Work Text:
The padded bench was pushed up against a deep alcove set into the wall, its curved recess designed to accommodate folded wings without forcing them into an awkward position against the wall. Cool, dry air circulated through the vents overhead, keeping the humidity carefully regulated to prevent feathers from frizzing. A scent diffuser subtly perfumed the air with eucalyptus and sandalwood.
The whole preening room was designed with the comfort and health of wings in general.
Miguel O’Hara had never really paid attention to either. His wings had always been… problematic, to say the least. Difficult to manage, difficult to preen, and even more difficult to care about.
He rarely bothered with professional preening sessions, and his own attempts at maintenance tended to consist of little more than whatever he could manage when the neglect became impossible to ignore.
"Just call him in, Lyla," Miguel gritted out, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. "My scapulae are killing me right now."
"I could listen to you complain about something completely preventable, sure," Lyla chirped, materializing beside him. She was filing her nails in mock boredom, her small wings fluttering behind her. "But I still don't get why he has to be here. You know that Nueva York’s top preeners are open, right? They have heated perches. Medical professionals on staff. Even complimentary mimosas!"
"I do not trust them," Miguel snapped, bringing up the one weak excuse he had. "For one, they use machinery to groom wings. My wings are just… too tricky for them."
Lyla gave him a long, unimpressed look. "Machines that are specifically designed to preen difficult wings? With adaptive sensors that can adjust to individual feathers, pressure, and damage? And the ability to connect directly to your personal AI—me, in this case—to build a detailed map of your wings and tailor the entire process to you?"
"A human touch is still different from them!" Miguel huffed, his wings shifting irritably behind him.
"You could always get a human preener to do it," Lyla pointed out. "But you’ll probably tell me that Peter’s somehow different from them. Which is adorable, by the way. You’re really not that good at pretending you don’t like him."
Miguel sent her a withering glare before a chime at the door announced Peter’s presence.
"Let him in. And mute yourself too," he ordered. Lyla gleefully mimed zipping her lips closed before fizzling away in a pop of light.
The door slid open, and Peter B. Parker strolled in. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that said I’m With Stupid -> (the arrow pointed at his own armpit).
"Housekeeping!" Peter announced, holding up a bottle of high-grade preening oil and a specialized comb. "Or, should I say, coop-keeping?"
"One more bird joke, Peter," Miguel warned, standing up. "One. And I will kick you out."
"You love my jokes. They keep you grounded," Peter grinned. "Which is ironic, considering—" he caught Miguel’s expression, and wisely decided to pause on the jokes, "—well. I’ll shut up."
"Thank you."
Peter walked over to the preening chair, setting his supplies on the table beside it. Alongside the things he’d brought were the tools Miguel already kept in the preening room: brushes of various shapes and sizes, a feather conditioner, bottles of follicle oil and keratin-repair serum, a barb realignment tool, and a specialized solution for loosening damaged feathers that were ready to shed.
Peter let out an impressed whistle, picking up the bottle of follicle oil and turning it over in his hand. "You have one hell of a stock here. I thought you said you didn’t preen often?"
Miguel’s shoulders stiffened. He had actually bought all of that in anticipation of being groomed by Peter… not that he was about to say it out loud, though. "…it’s good to have a stockpile just in case," he said, looking away.
Peter looked amused, but he didn’t say anything further. "Sure, whatever you say, big guy. You just sit back and let ‘em out while I take care of you."
Miguel exhaled a breath he seemed to have been holding for a week. He tapped his watch, releasing the restraints on his wings.
CLICK. HISS.
The restraint system along his wings disengaged. The articulated bands unclasped one after another, the small locking mechanisms at each joint sliding apart with soft clacks. Because the restraints were a series of interlocking bands, they allowed Miguel’s wings a limited range of movement—just enough to prevent any atrophy or permanent damage.
As the final locks opened, the tension drained out of Miguel’s shoulders. He flexed his wings experimentally, feeling the joints roll and his muscles stretch after being restrained for so long.
Freed from their restraints, Miguel’s wings suddenly exploded outward, his feathers snapping open with a sound like a sail catching a gale-force wind. The rush of air sent a stack of towels tumbling off a nearby counter.
