Chapter Text
The cold was never pleasant in Gotham.
It was something that settled into the very corners of the bones. Something that hollowed out its host and wormed its way into every last inch, replacing every last molecule of warmth until all that was left resembled no more than a dry, shivering leaf in the wind.
Jason had grown to hate the bitter cold that hovered over Gotham’s dirty, slush-slick streets, and this winter was no different. In fact, he’d wager that it was worse. It didn’t help that the wings bound tight to his back (hidden carefully under a too-small coat) were so damn tiny. They weren’t nearly enough to puff up for insulation, and even if they had been, flashing them around in the street was as close to a death sentence as he could get at eight years old (though, with how people looked at him, he was sure someone could find a way).
When he was littler, and when she used to be lucid more often, his mother had always told him that his wings would grow big, that he’d take to the skies with no trouble at all.
Back then, Jason had believed her. He had believed that he’d end up with wings just as big and beautiful as her soft, warm-grey ones, with muscles as strong and powerful as Willis’ — ones that had once been used to lift his large, shimmery grey-blue-purple wings.
Of course, Jason knew better now. Even if his wings were large and undamaged, it wasn’t like hybrids of his nature were permitted to fly anyways. Just about everywhere — be it Star City, Metropolis, or shitty old Gotham — avians such as the likes of him were denied the freedom of flight.
Jason had only ever heard stories of avians and their skillful, unfettered flight, and almost all of them ended in injury, bindings, or removal. As much as he tried to keep that in mind though, the thought of what that kind of freedom would feel like never left his head. The stories Catherine used to tell him of endless fields of green grass, somewhere out in the countryside, where she had learned to fly, stuck in Jason’s head like sidewalk gum to a shoe in summer. Even now, with the cold biting into his fingers and toes, he kept the memory of warm, sunny fields tucked secretly in the corner of his mind.
It seemed futile to hope for something so impossible, and Jason knew all too well that it was never something someone of his circumstance would ever get so much of a glimpse of, but…sometimes he couldn’t help it. Especially as of late. He clung to hope of a better life like a leech to watery skin, wringing every last drop of it out when hunger panged in his stomach and everything felt like too much.
Which, for the last two-ish months, was more often than not.
Since Willis had gone to prison, Jason and his mother had needed to downgrade to a smaller, shittier apartment, nestled deeper in Crime Alley. They didn’t have nearly as much income, either, with the man gone. And, while Jason didn’t quite miss the loud fighting and screaming and broken dishes, he couldn’t say he was all too fond of standing on the street corner, either.
What mattered, though, was that he was making money. He could ignore the feeling of shame — could ignore the feeling of disgust and filth that felt like flies buzzing under his skin, the ghosts of burning, searing hands — if it meant he had money. Money for food. Money for Catherine. Money for the apartment.
Of course, the apartment wasn’t much different than the apartment they’d had before. There were still holes in the walls — still grime and stains on the ceiling, still cold drafts that shook the windows on cold nights — but it was cheaper, and a cheaper apartment meant more money for groceries and Catherine’s medicine.
It wasn’t all bad in that regard, Jason supposed.
But, as he stepped quietly into the apartment, sure to click the lock behind him, he knew that today was not going to be one of the increasingly rare ‘good days.’ Catherine was sprawled on the couch, and it was hard to tell whether her posture was a result of sleep or another drug-induced haze.
Jason lightened his steps and crept closer, wings tightening further against his back despite their bindings. The small limbs ached from being bound shut and stuffed under fabric, but he’d grown used to the feeling. The second he’d sprouted them, his parents had drilled into him how important it was to keep them hidden from sight. Whether it be to protect them from discrimination, trafficking, or violent theft, it was something Jason knew was as essential to survival as food or water.
Ignoring the ache, he leaned over the couch, trying to get a glimpse of his mother’s face.
Catherine’s expression revealed nothing of surprise to him, but it made his chest constrict despite how familiar it was. Her eyes were open, but they were cloudy and unfocused. It was clear that she was somewhere inside her own mind, eyes fixed somewhere far away on something Jason wasn’t privy to.
He frowned, brows drawn into a tense pinch as he took in the sight of his mother.
She’d been getting worse, both with her illness and her addiction.
A month or two ago, she’d still been trying her best to keep Jason away when her dealer came by.
A month or two ago, she’d still been getting out of bed once or twice a week to make dinner with him.
