Chapter Text
If there was one thing that truly, completely, utterly pissed off Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s one and only Batman, it was magic. See, Bruce prided himself in his knowledge of almost everything accessible to mankind. Math, science, combat, you name it, and he would know something about it. However, on the other hand, magic was a total mystery to him.
It was illogical, defied the laws of, well, everything, and oftentimes just made him frustrated. Understanding it was complicated, and as much as he hated admitting it, it was outside his ability range.
So, as he finds himself now involved in a fight with what appears to be a witch , he honestly doesn’t really know what to do. Sure, he knows how to restrain her, counter any physical attacks, and he knows how to tell her to stand down. But the apparent spells she’s casting at him? Yeah, he’s got nothing.
And it's not the matter of avoiding the spells- he’s got the whole dodging thing in the bag- but rather the fact that he doesn’t know what the spells actually do .
The brawl continues, batarangs flying, mixed in with the crackle of dark blue bursts of power, and it eventually comes to an end with both a bone-crunching kick to her skull and a final spell making contact with his armored chest.
For a mere second, Bruce finds himself hoping that his armor deflects the magic. But that wishful thinking is smothered quickly, as the blue sparks fizzle out on his form, a split moment of uncomfortable coldness running from the tips of his ears to the ends of his boot-clad toes.
He shakes the nasty feeling off, shuddering slightly, and quickly restrains the witch. Nodding to himself, he pauses, considering what he should do next. Obviously, he reports the arrest to the Commissioner. But the whole now-probably-cursed-or-something-situation? Yeah…Bruce is…somewhat embarrassed. He’s Batman- getting hit by magic was not supposed to happen, at all. So, instead of doing the logical thing and calling in to a Justice League magic specialist to have it looked at, he heads home.
At the time, Bruce was positive he had made the right decision. His reputation was on the line, after all.
But now, as he wakes up from one of the most sleep-fulfilling nights ever, not a single nightmare or having to be medicated, he finds himself slightly regretting his previous choice.
His mouth, to summarize, hurts like a bitch. Like, as if he had gargled rusty nails and then washed it down with a glass of acid as well, type of hurting like a bitch level pain.
He groans, wincing as his throat throbs with the mere effort of exhaling air, and he pulls himself from his bed. Wobbly footsteps lead him to his closet, a robe quickly donned on his sweaty form, and he finds himself wandering down to the main floor kitchen.
The smell of eggs and other sizzling breakfast items hit his senses, and he bites back a wince of pain as he nods to his kids strewn about the room. “Good morning Master Bruce. What would you like for breakfast this morning?” Alfred murmurs from his position at the oven, and the moment Bruce opens his mouth to respond, an action of pure habit, he knows he’s in trouble.
What barely resembled a few syllables escaped his mouth, much more so a pathetic croaking noise, and he snaps his jaw shut as heat blooms on his cheeks in embarrassment. The room suddenly dissolves into silence, and any hope of his condition remaining undiscovered is flushed down the drain. Tim, who is sitting closest to him on a bar stool, turns and raises an eyebrow.
“The hell was that?” Jason asks, twirling a fork in his hand from his spot across the counter.
Bruce pauses for a moment, trying to collect himself, and he quickly signs with his hands, “I think I’m getting a cold, my throat hurts bad.” Alfred frowns, brushing his hands off on his pink frilly apron he had got as a gag Christmas present.
“Oh. Yikes. Sorry ‘bout that, B.” Dick winces, patting Bruce on the back as he snags a stray blueberry muffin on his way out of the kitchen. Tim seems to glance Bruce over, eyes heavy with dark circles, trying to take in any evident thing that could be out of place. Jason continues to munch on his breakfast, simply shrugging.
Damian, on the other hand, takes the initiative to try and pry more information out of Bruce’s miserable form, instead of simply understanding that it was probably ‘just one of those days’. The boy pulls up a spare chair which Bruce promptly plops himself in, and he puts his small hands on his hips as he glares. “Father. You’re saying that you are…ill?” Bruce nodded, grimacing as Alfred placed a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of him.
To be honest, even just the mere concept of eating seems like a nightmare to Bruce right now. Yeah, the oatmeal was definitely going to stay in the bowl, thank you very much.
Still, if he didn’t at least try to nibble on the food, the worry focused on him would probably double in strength. A shaking hand grips the spoon, and with a quick motion, he forces the paste into his mouth.
Agony .
That’s all he feels. Just a burning, nerve-wracking burst of pain that seeps from the edges of his teeth to the back of his throat. He must have physically jolted back in surprise, the sound of his bowl clattering onto the floor forcing his brain to snap back to attention.
He coughs, the heaving breaths of air just making it worse, as his watering eyes squeeze shut. Faintly in the background his ears pick up the sound of concerned shouting, a hand resting on a quivering shoulder, but he pays it no mind. Instead, his brain is focusing on the feeling of something popping loose in his mouth.
Another cough leaves his lips, oatmeal-heavy spittle splattering onto the counter, the sudden taste of iron flooding his mouth.
He forced his eyes back open, body trembling from the pain and effort to simply breathe , but he freezes at the sight in front of him.
The counter was a sticky, disgusting mess. Spilt oatmeal, bloody spittle, and laying in the middle of the waste?
A single tooth, and what appeared to be a chunk of his tongue .
“Oh. That’s not good.” He muttered, words slurring together as unconsciousness took a hold of him.