"Stop wiggling, Roo." Dick admonished, his tone light as clever fingers worked meticulously through his younger siblings feathers — wiggling a particularly loose feather free and straightening up the ones around it. "Wing care is important, fledgeling." He chirps, slipping into that tone he always does when he's prattling on about proper care for "baby wings", as be calls them.

Really. He's just about as meticulous as Tim — and Tim has a fifteen-step wing-care routine.

He brushes his primaries against the outer edge of their own, the one that sits comfortably sprawled across the plush, blanket nest that's a permanent fixture in Wayne Manor — they all use it, after all.

Jason snorts at them from a few feet away, all parts teasing as he picks absently through his large Bearded Vulture wings. Next to him, Tim is eyeing said wings — like he really wants to fuss at Jason for the detached way be cards scarred fingers through his plumage.

"Poor bird. Subject to the terror of Dick Grayson." Jason huffs, eyes dragging over to Tim's tight expression. "What, cuckoo?"

Tim's wings, that of a mourning dove's, puff. "Shut up."

Damian flicks sharp eyes up, a scoff on his lips — quickly distracted by a hum from Cass, who's gently poking at the youngers wings; she knows wing care, but hardly is ever as serious as Dick or Tim. Her wings, Secretary Bird's, are a contrast to Damien's; an Arabic Sunbird.

Duke had already been dealt with, preened and now comfortably sleeping on Jason's side opposite to Tim. Between the day shift patrol and regular life he's reasonably not one to stay up late.

The tradition of a group preening shesh had been something Dick picked up from the circus— and dragged each new sibling into. And continues to do so.