A month or two ago, she’d still been eating.
A month or two ago, she’d still been warm under the skin of her thinning body.
A month or two ago, Jason hadn’t been as worried.
Now, with Catherine limp and breathing scarily shallow, looking like she was lost in her own head, Jason was scared. Not that he’d ever say it — no, never — but he was. Her pale, almost ghastly complexion was only part of it. Her sunken, tired eyes and the bones showing through her skin were worse. But what really got to Jason was the state of her wings.
Her beautiful, strong, comforting wings, that she had always, always made sure to take care of, even on her worst days. Her wings, which used to keep him warm during the colder months of the year, when the absence of insulation in the walls was most noticeable. Her wings, which she had always groomed carefully clean. Her wings, which she had only started asking Jason for help with when she was too tired.
Her wings, tucked too tight against her back, looked scruffy in a particular disarray that had only seemed to get more and more frequent over the last three weeks.
It wasn’t that Jason hadn’t seen his mother’s wings in such a state before. He had, and every time, Catherine would ask for his help preening them back to their usual state of near-perfection. The issue wasn’t that she had clearly been neglecting the limbs for a while. The issue wasn’t even that she wasn’t taking care of herself though the thought of her no longer wanting to try petrified Jason.
The issue was that she hadn’t even bothered to ask for his help.
Catherine hadn’t uttered so much as a complaint. Not even a whisper asking for assistance.
The idea that she’d just…give up like that, that she’d let her exhaustion win out, that she’d let herself waste away on the couch, clothes stinking of sweat and vomit and a sourness that Jason had learned long ago to recognize as her drugs…it hurt.
It hurt to think that his mother — the same woman who had always told him to fight for himself, no matter how difficult the opponent — would just stop trying. It hurt to think that she didn’t seem to believe anything was worth trying for, besides her floaty, syrup-y sweet escape from reality. It hurt to think that Catherine had stopped fighting for what they needed — had stopped fighting for Willis, for Jason — in favor of draining their money into something that only took away her pain for a few hours at most.
It hurt Jason to think that he wasn’t good enough for his mother anymore.
But it was fine. It was fine if Catherine didn’t think he was worth it anymore, because he could still take care of her. He could show her how much he cared, that he could get money for them, that he could go out and get groceries and medicine and cigarettes.
Jason could prove to her that he was worth fighting for. He could prove that they would get out, someday.
Even if they didn’t, and they spent the rest of their lives in their shitty little apartment, he could show her that he would love her anyway. He didn’t care if she didn’t need him, because he would be there anyway, and he would make sure that she had someone to look after her.
Jason would make sure his mother’s wings were kept tidy, just the way she liked them.
Letting out a short, shuddering sigh, Jason tore his eyes from Catherine’s slumped form on the couch in favor of trotting off to the bathroom.
It was a small, cramped little space, but it worked just fine for him and his mother. Their cleaning supplies — which they had few of — fit just fine in the cabinet under the sink. It was a smaller cabinet than what was in their old apartment (there had been enough room that Jason was usually able to stuff himself in next to the cleaning supplies, if he was scared enough tried hard enough), but it still did the trick for what little storage they needed.
He pulled out a small spray bottle and bucket from the cabinet, but wrinkled his nose when he noticed the telltale signs of rats, dotted in the corners.
The presence of rats in their apartments wasn’t anything new, but it was always a pain in the ass to deal with. And, more often than not, it just meant that Jason ended up having to throw out things that he otherwise wouldn’t have. It also meant that sometimes there was rat shit in his bed, but he’d learnt to just shake it off and get over it, as disgusting as it was.
He didn’t have the time or resources to go to the laundromat as often as he would have liked. It was a long walk to the nearest one, and it ate up a decent amount of time that he could spend finding ways to make money instead. It also kept him away from his mother for longer than he was comfortable with.
The more she’d fallen into her illness and addiction, the more Jason had found himself worrying about her being alone all the time. He’d already seen her overdose once, and since then he’d been determined not to let it happen again. Or at least to the best of his ability.
At the memory of choked vomiting and needles, a soft sound of distress bubbled in his chest, trying its best to come out — but Jason stifled it with a harsh clench of his jaw. His wings shifted painfully against his back, aching under their bindings.