For a moment, the holographic overlay on his wings struggled to keep up. Its muted projection flickered briefly, then vanished, revealing Miguel’s real wings.
Without it, the difference was striking.
Miguel’s wings were magnificent and eye-catching—massive, spanning nearly the entire width of the large room. The feathers were the color of midnight, a deep blue that shifted to blood-red at the tips and the primary coverts, mimicking the patterns of a Caracara. Still, the neglect was evident on his wings; several feathers were unaligned, and the surfaces of them were dulled by accumulated oils.
Peter’s eyes openly roved over the layers of his feathers. "…holy shit," he muttered, sounding slightly breathless. "So this is what you’ve been hiding all along."
"It wasn’t necessarily hiding," Miguel said. He flinched as blood rushed back into his cramped muscles. His feathers prickled slightly under Peter’s gaze. "Well? Are you done staring or not?"
Peter blinked. Only then did he seem to realize that he’d been openly gawking. A faint flush crawled up his cheeks before he cleared his throat firmly. "I wasn’t staring. It’s just that wings like yours are pretty rare on my Earth."
Miguel raised an eyebrow. "Are they?"
"Yeah," Peter said, gesturing to the red accents on Miguel’s wings. "I’ve seen plenty of colorful wings, but nothing quite like yours."
"Oh, these old things?" Miguel asked, ruffing his feathers with a smug smirk. "It’s been a while since I’ve properly preened them. They’re not usually this dull."
"Show off," Peter laughed, stepping into the danger zone without a hint of self-preservation. "Man. You really pack those away tight, huh? No wonder you're so cranky all the time."
"I’m not cranky. You try dealing with thousands of Spider-People on a daily basis without losing your mind."
"Sure," Peter snorted. "I think you were just born without a sense of humor."
"I do have a sense of humor," Miguel said. "Just not for terrible puns."
Peter ignored the pointed comment, waving Miguel toward the chair. "Hey, one day I’ll make you crack a smile! But for now, sit down. I’m getting twitchy just looking at your secondaries."
Miguel rolled his eyes, but did as he was told.
The preening chair was similar to the ones used for massages, though built more specifically for the task of grooming wings. Its padded surface would support the user’s chest and torso while leaving the entire back exposed, with comfortable supports extending outward on either side of the wings. At the front was a soft cradle used to rest the chin, with room beneath it for the arms to lie; this chair had a larger head rest, though.
He slumped forward, resting his chin on his arms. "Just make sure to get the feathers near the base. They’re itching my skin."
Peter got to work.
His hands were warm, surprisingly gentle for a guy who punched supervillains for a living. He started by separating the massive primary feathers, running a soft comb between them and checking each shaft for damage. His touch was methodical, but there was an undeniable care to it.
Miguel felt himself let his guard down each passing second.
The first few passes of the comb sent a pleasant shiver through his wings. Every so often, Peter encountered a damaged or already loosened feather and gently coaxed it free. The brief sting made Miguel puff up instinctively, giving Peter better access as he worked the feather loose.
This was the most touch he’d had in months, if not years.
When Peter was finished with the worst of the loose plumage, Miguel’s wings looked much better. Feathers that had been out of place began to settle back into alignment.
"So," Peter said, digging his thumb into a knot of muscle at the base of Miguel’s left wing. "Lyla tells me you’ve refused all professional help. I guess the upside here is that you only have to pay me in bagels."
Miguel tensed. "She talks too much."
"And I don't?" Peter laughed, pouring oil onto his hands. He began to work it into the dark blue plumage.
"You talk," Miguel mumbled, his eyes fluttering shut against his will as Peter hit a particularly sensitive spot. "But your voice is... somewhat manageable. Like white noise."
"Wow. I’m 'white noise'," Peter chuckled. "Do I really put you to sleep like that?"
Miguel, nearly asleep by this point, did not answer.
Peter moved on to the red-accented coverts, carefully working through the newer feathers. One of them was still encased in its keratin sheath. He gently pinched the brittle coating between his fingertips, crumbling it away in small pieces until the soft feather beneath it was exposed.
