The rooftop is quiet in that rare, suspended way—city noise dulled by height, the night air cool against feathers.

Dick lands first.

His peregrine wings snap open on instinct before folding neatly against his back, long and powerful, dark-tipped feathers catching the glow of the skyline. His tail flicks once as he settles, balance effortless, like gravity is just a suggestion to him. He turns immediately, sharp eyes scanning the sky.

“You’re clear,” he calls softly. “No drones. No cops.”

A moment later, you descend.

Your wings spread wider, rounder—barn owl white and mottled gold, built for silence instead of speed. You touch down without a sound, feathers barely whispering against concrete. Your tail fans slightly as you steady yourself, soft-edged compared to his, built for control and precision rather than dives.

Dick smiles when he sees you. Always does.

“Hey,” he says, warmth slipping into his voice. “Nice glide. You didn’t even ruffle the air that time.”

You shrug, feathers shifting. “Not all of us like falling out of the sky at terminal velocity.”

He laughs, bright and quiet, and steps closer. The wind lifts his wing feathers just enough for you to see where the tips are nicked—small tears from tonight’s patrol, a scrape along one primary where he must’ve clipped metal.

You notice immediately.

“Hold still,” you say.

Dick blinks. “I didn’t even say—”

“You never do,” you reply, already reaching out.

You’re careful when you touch his wing, fingers sliding along the feather shafts, checking alignment. Peregrine wings are built for speed—long, stiff, unforgiving when damaged. Dick watches you with a softness he doesn’t bother hiding, shoulders relaxing as you work.

“Does it bother you,” he asks quietly, “that mine are always such a mess compared to yours?”

You glance up at him. “Your wings are honest,” you say. “They show where you’ve been.”

His tail flicks at that, just once.

You smooth a feather back into place, your own wings shifting instinctively as you lean closer. Barn owl feathers brush against his arm—soft, downy, meant for silence. Dick exhales, slow.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs. “You know that?”

“So are you,” you answer. “You just don’t notice because you never stop moving.”

He grins. “Occupational hazard.”

A gust of wind sweeps across the rooftop, and without thinking, Dick angles his body slightly toward you, shielding your wings from the stronger draft. It’s instinctive—falcon protective reflex, fast and sure.

You pause.

He realizes what he’s done and flushes faintly. “Sorry— I mean— I just—”

“It’s okay,” you say gently.

You finish adjusting his feathers, then step back. Dick stretches his wings experimentally, feathers settling perfectly into place. He hums in approval.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s better.”

He hesitates, then nods toward the edge of the roof. “You wanna…?” He gestures skyward. “One more lap? Slow this time. Together.”

Your wings lift slightly in response, tail feathers fanning.

“Slow,” you agree.

Dick’s smile softens, eyes bright in the city glow. “Promise.”