tim shifts, reaching for his water bottle only to find it empty. Then, and only then, does Jason take his hands out of Tim’s wings.
He’s not sure who is shocked more by the mournful noise Tim lets out—him, or Tim.
He bites his lip to keep from saying something stupid like, Yeah, me too, and heads to the kitchen, wiping his hands with the towel as he goes. When he returns, Tim has risen onto his knees. His hair is in disarray. The cheek he’d been laying on is red, and slightly indented from the lines of his arm. He blinks, bleary, at Jason; his arm a second too slow to take the bottle he’s being offered and Jason is… hopelessly, helplessly endeared.
Tim drinks long and slow. Jason has to drag his gaze away from the column of his throat, his skin flushed again.
Another eternity passes before Tim speaks, voice rough like he’d been sleeping. “Thanks.” He gives his wings a little shake, feathers rippling and ruffling before settling into place. “Feels a lot better.”
“Good, uh,” Jason says. “That’s good.”
Silence.
Then— “We could, uh… do this again if you want.” It’s Tim who says it, not quite looking at Jason as he plays with the label on his water bottle. “Maybe aim for both of us on the same night next time?”
Immediately, Jason wants to say yes. He chews on his cheek for a second. “I’d like that,” he says finally, the words coming out slow. “You don’t… have to though. I know you have other people you might be more comfortable with.” He doesn't quite look at Tim, either; gaze fixed on a point over his shoulder.
In his periphery, he sees Tim’s mouth open, then close. “I’m comfortable with you.”
Oh.
“Oh.” He has to be visibly red now.
“Yeah.” Tim shifts.
It’s Jason’s turn to open, then close his mouth; swallowing as he tries to re-figure out how to make his mouth shape words. “I’m comfortable with you too,” he offers finally, lamely.
Tim smiles softly. “Good.”