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(part one) (part two) (part three)

🪶

It takes far longer than Bruce would like it to, but finally, finally they have a working counterspell. Batman is one of the first to be notified, and he's carrying Dick through the Zeta tubes a scant ten minutes later. He won't make his son wait a single second longer than he has to.

They meet Zatanna in one of the Watchtower’s meeting rooms. All the furniture has been removed, and a large rune circle has been drawn on the floor in glowing purple. Dick shuffles on Bruce's shoulder as Zatanna outlines the procedure. His feathers are sleek with anticipation; he looks ready to take flight at a moment’s notice. When Zatanna directs him towards the circle, he lands in the center with pinpoint precision, tail feathers curled neatly at his feet.

Zatanna looks from Dick to Bruce. “Ready?” she asks.

Dick sings an exuberant note. Bruce jerks his head in a stiff nod.

And then she begins.

The counterspell is long, and cycles through two languages Bruce recognizes and one he doesn't. He has to hold himself in place through sheer will when Dick starts to convulse, pained little noises escaping his beak. This is expected. The magic behind the disease is stubborn, and resists being pried off. Dick, and by extension Bruce, will simply have to endure.

The whole experience is unbearable, but in the end there's a flash of brilliant white light, and when his vision clears a familiar figure stands tall within the circle.

Dick takes a moment to steady himself, then looks up at Bruce and beams. “B!”

“Dick,” Bruce answers, drinking in the sight of his son. There are still feathers in his hair, far more than Tim’s remaining few, and much more obvious. Navy blue speckles the edges of his face and neck as well.

“The feathers-” Bruce says.

“A side-effect,” Zatanna says. “They may go away, they may not. We’re still flying blind here.”

“It’s fine,” Dick says. His voice isn’t quite the same as it was, that musical edge still present, but it’s recognizably Dick and that’s all that matters. “It’s a look, remember?”

“It’s an identity risk,” Bruce grumbles, but it’s half-hearted at best. His son is standing before him as a human being again - Bruce could weep from sheer relief.

“So we paint them black for patrol,” Dick says with a shrug. His face brightens. “God, I can’t wait to get back on patrol! I’ve been so bored, Bruce, you can’t even imagine!”

Zatanna laughs. “Maybe take a few days to get used to having hands again, Boy Wonder.”

Dick pouts at her and raises the hands in question, running through a quick dexterity exercise as if to demonstrate his readiness. Bruce would just as soon keep his no-longer-a-bird son safe at home for the next few months, but he doubts Dick will stand for it. Bruce knows the forced inactivity has been weighing on him more than he'll ever admit.

It will be good to have Nightwing back on the streets.

“You should be in the clear as far as reinfection goes,” Zatanna says. She gives Dick a stern look. “But contact me if anything, and I do mean anything seems off.”

“You got it, Zee,” Dick says with a grin and a thumbs up. Bruce foresees an uptick in dramatic gestures in the near future - Dick has always talked with his hands as much as his voice. Losing both at the same time would have hit him hard.

Zatanna smiles and exits the room.

The door closes behind her, and Bruce finally pulls Dick in for a hug. His son goes willingly, trilling contentment as Bruce cards his hand through hair and feathers. “I missed you,” Bruce says, too quiet for anyone but Dick to hear, even though there's no one else in the room. “You were right there, but you couldn’t- I couldn’t-”

“I know,” Dick says. He lays his head against Bruce’s shoulder, just like he did as a bird. “I know. Hey, I told you it would all be fine.”

Bruce huffs a quiet laugh. He tightens his arms around his son. Dick grips back in turn, warm and present and wonderfully human. “You sure did, chum.”

🪶

Two and a half weeks after Tim flies home, the news reports on the first confirmed case of a stage four patient turning back. The person in question is left with a variety of minor side effects, but Justice League Dark’s research team is hopeful that the handful of remaining feathers will eventually shed and not grow back.

As time progresses, more people start to recover, and an expected pattern is tentatively drawn. For those who never passed stage two, no lasting effects have been recorded. For stage three patients, minor behavioral changes and an increased propensity for music and heights have been observed. Those who reach stage four, once they return to human form, typically retain a number of feathers and the ability to produce birdsong. Some have also reported an increased desire for platonic contact.

(Hugs, B, Dick's voice chides gently in his head, echoes of an old conversation. Touch is a human need, even for grumpy Bats, and especially for us Birds.)

And then there is the last group - the small percentage of stage four patients who remain birds.

