Sunday, shockingly, hadn't shooed you off quite yet.

Maybe it was that you'd already bothered him enough today that he'd decided it wasn't worth the effort. Maybe it was the fact he was too absorbed in the book in his lap to give you the time of day.

You were idly sat just behind him, shifting through the clipped wings on his lower back-- just toying idly with the feathers, picking out the occasional loose piece of down from the larger features, smoothing down a ruffled patch.

Until you'd found a pin feather.

Something, something-- peeling pin feathers helped birds bond, or whatever. you were more interested in the idea of how satisfying it'd be to cleanly remove the keratin sheath. Sunday must've molted recently, or something.

It was not ready to be peeled.

"What are you doing-- enough, that hurts,"

Sunday hissed, smacking his book shut and turning to issue you a dirty look.