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Various colours of flowers dotted the fields. The walls encircled the courtyard, with the largest landing pads up at the top, and rows of perches alternating with smaller entrances throughout the walls. The hatchlings and young fledglings stayed in the courtyard, with a long ledge along the northern wall serving as shelter for when it rained.
Jason stretched out along the courtyard, with Damian and Tim bickering near him. Damian was an early bloomer, with the wings of the small but territorial Loggerhead Shrike, though above average size compared to Damian’s fledgling frame. Tim had the wings of a Rose Breasted Grosbeak, though not fully developed. The flight feathers were yet to come in.
Jason’s wings hadn’t come in at all despite him being the oldest of the three. Lumps at the shoulders were supposed to start around 8-10, and then, row by row, growth was supposed to be done by 13-14. At 12, Jason only had puffy feathers around his shoulders, down clinging to the starting bone of the wing known as ‘wingbuds’. Damian’s were already done despite him only being 8, and he’d never let Jason forget it.
Jason sat up at the sound of landing behind him, only to find his vision obscured by the very familiar iridescent blue of a certain Blue Eared Starling’s wings. Dick pulled them away soon enough, stepping around him. “Will you preen me today? I’m not planning on flying far, so you can have fun with it.”
Preening was always a family ritual, and deeply personal. Some, like Bruce and Damian, preferred it simple and clean, just arranging feathers into place. Others, Like Tim, liked a personal touch, some of Bruce’s or Dick’s loose feathers hung on with thread, as a claim. Dick always liked it flashy, especially when he wasn’t flying a lot, so that it could afford to get in the way a bit. Beads draped over the wingbones, anything shiny hung on with thread. Anyone would think he was a magpie, not a starling.
“Not Bruce?” Jason asks, sitting up and kneeling behind Dick’s wings. “Nah. He has no eye for style.” The fledgling girls across from them, all sisters, sat and preened each other too, draping flowers across their feathers to match their flower crowns.
“Do you want flowers too?” Jason joked, to be met with a playful nudge from Dick’s small but gorgeous wing. It throws him off balance, and Dick reached out and steadied him. “You really need to eat more, Jaybird. You must hardly weigh more than a hatchling if these tiny things threw you off.”
Jason laughed, but there’s always underlying discomfort when his weight got brought up. Bruce had been worrying over him for a long time about it, but it really wasn’t a mental thing. He ate like a pig, and he just never seemed to put on height or weight. At this rate, Damian was going to end up taller than him soon enough.
Jason began, threading beads around the radius, careful not to weigh down the feathers as he looped it around the edge of Dick’s wing and brought it back up to the basal phalanx. His fingers threaded through the flight feathers, settling them into place meticulously. He knew he had no better sense of style than Bruce, just slightly gentle, and the main reason Dick asked him in specific was simply to involve him. It was the only way Jason could be involved in this ritual, since he had no wings for others to preen yet. He wasn’t sure he ever would.
He finishes, and settles down. Dick wrapped his wings around the two of them, an iridescent curtain as he guides Jason’s head to rest on his lap. “How’s it going, chick-a-dee?” He asks, stroking his hand through Jason’s hair. “Alright.” He murmurs. He shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders aching.
Dick slipped a hand under Jason’s back to get him comfortable, and freezes up. “Have you lost weight?” Jason could read his face easily: Jason didn’t have any weight on him in the first place, how could he have lost it?
Jason chose not to answer, eavesdropping instead on the voices beyond the blue curtain– Damian teasing Tim about something or the other, probably his wings.
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“Eat some more.” Bruce said, piling more food on Jason’s already full plate. They had met Leslie, the sanctuary doctor, last week. She had told Bruce that it was possible Jason’s diet was lacking in quality and not quantity, which led Bruce into convincing himself that Jason was going to grow into some sort of raptor; hence switching him to an all meat diet.
Jason rolled his eyes. The concern was getting irritating. “I already overate, Bruce. I’ll puke if I eat anymore.” The great horned owl settled, albeit reluctantly. The look in his eyes was one that’s getting more familiar to Jason the more he doesn’t grow, a look of pure pity and an ache to fix everything for the fledgling. This saviour complex was getting too much. When would Bruce accept that Jason was just born with…some factory defect? That piling a fourth helping of pork onto his plate wasn’t helping anyone?