Tim is on the road to recovery, human-shaped and dropping feathers everywhere he goes. Damian is loudly bemoaning this turn of events, professing that Tim was ‘far more tolerable as a bird,’ but they can all see the relief in his eyes.

Dick has yet to show any sign of changing back.

Bruce is working ceaselessly to project optimism for his children, but inwardly he’s terrified that Dick is one of the unlucky 5%. The ones who, as far as they can tell, don’t and won’t turn back. The League is working to develop a counterspell, but they're delayed by the necessity of producing a vaccine first. The Titans’ magical shielding is effective, but infeasible to apply on a wide scale.

It's a waiting game on all fronts, and all he can do is watch as Dick grows a bit quieter, a little more resigned each day.

It's unbearable.

“Dick,” Bruce says quietly.

His son turns his head over his shoulder, but doesn’t move from the window. His tailfeathers brush the floor, the ends ragged and dull.

“They’re going to figure this out.” Bruce tries to put belief into his voice, tries to find that same hope that Dick held at the beginning of all this. He doesn’t like how their roles are now reversed. Dick has always been the light to his shadow, and Bruce makes a poor substitute. “The vaccine is almost finished - they’ll be focusing on the counterspell soon. I know your friends won’t rest until they have you back to yourself. Neither will I.”

Dick looks back at the sky for several long seconds before winging his way to Bruce’s offered wrist. Bruce pulls him in close. His son sings another quiet note as Bruce places his free hand gently over his back.

“It will be alright,” Bruce whispers.

Dick lays his head against Bruce’s shoulder and closes his eyes. A quiet trill breaks the silence - nearly inaudible at first, then slowly gaining strength. It’s not a happy sound, but it’s not sorrow, either.

Bruce closes his own eyes and breathes out relief. They’re not finished yet. He won’t let Dick give up, even if he has to carry his son’s hopes himself.

They’ll get through this, one way or another. It’s the only acceptable outcome.

🪶

For one of the first times in his life, Bruce doesn’t want to go out as Batman. However, with the vaccine finally making the rounds and Raven’s magic shielding, his obligation is clear. He follows his regular route without fanfare. He stops a mugging or two, but overall, the streets are quiet. Gotham folks are hardy, but this disease has unsettled even them.

Midway through his patrol, he interrupts a group of gang members posted up on a roof across from a rival’s hideout. It’s not a difficult fight, but it is tedious. It seems to go on forever, an endless supply of desperate men. Finally, there is only Batman and two others. He punches one in the face, takes the man’s feet from under him, and turns to the last-

-only for a streak of blue to come hurtling down from the sky, electricity screaming in its grasp.

Nightwing.

In the blink of an eye, the last man is down, blindsided by a bird carrying a still-sparking escrima stick. Bruce stares. What on god’s green earth is Dick doing?

“Nightwing,” he says, and stops. What can he even say? Surely his son knows what a terrible idea it is for him to be out? It’s bad enough that Robin was on the streets at age ten, but Dick is a bird! It would be the work of a moment to snap his wings!

A sharp whistle rings out; Nightwing glances towards the street. With a smug chirp, he dives over the side of the building. Bruce reaches the edge just in time to watch his eldest ride off on the back of the Red Hood’s motorcycle, wings spread wide.

🪶

Damian is there waiting when Bruce steps out of the Zeta tube. They’d had to reprogram it for Dick, the technology unable to recognize Nightwing in his current form. Damian’s eyes fixate immediately on his older brother. His expression spasms before settling into a fractured mask of calm.

“Richard?”

Dick coos a soft note and lifts his wings, preparing to take off. Damian holds out a stiff arm. Dick accepts the invitation, gliding in to curl his talons carefully around Damian’s wrist. He makes another soft sound and leans forward to preen Damian’s bangs.

Damian draws a shaky breath. “You will be alright, Richard,” he says. “I will ensure that you receive only the finest care in your transformed state. You may rest easy.”

Dick bobs his head, and Damian’s stoic expression crumples. He folds his arm in, drawing his brother close. Dick spreads his wings and drapes them over Damian’s shoulders in the closest thing to a hug a bird can manage.

Bruce looks on silently, and his heart aches for them both.

🪶

A week later, there’s a formal announcement: those who have reached stage four are confirmed to be non-contagious. Not even an hour after, there’s a bird at Bruce’s office window, its black feathers edged in yellow and flashing with red iridescence. Bruce lets him in with a sinking heart. He had wondered, when he lost contact, but Tim’s gone dark plenty of times without prior notice. Bruce had hoped he was wrong.