Everything was fine. There was no reason to be so upset. Just because Catherine looked thinner and more pallid than he’d grown used to didn’t mean he had to freak out. He had everything under control. She would be fine, and so would he.
Jason could handle plenty of the things life had thrown at him. He’d been making a decent amount of money. He’d been keeping him and Catherine afloat since Willis was taken in, and this was just another bump in the road.
Jason would deal with it, just like he would deal with their food, their rent, and their new rat problem.
It wasn’t like the rats were anything more than an annoyance, if he was honest. It was annoying as hell when they got into good food and left crap all over the place, but it was no worse than the black mold in the bathroom ceiling or the roaches that had made their home in the corners of their last apartment complex.
And if Jason perhaps felt occasional sympathy for the filthy rodents, then nobody had to know. It wasn’t their fault, really. They were just trying to live. Just trying to get by on stolen food and warmth, like the rest of the people in Gotham.
Who was he to judge?
He understood what it felt like to be looked at as a vermin simply for existing.
For trying to survive.
Or, well, he supposed that rats were actual vermin.
Or were they? Hamsters were rodents, just like rats, but nobody seemed to consider them to be vermin. They were just cute pets that Jason had only ever seen in his old classrooms at school. What was the difference, really? They were both small, living creatures dependent on food from other larger animals.
But one happened to be cuter than the other, he supposed.
Cuter. Cleaner. Quieter.
People seemed to particularly dislike rats and their tails. Hamsters didn’t have those long pink ones, like rats did. But what was so grisly about a tail like that? It was just part of the rat. Rats couldn’t help that they had long pink tails that nobody liked. It was just how they were.
Jason shook off his thoughts on the obnoxious rodents and stood up with the bucket and spray bottle, grabbing a wrinkled washcloth off the edge of the bathtub.
He filled the spray bottle with lukewarm water, filling the bucket no more than a third with more lukewarm water and a dollop of soap. Soap wasn’t necessarily helpful on wings, but when grease and dirt was built up as badly as it was on Catherine’s, it was better than just letting it go.
Jason knew firsthand how uncomfortable and itchy wings would get when dirt and oil built up for too long without care, and he didn’t want his mother to have to deal with that on top of everything else.
It wasn’t like using soap really changed anything, anyway. It wouldn’t matter whether her wings lacked the oil they needed to lay correctly or not, seeing as flight was forbidden. Still, general maintenance was always beneficial, especially if they had rats coming around. Rats carried mites, and mites just loved to burrow between neglected feathers.
Jason hated mites, and he was determined not to let his mother get them. He’d dealt with his fair share of mites, and they were always a bitch to get rid of — especially on his own. So why make Catherine do it herself when he could help her?
It wasn’t like she would do it on her own, even if he didn’t help her.
So he brought his bucket, spray bottle, and washcloth back to the livingroom, gently setting them down on the floor next to the couch. The washcloth was mostly to help wash away the grease, but Jason figured he could dislodge dirt and re-lay the feathers just fine with the help of the spray bottle.
He’d heard of wing and feather products before, and he knew that they were all ridiculously expensive for what they were. His mother had never used any kind of fancy oil or conditioner of any kind, and her wings always looked beautiful, even just washed with water. Willis had only ever reinforced the idea that unnecessary products were just that — unnecessary.
They never bought what they didn’t need.
Regardless, Jason briefly wondered if Catherine’s wings would have looked even more beautiful had they ever been able to afford the unnecessary frou-frou paraphernalia and bullshit. They were gorgeous on their own, though, and they always had been.
Even looking so haggard and unkempt, they never ceased to put Jason in awe. He often wished his own wings had taken more after his mother’s, rather than the iridescent mark of filth from his father. Hybrids of the winged variety were already looked down on enough, but the prospect of taking after the birds that most considered to be nuisances? That did him no favors.
Sometimes it made Jason feel like a rat sitting next to a handful of hamsters.
Mindful of Catherine’s altered state, Jason gently unfurled his mother’s left wing, feeling an odd mix of apprehension and relief when she allowed it to drape off the side of the couch and over the floor. She hardly reacted, and that put him on edge, but somehow soothed him at the same time. He wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to handle it if she’d refused to let him help her.
Jason settled quietly beside the large limb, kneeling as he inspected its visual condition and picked up the spray bottle beside him.
His knees protested slightly from the position it had become a very familiar one the last week or two, but he could tolerate it. He could still move, still function, still get things done.
