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When he woke, he couldn’t shake the compulsion. It hammered at him, day and night, loud as a war drum in his chest. So he gave in. Not out of grief. Not even hope.
Just because he couldn’tnot. The wings were calling. Somewhere in the part of him still bleeding in silence, he knew. They weren’t just his.
He lay flat on his stomach, shirtless on the padded table, sweat sheening his skin despite the AC. The artist worked silently, his gloved hands steady as he inked black and gray eagle feathers in intricate, sweeping lines, starting high across Flash’s shoulder blades and arching down along his upper arms.
Wings of a warbird. A symbol of the freedom they fought for. Wings…for her.
Each stroke seared pain into his skin. He welcomed it.
“Looks good,” Brawler said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He was quiet today, no teasing, no sarcasm. Just watching.
Dagger stood off to the side, arms folded, eyes narrowed like he was trying to read the ink through bone.
Flash didn’t say much. He just exhaled hard through his nose and let the needle do its work.
“You sure you wanna go full span down the triceps?” the artist asked, glancing up.
“Yeah,” Flash muttered. “She earned that.”
Brawler tilted his head. “She’s a very pretty little bird. She’ll surface. I can feel it. The way she looked at you…yeah, the fierce babe will be back.” He shrugged. “She’s probably on a classified mission.”
Flash didn’t look back. “Probably.” His voice was rough, but steady.
Dagger nodded slowly. “Aguila estrellada.Star-spangled eagle,” he said. “She called you that in the helo. It fits.”
Flash flexed his hands, jaw tight. “The wings aren’t the only thing she left me with,” he said solemnly. He didn’t have to say. Dagger knew. Brawler would know soon enough when he met someone who moved him like Lechuza have moved Flash.
Silence settled again, thick and heavy.
Dagger finally spoke, voice low. “Wings ain’t just for flying.”
Flash looked up.
Dagger met his eyes. “Sometimes they’re for shielding. Sometimes they’re a killing force. But they’re always earned.”
The gun buzzed on, drawing another long black line.
Flash bit back a grimace and grinned faintly. “You getting poetic on me, Kade?”
“Shut up,” Dagger muttered.
Brawler chuckled. “Next thing you know, he’s gonna start quoting Robert Frost.”
But Flash went quiet again, feeling every bite of the needle, every inch of pain carved in ink. It was more than art. It was a promise.
A vow.
If she ever came back, he’d be ready. If she didn’t, he’d carry her in every wingbeat of his soul.
A week later…it took him that long to handle the impact of his ink. The room was quiet, just the low hum of a ceiling fan and the distantchirrof insects beyond the open windows.
Flash stood shirtless in front of the mirror, hands braced on the sink, sweat still drying on his skin from the morning run. Women had eyed him as he passed, and he had noticed many of them were suddenly watering flowers or walking their dogs now as he ran past. He felt some of his old humor surfacing.You’re such a stud.
His breath was steady, but his eyes weren’t.
They tracked the reflection, the full span of black and gray wings etched across his back, sweeping wide from shoulder to shoulder, curving down his arms like they were ready to unfurl.
Not angel wings.