Miguel let out a sound. It started off as a low, vibrating rattle in the back of his throat before trailing off into something softer. It was somewhere between a purr and a zipper being pulled up slowly.
"There it is," Peter teased softly. "You're such a softie, Miguel."
"Keep talking and I’ll make you preen my wings everyday for the rest of your life," Miguel murmured. His threat was offset by the way he leaned into Peter’s hand, pressing his fingers into the warm touch.
"Uh-huh. You sound so convincing right now." Peter combed through the downy under-feathers. "You know, speaking of preening your wings, we should—"
Peter accidentally snagged a bent feather.
"¡Ay! ¡No tan fuerte!" Miguel’s wings flared wide, smacking Peter in the face with a wall of feathers.
"Sorry! Sorry!" Peter sputtered, spitting out a blue feather.
"You are incompetent," Miguel hissed, though he immediately settled back down, tucking his wings close so Peter could reach them again. "Continue."
"You're welcome for the preening," Peter rolled his eyes. "Okay, my turn. Quid pro quo, Clarice."
Miguel sighed, sitting up and getting off the chair. "Fine."
As Peter settled down on his stomach, Miguel came closer, examining the man’s wings spread across the supports.
Peter’s wings were starkly different than his, built more for speed and sharp dives. Their shape was sleek and aerodynamic, with long primaries suited for the high-speed hunting stoops of a Peregrine Falcon. They were the color of dried earth and coffee, a rich, warm brown with a metallic red sheen when the light hit it right.
They were a little scruffy as well. A few feathers stuck out at old angles, no doubt the result from Peter sleeping on them wrong.
"You haven’t been brushing these lately, have you?" Miguel chastised, grabbing Peter’s left wing and extending it.
"I’ve been busy! Mayday ran amok in the living room yesterday. I had to chase her around for, like, an hour before she finally conked out."
"Excuses."
Miguel grabbed a new comb and got to work. He carefully ran the comb through Peter’s feathers, brushing them into place with slow strokes. He smoothed down a few lesser coverts that were ruffled. When he found a flight feather with a split, he observed it closely before pressing the separated barbs back together. The tiny barbules caught and aligned with each other.
Once the worst of the tangles were taken care of, he picked up a bottle of feather oil and applied it to Peter’s wings. He rubbed it through the plumage to restore the moisture and sheen back to Peter’s feathers.
Peter hummed, his head dropping forward. "Oh, yeah. That’s the spot. You’re good at this, Miguel. Maybe you should open a salon."
"I don’t do this for just anyone," Miguel muttered, obsessively picking a piece of lint off Peter’s secondary coverts. "Only... select cases."
"Select cases, huh?" Peter grinned lazily over his shoulder. "Am I a special case to you?"
"More like a charity case," Miguel corrected, moving to the other wing. "I can’t let you go out with your wings in this condition…"
He then spent a solid five minutes just massaging the joint where the wing met Peter’s shoulder girdle.
Lyla—apparently deciding that now was a great time—popped back up, floating near Miguel’s ear.
"You know," she whispered loudly. "The professional groomers have heated chairs. And they don't require you to stare lovingly at the back of your client’s neck for twenty minutes."
Miguel froze. "I’m… checking for parasites?"
"Are you asking or telling me that?"
"Parasites are small, Lyla! They shift!"
"Uh-huh," Peter mumbled, half-asleep and shifting his wings closer to Miguel’s touch. "Don't listen to her, Miggy. You're doing great. Keep doing the thing with the... the thumbs..."
Miguel looked down at Peter, who was practically boneless in the chair, trusting Miguel completely with his delicate flight limbs. Miguel’s wings curved forward slightly, creating a protective shield around the smaller man.
Miguel looked at Lyla.
Lyla raised an eyebrow. Well? She seemed to be asking.
"Shut up," Miguel mouthed at the AI.
"I didn't say anything," Lyla grinned, snapping a photo. "Just dropping by as you inevitably cave for Peter. Again."
"Just... a few more minutes," Miguel grumbled, resuming his preening of Peter’s brown feathers. "Then I’m kicking him out."
"Sure you are, boss," Lyla laughed. "Sure you are."