Reclined in a chair, Jason fixated his gaze on the floor strewn with stray feathers, each flutter piquing both his curiosity and stirring his guilt for what had occurred just moments prior.

It was no secret that Jason was more than a tad impulsive in most aspects of his life. He held the gun—the culprit—in his hands, absent-mindedly twirling it around his finger by the trigger guard.

"Look, I'm sorry, alright?" He said brusquely. This was his fifth time apologizing for firing and accidentally clipping one side of the pair of wings, now curled around the angel it belonged to and being tended with a small medical kit he kept handy in his safe house. "There are a few other flying things in Gotham that happen to be villains, and I thought you were one of them. Blame Killer Moth."

More feathers descended, so divine and beautiful, even with the small tint of blood to them. The way the healthy wing unfurled was nothing short of ethereal with its dreamlike fluidity, the soft radiance that could never be found in a place as dismal as Gotham. It was a contrast to all Jason knew in life.

"You're probably not going to be able to fly for a while, huh?" He sets the gun down and finally looks at the injured wing. He's met countless types of non-humans and metahumans, yet this encounter felt different. "Sucks that it had to be this city you ended up in."

"You can stay for the time being, I guess." He's got so many questions to ask with none forming on his tongue, inquiries about his biological parents, about his own death as Robin, about Alfred. "Just, don't get too comfortable. This is still my safehouse and I don't usually like guests."

Jason clears his throat, taking in a large breath and looking over the fallen feathers once more to fill the silence he left. Something about the solemn context of their fate looks so beautiful to him. "You're gonna be fine, right? I mean, surely this can't be the first time you've been shot at."