Dick was beginning to get the same look, which deeply bothered Jason. “Like that’ll help.” Damian said. “Just accept it, he’s gonna be grounded his whole life.” You know it was bad when Damian’s teasing felt refreshing.
Tim cleared his throat, ever talented at changing the topic. “You know, I’ve heard a hurricane is coming in next week.” A hurricane, while it sounded like bad news, was often an exciting event. Almost nobody flew into storms, but the few arrogant fledglings that did were almost certainly casualties. Hence, the S.S.F, sometimes lovingly called the Naval Air Force, had been instated. The Seabird Storm Force, comprised of elite flyers with huge wingspans, from Albatrosses to Condors to the smaller, but insanely agile ‘Stormchasers’ (Desertas Petrels and the like).
Every hurricane or cyclone, as a precaution, a minimum of two members of the S.S.F were sent to each sanctuary, which meant that everyone got to marvel at their impressive wingspans. They didn’t do much cool rescuing, mostly sat around at the sanctuary and ate their heroic feasts, wings bound to navigate the smaller spaces, but they were always on standby just in case.
Sure enough, the following weekend, three S.S.F. members arrived. All three condors, all muscles in their tall frames and wings big enough to carry that weight. Wings that were still average size even when folded in half and bound, wingspans up to 15 feet longer than Bruce’s, and 45 feet longer than Jason’s lack thereof.
The three that came seemed fairly friendly, laughing and chatting. Alfred had bought fish specifically for them, a hundred kinds out of uncertainty as to what they ate, cooked to perfection like all of Alfred’s food despite the fact that the man himself didn’t eat fish. Most land birds hated fish, in fact, and only tolerated the smell of it for the reward of eating dinner with the nation’s elite.
Jason stepped into the cloister, following the smell of food to the kitchens. “Can I help?” He called out to Alfred. Alfred ruffled his hair, only with his wrist since his hands were dirty. “Always, young master. But it’s fish for the S.S.F., you might get grossed out by the smell.”
“I can smell it already. I can tolerate it.” It smelled nice, actually. Mouthwatering like no meat nor vegetable had ever smelled to him.
Jason steamed the fish, slicing and plating it while Alfred did all the hard work of preparing spices and marinating. “Good work, Master Jason.” He said, highfiving him. “Make sure to wash your hands before you go, don’t stink up the courtyard.” Jason lauged easily, missing the smell of fish as soon as he left.
The S.S.F members, Josh, Lola, and Gerald, according to their nametags, devoured the food. Jason couldn’t take his eyes off the fish the whole dinner, but forced himself back to the land bird food. Dinner finished, and Jason walked the path to the kitchens once again. Alfred was wrapping up leftovers. “Is there fish left over?” Jason asked.
“Yes, we made extra. It’s no sign of your cooking, don’t worry.” That’s not why he had been asking. “Can I…try some?” “Curiosity killed the cat, Master Jason. I tried fish myself once upon a time, and I can’t fathom how these seabirds enjoy it.”
“The second line of that saying is ‘satisfaction brought it back.’” Jason complained. The cook sighed, unpacking a slice of fish. “At your own risk.”
Jason peeled off a strip by hand, ignoring Alfred offering him a fork. Cautiously sniffed it, then sunk his teeth in. The flavour burst in his mouth, so utterly satisfying but not satiating, leaving him craving more. “You lied.” He accused, much to Alfred’s confusion and amusement. “To each their own, I suppose. You’re welcome to finish it, I’ll make more for our resident heroes.” Jason devoured two whole filets, of what was allegedly john dory, teeth sinking in to the juicy flesh as he wondered how he could have been missing out on this his whole life.
“Thank you, Alfred!” He exclaimed cheerfully, on his way out. Back at the courtyard, Tim and Damian were sleeping side by side, buried under their feathers for warmth even as the fire burned in the corner. “Where were you?” Dick asked, pulling Jason down to lie by him. Jason nestled under Dick’s wing, lacking his own to huddle under. “Eating leftovers.”
“Fair enough. The pork was delicious today, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”