Catherine couldn’t, so he would do it for her. It was something he was used to, after Willis had gone in. She needed him, and he would be there for her, just like she used to be for him. It was only fair.
It wasn’t like Catherine had always been this way. She’d been good, once. And when Willis hadn’t been drunk or in a foul mood, he’d been okay sometimes, too. Catherine had always tried her best, and the way she used to sit and read with Jason, or teach him how to make dinner, used to make him a nest on the couch when he was sick, or how she used to sing soft, sweet lullabies to soothe him to sleep after bad dreams — it meant something, even now.
Just because she didn’t want to couldn’t do it anymore didn’t mean she’d never loved him.
Her soft, warm-grey feathers were oilier than what seemed comfortable, and there were enough feathers out of place to make Jason grimace. He knew it was hard for his mother to find motivation to get out of bed, but it was incredibly disheartening to see how easily she let her feathers fall into such a disorganized mess. It was alright though, because he was going to help her. He’d been doing it since he was little, and he’d only gotten better at it over the years. Cleaning and preening his mother’s wings was something Jason was accustomed to, and despite the circumstance under which he had to do it, he found that he’d grown fond of it.
The feeling of her soft, delicate feathers between his fingers as he brushed away dirt.
The feel of the once-powerful muscles that had lifted her towards the heavens when she was younger.
The satisfaction of putting each out-of-place feather back in alignment.
The gentle reminder that his mother was still there, even if she had given up on taking care of herself.
It was somewhat of a comfort, really. It was honestly probably more a comfort to Jason than it was to Catherine, but he opted to ignore that fact simply because it was something that needed to be done either way. Nobody else would do it, so Jason was going to.
He tried to tell himself that it was just because he cared, rather than because he was terrified what it would mean if Catherine didn’t even care enough to keep her most treasured features tidy and cared for.
Some part of him ached, thinking about the fact that she almost seemed to have cared more about her wings than him.
Another part of him ached, thinking about the fact that she had given up on him long before she’d given up on her wings.
His knees ached as he sat on the floor, gently steadying his mother’s left wing with a hand and squeezing the bottle’s trigger. His wings twinged with their own discomfort under his too-small coat as he misted the familiar feathers at his fingertips.
He spritzed over his mother’s feathers until they were damp, and he picked up the washcloth to begin gently brushing away the dirt and grime that had gathered. Jason knew the gentle, circular motions would work the worst of the filth out from between Catherine’s delicate feathers, but he liked to occasionally dip the red cloth in the bucket of water, just to make sure the excess oil was actually getting wiped away.
He let the soft fluff soak for a minute or two before going back in with the spray bottle, making sure to get between every long, fragile feather as his small, thin fingers began gently combing through the clumps that looked the most distraught.
Jason worked from the base of the wing outwards, taking his time to ensure that each broken or crooked tuft of soft brown was either gently plucked or settled back into its proper place. He combed along the expanse of Catherine’s wing until he was satisfied that the majority of her coverts were back to the way they should’ve been.
The process of preening was as easy as breathing to Jason.
Moving on to the longest of her feathers — flight feathers, from what Jason remembered — he was just as cautious, if not more so. A few of the main ones were lightly twisted, and one or two closer to the base of her wing were more separated than what he’d been taught was normal. He gently oriented the twisted ones and ran his fingers along their lengths until they slowly reconnected with themselves, returning to the same uniformity as the rest.
He repeated the process until every last feather was perfectly in place, clean and sleek in the way his mother had always prided herself on achieving. He hadn’t even needed to remove all that many, despite the number of feathers that had been disturbed.
And, really, the sight of Catherine’s feathers laying back in their regular pattern brought some relief to Jason, bleeding from his shoulder a tension he hadn’t noticed wind up.
His own wings still ached, but he had his mother’s other wing to get to. She already seemed more relaxed than before, and her body had melted even more into the couch. If Jason didn’t know better, he’d have thought she’d merged with it. As it was, she had fallen asleep, her soft breaths light and airy in her chest. Although he wasn’t fond of the way Catherine’s skin hung on her bones like cling wrap, the slight rise and fall of her torso was enough to make Jason’s bottom lip tremble with a mixture of relief and grief.
Even if Catherine wasn’t well enough to care about anything anymore, he was grateful that at the very least she found the will to keep breathing.
