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Phase I.
Antonn dove through the sky, fast enough for the wind to hurt Swift's face, for his hair to whip into his eyes, stinging. He didn't need to see though, just feel the livewire heartbeat-throbbing heat of a person… that way.
He reached a hand into the fierce wind of their flight and tag!
Swift didn't bother yelling; Antonn couldn't hear him. He fisted that hand back in Antonn's kinky hair and signal received, their flight gentled, feathery wings beating around Swift like a greater, more significant heartbeat.
Phase II.
Curl his shoulders up under Antonn's wings and let that rustling warmth keep the rain off while he sipped on hot coffee and they talked the local cop unit into loaning them a squadron.
Heroes in this day and age weren't expected to work alone. That was just asking for the vigilantism that had characterized the country's warlord period.
Squadron acquired, it was time to go back out into said rain. Antonn didn't really let down the shield just because they stepped indoors.
"Shake it off," Swift advised.
Antonn wrinkled his nose. "Your hair will get wet."
Swift's hair was silky, black, and went all the way down his back. Even so, it's not like he cared if it got wet. He elbowed Antonn.
Antonn shook his wings.
The approaching cop lady flinched back from an impromptu shower, but she looked amused rather than disgusted, so Swift counted her all right when she gathered her people and followed his lead.
Phase III.
The villain had holed up in a stereotypical moldy warehouse that used to have functioning work done inside it, but was now nothing but a hollow shell. The perimeter sparked with blue electric arcs and swiveling drones turning their staring camera eyes at all comers.
Swift closed his eyes, lifted a hand, and felt his way through the sparks and tangled web of electromagnetic energy, breathed in rhythm with it.
When he was fully aligned with every one of the thirty-six drones, the artificial intelligence manning the fence, and the villain hidden away inside the warehouse, he leaned against Antonn into the cocoon of those warm feathers, soft as a blanket, drifting into a haze of sleepiness that came of long comfort in his partner's presence.
He was sure they drew odd looks, but he also knew the reverberation was not one-way.
After a long moment, a sharp indrawn breath near him.
"How does he do that?" a cop murmurred.
It didn't bother him. He stayed sleepy and snug, and so did the villain and the security measures, enabling the squadron to walk in and apprehend him.
Phase IV.
"Don't actually go to sleep on me." Antonn chuckled.
"Why not?" Swift trucked in the apartment door after Antonn, heard it close behind him, as he threw off his wet coat and boots and pants and drank in the soothing beat of Antonn's heart, Antonn's rhythm.
He crawled under the covers of Antonn's bed and waited, eyes closed, as the beat sped up—just a little. Enough to notice.
He heard clothing tossed aside, the rustle of the blankets moving across his skin and shirt. Antonn threw the blanket off altogether and lay beside him, throwing an arm around his waist and covering him warmly, fully, thoroughly with those perfect comforting feathers.
"Good night," he said softly against Swift's temple.
Swift didn't answer, already falling into rhythm and sleep.