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Magic, why does it have to be magic?
“Damian, watch out!” Dick yelled as he ducked out of the way of a bolt of purple magic barrelled past him.
Unfortunately, Damian had been preoccupied with one of the magic user’s weird glass goons and had not ducked in time. The bolt of magic hit him square in the back. The fourth Robin crumpled to the roof covered in a purple aura-like haze. In their place was a teenage iguana.
“Nightwing to Batman,” Dick said as soon as the comm. line connected. “We have a BunnyWing situation here,” Dick told him.
“Acknowledged.” Bruce responded crisply. Everyone connected to the line could hear the tired sigh in his voice.
One of the children turned into an animal by a magic user could only go one way when it came to this family and it started with an ‘n’ (don’t be a nincompoop, it wasn’t nice).
That had happened last night. It had been twelve hours since Damian had been turned into an iguana by a magic user while out on patrol.
When Bruce left his room that morning he had found it to be suspiciously quiet. That was never a good omen in this household. Ever. He needed to find his phone to call Zatanna. When he walked into the living room not even an hour later still in search of his phone, he found his children (well, most of them) standing in the centre of the room in a loose circle. Most interestingly, there is a baby iguana flying through the air between them.
“What is going on here?” he asked. All of his children turned to face him with matching guilty expressions. Iguana!Damian lands on Jason’s head with a hiss, he had come close to almost sliding right off.
“Reaction practice?” Tim tried. Bruce levelled them all with another one of his Tired Dad Looks™.
“It is eight in the morning, on a Sunday, and you lot are playing hot potato with your youngest brother who is currently an iguana?” It wasn’t a question but it could have been.
“Yep,” Jason answered. It’s echoed by a choir of more yeps, yes's, and a yeah.
It was at that moment that Bruce decided that it was too early in the morning and that he didn’t have enough coffee to be dealing with this.
“I don’t have enough coffee to evaluate this situation right now nor stop it; Just please make sure that Damian — or anyone else for that matter — isn’t hurt,” he announced before turning, grabbing his phone from the side table, and heading to the door. “And make sure that Alfred doesn’t find out; I’m not protecting anyone from his wrath,” Bruce added before he left the room.
Behind him, he could hear the shouts and hissing start up again. They had resumed their game.
The heavenly scent of freshly brewed coffee drew him in the direction of the kitchen. Coffee first then he would call Zatanna to see if she was free to come over to sort out their lizard problem.
Damian had been asleep in his bed when his brothers broke into his room and snatched him from the heavenly confides of the blanket.
In their present state, they weighed less than an average table lamp, so there was little that they could do to stop the thievery.
Damian felt his brothers carry him down the hallway, downstairs and saw the couches and extra large-sized television that told him that they were now in the living room.
Suddenly he was flying through the air. For a brief moment, they were worried that they were not going to be caught and would land painfully. But then he landed in someone’s — Timothy’s, based on how pale the skin was — hands.
Before he could even get his bearings, Timothy (the traitor) had launched him up in the air again. Once more they were caught and again chucked into the air.
The next time he is flying through the air, Damian voices his annoyance in the only way he can do so in this form: hissing. Their brothers ignore their protests in favour of treating them like some kind of plaything. Tossing him around as someone would do with a ball.
No, not a ball; worse than that: a hot potato.