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Every Robin had wings.
It was as simple as fact, and every Gothamite knew it. Sure, 15% of the world's population had wings, but that especially held true for the Bats and Birds. The first Robin's brown baby feathers blossomed into the brilliant coloration of a Siberian blue robin as he flew the nest to become Nightwing. The second Robin soared high within the city smog with his amber pinion yet to become their true color before he disappeared. Even the Batman had his obsidian, sooty wings of a black vulture.
The point is, bats and birds have wings. It's in the namesake.
So when a third Robin appeared without any wings, Jason knew. This was a fraud. A fake. A wannabe replacement who had no right donning the suit. So Jason decided to teach the rich, entitled brat a lesson.
He waltzed into the Titan's tacky tower easily, able to use his old Robin code despite having never been a Titan. For how paranoid the old man was, Bruce had surprisingly let sentimentality get the better of him.
Jason hadn't come without research. Richie Rich Timothy Drake was sent here to hide from the "Big Bad Red Hood" while his parents were off gallivanting in some other country, and the Titans were on some space mission. Which left the replacement all on his lonesome, ripe for the picking.
Security had been child's play, nothing compared to the Cave as he knocked out any alarms or cameras. Finally finding the pretender in the kitchen, woefully unaware in civvies, Jason cut all the power right as he entered the room.
The two made eye contact for only a brief second before the younger tried to make a break for it, lunging for his bow staff. But he was quicker, shooting the bitch in the leg before he could grab it. As they say, don't bring a bow staff to a gun fight.
Jason swiftly approached, grabbing the staff the Replacement failed to reach as he kicked the boy in the ribs. "Looking for something?" he mocked, bringing the tool down on his spine.
"Bruce should've learned with the last Robin not to let kids fly too close to the sun lest their wings melt. And now, he's gone and hired someone without wings, as if that would solve the problem. Doesn't he know that flightless birds can still fall?"
Tim gasped beneath him as he continued to beat him with his own weapon. "Who-" he rasped. "Who are you?" There was fear and uncertainty in his eyes. Not just from the pain or Red Hood's imposing presence, but from the realization that the crime lord said Bruce. He knew who they were.
"What, am I that forgettable you can't even recognize who you replaced? Waltzing into the suit with a wingless back as if the name Robin means nothing. Oh, wait, you're so rich and pretentious, you look down on those who have wings. You must think you're so much better than me; you just swept my memory to the side."
It was then that Tim's eyes widened with realization. He was curled up on his stomach, but was able to turn his head to get a better look at Red Hood. "J-Jason?" he gasped out, eyes pleading for it not to be true.
But Jason merely stepped on his back to pin him to the floor as he removed his helmet. "In the flesh." He flashed a manic, bloodthirsty smirk down as he jabbed the staff into the bullet hole. "Guess you remember me after all, Pretender."
Jason used Tim's shocked stillness to his advantage as he beat the shit out of the imposter. He would soon learn he was never truly a Robin. The fight was too easy; the fraud barely even trying to fight back. With a good final kick to the ribs, Jason watched Tim's body roll helplessly on the floor from the impact.
"You're not a Robin," he scoffed at the lump of flesh and bones on the ground. "You don't deserve to wear this suit," he got a wicked grin on his face, "so I might as well relieve you of it." With a swift motion, Jason tore the fabric straight off Tim's back. However, what he saw stopped him dead in his tracks, his spine running cold.
Peeking out of the haphazard wrappings of Ace bandages around the boy's torso was a mess of purple, green, blue, and black feathers. Criss-cross scars littered Tim's back that Jason didn't want to think too deeply about. Jason ripped off the bandages as well, only to reveal the worst nightmare for any self-respecting person with wings.
There, lying pitifully on Tim's back, were torn, mangled limbs of what should have been wings. But these were small, misshapen, unable to fly.
"Tim, what the fuck is this?"
Fifteen years ago, on a bright, sunny July day, a beautiful baby boy was born. His name? Timothy Jackson Drake. However, there was something special about Timothy. The doctors and nurses marveled, his parents disgusted. The boy was born with wings, not rare, but not common either.
Jack and Janet Drake knew what was best for their son, though. After all, for the high-class society, wings were beneath them. Something only a mere peasant would have. So, they needed to get rid of them.
The thing about wings, though, was that you couldn't get rid of them. Not entirely. They had a pesky habit of growing back. But the Drakes found a reputable, underground doctor who promised the wings wouldn't grow back for a minimum of five years, since he was cutting them out so early.
Four months. That's how long Timothy's persistent wings took to grow back. A measly, too-short four months. The Drakes went to a different doctor; surely the first one did it wrong. Four months was the fastest regrowth of any total wingsectomy.
Two months. This time had been even shorter.
When the wings grew back only six weeks after the third doctor, Jack and Janet had become fed up. They started ripping away feathers at any sight of them, doing so countless times. They tried other questionable methods to discourage any wing regrowth.
It wasn't perfect. It never would be. But after years, the wings on Timothy's back had slowed their growth and become mangled from the misuse and abuse.
Timothy started wrapping his wings to hide any semblance of them from his parents. Then, maybe, they would stop ripping them away from him. Maybe he could finally get a glimpse of what the poor wings could have been.
Jason stared at the kid in horror as he finished his story. Cause that's what he was, a kid.
"Please, please, they're all I have left, please, Jason. I don't know if I'll ever be able to fly, but please, this is the biggest they've ever been allowed to be.
Without a word, he picked up Tim as the kid squawked in surprise. Jason swallowed down his pride and disgust, disgust at himself and the boy's parents at what they had done.
Tim tried to scratch at him, but he just ignored it as he continued walking towards the med bay. The elder unceremoniously plopping the kid onto a cot. Jason proceeded to take care of the damage he had - now regretfully - dealt.
Tim tried to fight back at first, but after realizing the former Robin's intentions, the two reached a calm, understanding silence.
"Does Bruce know?" Jason spoke after he finished bandaging Tim. It was the first words that had come out of his mouth since the kids' explanation.
"No."
"You're not going back there. To Drake Manor. I won't let you. You're gonna go to Bruce and tell him everything, or else I'll do it for you. And so help me if he blows this off, I'll beat the ever living shit out of him too." Tim nodded his head, acknowledging the words.
"Is it… Is it ok if I touch your wings? I-I promise I'll be gentle." Jason expected the kid to say no or to scream at him, especially with Tim staring at him like he had grown a second head. But when he croaked out a single yes, Jason took that as permission enough.
He grabbed a nearby bottle of feather oil and began to preen what little was left of the kids' wings. He's sure they had never been handled with gentle care, let alone preened. Sobs began to wrack Tim's body as the preening became a meditative motion for Jason.
No more words were exchanged. The cries were heard, understood; and the gentle touch of fingers between feathers was enough.