The heat in Tulsa was a physical weight, a thick, suffocating blanket that pressed down on the pavement and made the air shimmer with a nauseating haze. Most of the town had retreated into the belly of the bars and diners, clinging to the last gasps of evasive coolness. Buck’s was a furnace, so Dallas had abandoned it, his shirt sticking to his back, wings folded tight against his spine like a heavy, sun-baked cloak.
He ghosted through the alleys, a shadow moving between shadows, until he hit the Shepard house. It wasn't much better- the single old window unit was wheezing its last breath- but the living room was a localized sanctuary. The twins were sprawled across the floorboards in a tangle of limbs and feathers, a rusty electric fan oscillating between them.
"Where’s Tim?" Dallas didn't bother with a greeting.
Angela pointed toward the bedroom without looking up from her cards, her magpie feathers ruffled in a state of lazy contentment.
Dallas kicked the bedroom door open. The room was stifling, and Tim was a wreck of a bird. He was draped facedown across the mattress, his massive Andean Condor wings splayed out to their full, awkward length. He’d clearly sacrificed the fan to the twins; he was baking in the stagnant air of the bedroom, his feathers puffed out in a desperate, instinctual attempt to shed body heat.
Dallas leaned against the doorframe, a lopsided grin pulling at his mouth. "Look at the big, bad Condor. Defeated by a little humidity. You look like you’re ready to drop dead, Shepard."
Tim didn’t even turn his head. He just let out a low, guttural hiss, the sound vibrating in his chest, and rattled his flight feathers- a sharp, aggressive click-clack that echoed like gunfire.
But the Notches of Your Spine are Looking Sharp Tonight. - @hintonchallenge summerfest "fan", @fandom-free-bingo "wingfic au", wingverse
