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The first time Tim realized winged people existed was when his parents brought him to his first gala. That night Tim saw, hidden in his mom's lap, people with interesting features on their back. Two entire appendages covered by bright and beautiful feathers begging to be touched.
And like the young and curious boy, Timothy had no other option than to explore. His first (and only!) target was a tall man who swayed funnily but had massive and elegant wings that looked too soft, too interesting, too beautiful to not touch. He quickly wriggled out from his mother's grip and went to investigate with one goal in mind.
We're so sorry Mr. Wayne, his parents profusely apologized once they found him petting the wings of no other than the host of that event, Bruce Wayne. Bruce laughed in a good manner and said he didn't mind as Tim was too occupied petting the long and silky feathers to notice the exasperated face of his parents. I like them, Tim declared with a decisive nod after he finished stroking them, which made another wave of apologies came from his parent's mouth. They're very pretty, sir.
That night Tim learned that it was forbidden to touch another person's wings unless you were family or a close lover. His mom emphasized that as dad drove them back while she chastised him about proper etiquette and such. Never touch them. Don't stare at them. Never preen someone else unless you’re part of the family. Never get too close to those people and so on. The next day Tim smuggled a card in the mail decorated with the brightest markers he had as an apology to Bruce Wayne and then forgot about it.
That was Tim's first introduction to people that had wings. There was something so fascinating about it that kept the young child's mind occupied. Why do you like them? His father used to always ask him whenever he carried Tim to his favorite park, they're freaks, Tim. Unnatural, wild, and rabid. We would be better without them. Dad used to always say there was no family member with wings from his side. But according to his mom there had been once a relative who had lighter shade brown wings with golden spots near the end. Like freckles? Tim would whisper excitedly before his mom tuck him in, when will I get mine? Will they be big? What color will they be? Can I meet them? To which his mom would always reply with a tight smile before giving him a kiss on his forehead.
Maybe Timothy.
Sadly, patience wasn't one of Tim's forte. The sheer prospect of wings filled the boy's mind for many months. He spent his childhood doodling in his room what his wings would look like under the supervised care of Mrs. Mac whenever his parents went away. A recurrent theme as his parents often took trips out of the country.
Tim imagined his wings light and swift with just the tiniest bit of gold. Big wings powerful enough to shield his family. In others, he wished they could be golden like Robin or dark blue like Batman. Rapid speed, optimal strength, and so on.
Four years later his wish was granted. Tim woke up to a deep ache in the middle of the night, like a burning sensation that made his back feel funny. He first thought he'd gotten a cold but then it spiked into something different where his shoulder blades were. Pain. The trip to the bathroom was short but intense as Tim fought against nausea. He opened the door and caught sight of his molting wings, barely peeking. His fingers went to touch the dark red feathers. They were so soft it felt like a blanket.
Tim thought they were beautiful.
His dad didn’t think the same.
Tim felt exhausted.
Not only was he tired but his outfit was dripping wet, there was a headache and if the bats in the cave didn’t stop screeching, Tim had the fear he actually would lose it. His shoulders were throbbing, meaning he’d concealed his wings for far too long. Tim sighed, took a deep breath, and pushed. As soon as he saw a peek of feathers and cartilage, Tim grabbed it and pulled it. Tim felt the muscles in his shoulders screamed at the rough treatment but Tim didn’t care.
He'd been forced to get accustomed to it.
Rules were rules.
Unlike other heroes, Tim’s wings were practically useless. He couldn’t fly with them. They didn’t warm him well and barely moved. Fighting with them was a nightmare. From each angle you look at, his wings were impractical and a bother.
He wished he never had them.
“Tim?” said a familiar voice behind him right when Tim when finished taking his costume off. “Barbara told me you recently got back.”
He wants a report his brain told him.
“We finished it,” Tim replied and turned around to face Bruce. He was too tired to notice the concerned gaze the other threw at him. “Turns out the mission was a total bust. The contact we had was a snitch, and the place they led us was full of Kryptonite and you know how Conner reacts to that and then-”
“Tim,” Bruce interceded. Tim opened his mouth ready to apologize for his rambling when Bruce said something that made him freeze on the spot. “Your wings.”
“Uh?”
“Your back,” Bruce pointed out. Tim glanced back at the appendage and grimaced at the poor state of his wings. His red feathers had lost their bright and lustrous shine and instead, they looked dull. There were even some spots without feathers covered by blood. His wings slightly flared in discomfort and it took a lot to not tuck them back out of habit.
“Why don’t you come here?” Bruce offered. Tim came up to him reluctantly after one of Bruce’s massive wings curled around him and nudged. He flinched when Bruce’s hand touched his feathers, inspecting them with care. Bruce hummed and declared the verdict.
“Nothing that some preening can’t fix,” Bruce said.
“You don’t have to do it B. I’m not a fledgling,” Tim said with a blush on his face. “I swear next time I’ll do it. I normally take care of them-”
“I insist,” Bruce decided and Tim had no choice but to lower his damaged and frail wings and let Bruce take care of it. Gently but slowly Bruce straightened the unruly feathers into place and coaxed them in oil. He worked in silence and offered an apology every time he plucked the damaged one's out. Occasionally his hands would massage them after his wings twitched too much since they weren’t used to this.
“How long since you preened them?” He asked conversationally right and scratched underneath the spot that had been itching for months.
“I don’t remember.” Tim settled for as he relaxed in the chair. The truth was, Tim avoided as far as he could. “A while.”
“A shame. They’re very pretty.”
“Bruce” Tim exclaimed, embarrassed. Bruce chuckled and Tim blushed some more. “I was a child, you said you wouldn’t mention it again.”
“You still are to me,” Bruce said, and then he added. “There, you’re all ready. Next time you have a hard time with your wings call me. I’m sure Dick would love to help you. In fact, Dick has been asking about you nonstop. Are you hungry? Alfred made you your favorite for dinner. He'll be so happy to see you.”
Tim frowned and squinted suspiciously.
“Dinner?”
“Of course Tim,” Bruce said, all serious. “You must be hungry after that mission. Do you need to be carried?”
“Not a fledgling.” Tim insisted but offered no resistance when Bruce carried him.
“Uh-huh. Maybe you’re a hatchling?”
“Bruce!”