Batman’s voice cut clean through the comms.

“Red sector. Both of you.”

Damian stopped mid-strap, peregrine falcon wings twitching sharply. “Father, I work faster alone.”

“Negative,” Batman replied. “You’re with him.”

You looked up from where you were adjusting your gear, barn owl wings rustling faintly. “…Great.”

Damian glared. “I did not request dead weight.”

You smiled thinly. “Funny. He said the same thing about you.”

The line went dead.

Damian exhaled through his nose. “Do not slow me down.”

“Don’t fly like a missile and we’ll be fine,” you shot back.

He scoffed—and launched.

You followed, silent and smooth, gliding easily as Damian dove ahead in a sharp, aggressive arc. His falcon wings cut the air brutally, fast enough to leave you behind if you weren’t paying attention.

Which you were.

By the time you reached the warehouse rooftop, Damian had already taken out two guards.

Sloppily.

You landed behind him, eyes immediately catching the state of his wings—feathers out of alignment, one primary bent awkwardly, his left wing dragging just a fraction too low.

“Your form is off,” you said.

“I am unharmed,” Damian snapped, spinning on you. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” you replied coolly. “On the fact that you’re going to tear a feather if you keep—”

A gunshot cracked.

You moved on instinct—yanking Damian down behind cover as the bullet shattered concrete where his head had been.

Damian shoved you off him instantly. “Do not touch me.”

“Then stop being reckless,” you hissed.

His eyes burned. “You question my training?”

“Yes,” you snapped back. “Because I just saved your life.”

That was the spark.

He lunged.

Not at the enemy—at you.

Falcon speed met owl precision as you collided, wings flaring violently in the tight rooftop space. Feathers scattered. Damian slammed you back against a vent, forearm at your throat.

“You will not undermine me,” he growled.

You shoved him back just as hard. “Then stop acting like you’ve got something to prove!”

His wings flared wide, furious, messy. “I prove myself every day!”

“And you’re still exhausted,” you shot back. “Look at your wings!”

For a heartbeat, the fight stalled.

Gunfire echoed below. The mission didn’t wait—but neither of you moved.

Damian’s chest heaved. His wings trembled, feathers completely out of order now, frustration bleeding into something raw.

“…Do not look at them,” he snapped.

You softened despite yourself. Just a fraction.

“They’re a mess,” you said quietly. “You didn’t preen before deployment.”

“I do not need—”

“Damian.” You stepped closer, careful. “Hold still.”

He bristled. “I said do not—”

You reached out anyway.

Your fingers slid gently into the feathers of his right wing, careful, practiced. You straightened a bent primary, smoothed the ruffled edge, worked out a snag he’d missed in his rush.

Damian froze.

Completely still.

His breath stuttered. “…What are you doing.”

“Fixing it,” you murmured. “You can’t fly clean like this.”

Your touch was precise, respectful—nothing mocking, nothing forceful. Just quiet care. Owl patience meeting falcon pride.

His wings slowly, reluctantly relaxed.

“…You are overstepping,” he said, but his voice had lost its edge.

“And you’re letting me,” you replied.

You finished the last feather and stepped back. Damian flexed his wings experimentally—sleek again, deadly, perfect.

He didn’t look at you.

“…My thanks,” he said stiffly. “Do not expect gratitude again.”

You smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The comm crackled back to life. “Status?” Batman asked.

Damian answered immediately. “Mission continues.”

He launched this time—but slower. Controlled.