At least he knows Cass and Damian are safe with him. Stephanie was on a mission when the quarantine hit, but has managed to avoid infection thus far. Jason, as far as he knows, is still patrolling Crime Alley. Bruce suspects the lingering effects of his resurrection may be boosting his immunity.

“Tim?” Bruce asks, just to confirm.

The bird nods and hops onto Bruce’s shoulder. He’s not quite as large as Dick, but Bruce is still grateful for the leather guard he’s taken to wearing. Both his boys have an impressive set of talons.

Tim cocks his head at the shoulder guard and makes an inquiring noise.

Bruce sighs. “Dick,” he says. “He’s been stage four for eight days, now.” 

He’s had some practice in interpretation by this point, so when Tim sings a low note, Bruce is pretty sure it’s dismay he’s expressing. His son then taps his beak twice against the leather.

“Two days?”

Tim nods.

Bruce leans forward and drops his face into his hands. For two days, Tim was on his own, with no way to call for help. Even before that, while Dick had the Titans and Bruce calling him every day, Tim had been facing everything alone. 

His son makes a concerned noise, and Bruce takes a deep breath before smoothing his hand over Tim’s back. The gesture seems to soothe Dick, so he’s hopeful it will reassure Tim as well.

“I’m glad you made it here safely.”

The minute Dick catches sight of Tim, he abandons his perch in favor of swooping towards his younger brother with a loud call. Tim responds by launching himself from Bruce’s shoulder and attempting to flee. He doesn’t get far. Dick descends on him like a streak of blue lightning, talons safely curled in as he tackles Tim to the floor. From there, the smaller bird is pinned down so Dick can aggressively preen the feathers around his face.

Tim makes a series of grumbling squawks.

Dick chirps a cadence that somehow manages to convey ‘that’s that.’

The whole mess starts with a group of very amateur magic users trying to do a group spell. They mess it up royally. Aside from their general inexperience, none of them were focusing properly - someone was thinking about their pets back home, someone else was thinking about the museum their family dragged them to that morning.

One person was worrying about their upcoming pre-med exam. Specifically, the part about contagious diseases and how pathogens spread.

Regardless of whatever this group was trying to do, the result was a highly contagious magical plague.

Stage one is the carrier phase - no visible symptoms, but they can spread it.

Stage two is early onset - symptoms include compulsive whistling and/or singing, bird sounds, and scattered feathers. For about 60% of those infected, this is as far as it goes.

Stage three is where it gets serious. More feathers, more birdlike behavior. If you reach this stage, you have an 80% chance of hitting stage four - full transformation.

Stage four - full-on bird. Luckily, those affected don't look like normal birds, but rather something closer to prehistoric species. Colorful feathers are common. They also keep their human awareness, albeit filtered through a bird's instincts.

...good god, what am I even writing right now

Anyway, I assume anyone with a canonical weakness to magic goes down hard. Magic users may be immune. For anyone else, it's up in the air.

The Justice League and JL Dark are both working on it, but progress is slow, and no one's sure yet what the fallout will be.

The first thing Bruce does when the news breaks is call his eldest son. “Come home. Now.”

A rueful laugh sounds over the communicator. “I don't think you want me to do that, B,” Dick says.

Bruce closes his eyes. “You already have it.”

“Afraid so. There were Titans on scene for the initial outbreak; I took their reports when they got back.”

“What symptoms,” Bruce barks, because he can't afford to let go of his professionalism. He can't be a father right now, not without falling into a panic.

Dick is quiet for a few seconds. “My whistling turned into birdsong yesterday. I found the first feathers this morning.” Another pause. “I'm stage two, Bruce. Confirmed to be contagious. I can't risk coming home.”

“I'll take the risk,” Bruce says immediately.

“Oh? And what about Dami and Cass?” Dick says gently. “What about Alfred?”

Bruce says nothing. He knows Dick is right - quarantine is their only chance of containing the disease. But oh, how he hates the thought of Dick suffering through this alone, isolated and far from home as his body turns against him.

“I'll be alright, B. I trust the League to figure this out. It'll all be fine, you'll see.”

Bruce clenches his fist and, against his every instinct, makes the conscious decision to believe him. “Keep me informed,” he says. “I want daily check-ins.”

“Sure thing,” Dick agrees. 

He makes an effort to sign off with his usual cheer, but Bruce can still hear the strain in his voice. 