He hoped that she’d stay asleep while he worked on her right wing. It almost looked worse than the left, though they’d been neglected for the same amount of time. He wondered if she’d tried to do the left herself and had given up? It wasn’t like her to do that, but…then again, Jason wasn’t quite sure what was his mother and what was the drugs. It was hard to tell, now.
Either way, he’d learned from Willis that a Todd never did things half-assed.
Doing things half-assed was what got people in trouble. A half-assed job was what had landed Willis in prison again, and though it was entirely different from preening, the point remained. It just wasn’t worth it to do things in a way that wouldn’t benefit.
Jason clambered up off his knees, momentarily scampering to the kitchen to retrieve a stool. He dragged it over to the couch, arranging it right against the cushion covered by Catherine’s legs. It would be a touch tricky to work with, but it was the only way he’d be able to work through his mother’s right wing without either waking her or forcing her to move — neither of which he wanted to do. Even at her lighter weight, he was too small to carry a person, let alone someone who was conked out on drugs.
He settled carefully on the stool, but the way he had to hunch his back sent a sharp, searing twinge through the length of his spine.
He let out a soft, irritated sigh, but slid back off the stool to remove his coat.
It was too cold to just be wearing the t-shirt and shorts that he was, and the lack of actual insulation in the walls only exacerbated the issue, but Jason figured it would have to do. His wings weren’t cooperating with him anymore, and he knew that he and Catherine would be the only ones in the apartment, so a brief break from trapping the little limbs against his back seemed fair game.
He reached behind himself, carefully tugging on an intentionally loose thread in the cloth strip until the tied bindings fell away and fluttered to the floor. He hissed at the deep, uncomfortable ache in his muscles, but flexed the ratchet things anyway. Jason’s wings twitched and spasmed on their own for a moment, but eventually settled enough for him to breathe a little lighter.
Satisfied with the newfound freedom, he sat himself back on top of the kitchen stool and leaned over to assess the best way to handle Catherine’s other wing.
Jason hummed lightly as he reached out to run his fingers over the unfortunate state of the feathers, carefully lifting the limb until he was able to drape it over the back of the couch. He’d eventually have to switch sides of the couch to get to the entire wing, but that was hardly an issue. He still had more than enough water in his bucket and spray bottle, and there was one other washcloth still hanging somewhere in the bathroom should he need to swap out the one he’d been using.
Taking in the full sight of his mother again, Jason watched her breathe. The soft inhales and exhales were shallower than he would’ve liked, but there was nothing he could do about it. His mother’s skin was thin and a bit grayish, and her bones had only been getting more prominent.
Her wings were still the same.
Even with the clear lack of care, they were the only part of Catherine that hadn’t yet shown signs of withering.
Jason was determined to keep it that way. If not for the sake of what used to be her favorite activity, then for himself and his own comfort. It was selfish, maybe, but he couldn’t stand to see his mother’s wings disintegrate with the rest of her. He wasn’t ready. Not just yet.
So he took a deep, steadying breath, and got to work on Catherine’s other wing. The process was slow, gentle, and careful, just like it had been with the first wing. It was delicate and full of love, just like she’d taught him from when he was little. Jason savored the moment as long as he could, soaking in every last second of the quiet, tender peace. He wanted to remember it as something Catherine would have appreciated, instead of the tell-tale sign of hell around the corner that it really was.
Jason didn’t want to think about what Catherine’s exhaustion, thin frame, and fogginess meant. He didn’t want to think about the fact that winter was only going to get harsher, or that it would only get harder to get ahold of food and keep the rats away from it. He just wanted to sit with Catherine in silence and pretend like everything was going to be okay — just for a little longer.
Even if it was only for the forty-five minutes that he spent preening her other wing, it was time. He knew better than to take it for granted. Winter took things from people in the Alley every year, and he wasn’t so foolish as to think it would stop for him and Catherine.
Things would keep happening. Snow would keep falling. The wind would keep blowing.
Hustlers would keep hustling. The lines at the food kitchens would get longer. The bills would get higher. The working girls would show up on the corners more often. Jason would be out later to get more cash. The nights would get colder and darker. He would have to make sure Catherine was warm enough. He’d have to make sure he kept up with her wings.
It would go as it always did in the Alley.
The winter months would pass, and it would start all over again.
It would end up being the last time he was able to help his mother preen her wings.