🪶

“Report,” Bruce says. It comes out more curt than he intended - despite their efforts, the disease has continued to spread, wreaking havoc wherever it goes. If they don’t get a handle on things soon, several communities could be facing long-term repercussions, up to and including total economic collapse. They’re already seeing adverse effects, not to mention the sheer panic it induces in civilian populations.

“I'm hanging in there,” Dick says cheerfully. There's a musical quality to his voice that wasn't there the last time Bruce called. “Got a lot of feathers in my hair, but honestly it's kind of a look.” 

Bruce grits his teeth; how can Dick be so flippant? “You should take this seriously, Nightwing - your life is at stake!”

Instantly, the mood plummets. Dick’s words, when they come, are quiet. “…The disease doesn’t kill.”

“Yet,” Bruce bites out. “We don’t know where it stops. It could very well kill, and besides, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah,” Dick says. There’s no cheer in his voice now. “I know.”

Remorse washes through Bruce. He didn’t mean to let his temper slip; it’s the situation he’s angry at, not Dick. It’s his own helplessness that’s pushing him over the edge. “Dick-” he begins, but his son speaks over him.

“I’ll talk to you later, Bruce. Nightwing out.”

Bruce slumps back in his seat and lets out a shaky breath. Tomorrow. The next check-in is tomorrow. He’ll apologize then.

“Batman-” a voice says, but Bruce overrides them.

“Nightwing missed check-in. What happened?”

A sharp breath and a long silence answers him. Then: “I'm sorry, Batman. Nightwing is stage four.”

Bruce clutches the nearest wall as the bottom drops out of his stomach. 

Stage four.

Fully transformed.

Dick can't answer the phone, can't speak to Bruce and tell him they'll get through this, because Dick is a bird. Bruce may never hear his son’s voice again.

He didn’t get the chance to apologize.

“I'm coming over,” he growls. He has to see Dick. Even if there's nothing he can do, even if he catches the damn disease himself, Bruce has to see him. He won't let Dick suffer alone.

The Titan on the other end of the line doesn't argue with him. “Raven will meet you at the transporter. We think we have a working magical shield - we're testing it now.”

“Understood,” Bruce says, and cuts the call.

🪶

Bruce strides through Titan’s Tower with single-minded determination. He’s here for one reason: his son. Everything else can wait. He only slows when he reaches the door to Dick’s room; he allows himself a single deep breath before he opens it.

He’s barely entered the room before a scuffle and the sound of wings alerts him to Dick’s presence. He raises his arm, and strong talons take hold. A weight, far too light to encompass all that Dick is, settles into place. 

Bruce clenches his jaw and examines his son. He has to admit Dick makes for a handsome bird. He’s about the size of a large hawk, with a sharply-curved beak to match; his plumage is a stunning mix of deep navy and bright blue banding. The long tailfeathers spilling over Bruce’s arm are a dark-to-light blue ombre.

“Hey there, chum,” he says quietly. A single, pure note of song is his only answer. Bruce lifts his other hand, and Dick runs the side of his beak along the fingers. His eyes are still recognizably his own - Bruce can’t decide if it’s comforting or painful.

“I was going to apologize today,” Bruce says. He smooths his hand gently over Dick’s wings. “I was afraid,” he admits, “and I took it out on you. I know you were just trying to keep my spirits up.”

Dick trills and shuffles up Bruce’s arm until he reaches the shoulder. He presses his head against Bruce’s cheek for a brief second before fluffing his feathers and settling in.

Bruce takes a second to breathe and center himself. Somehow, even in the midst of a magical plague - even as a bird - Dick manages to be a light in his life.

🪶

“You can take him home,” Raven tells Bruce when he leaves Dick’s room. “He’s not contagious anymore.”

Bruce nods. “Thank you for your efforts,” he says.

Raven nods back. “We’ll fix this,” she says, to him and to Dick.

Dick replies with a cheerful run of notes.

Bruce can’t bring himself to answer.

Unlike Earth, where sunsets are red and orange due to the scattering of shorter blue wavelengths by our atmosphere, Mars has an extremely fine dust that scatters blue light more efficiently near the Sun.

So during sunset on Mars, the sky turns reddish-brown while the area around the Sun glows a soft blue. It’s the opposite of what we experience on Earth.

NASA’s rovers have captured this eerie sight

Edited to add: Since a lot of people are reblogging this original post, I'm adding the updated version I did that incorporates the intersex circle...

You are loved.

it's like the three of them went from bright and cheerful to darker and grown up together