Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Watchtower felt heavy with tension. Its sterile halls, normally bustling with quiet purpose, now seemed muted, dulled by aches, the hum of the teleportation pads louder than usual in the unusual oppressive silence. Bruce stood near the transport bay, his arms crossed, watching intently as the League worked in smooth coordinated efficiency to prepare the sedated fledglings for the move.

He hated this. Well dreaded the aftermath of grumpy baby vampire's when they awake.

Jason lay on one of the overly soft and padded stretchers, his expression slack and soft, his face unusually peaceful in sleep. Bruce’s hand twitched, wanting to smooth the hair back away from Jason’s forehead, but he didn’t. He glanced down the row of stretchers, taking in the still forms of his other children, his kids. Dick, Tim, Damian, Barbara, Stephanie, Cass, Duke, Jon, and Kon. They looked oh so small like this, vulnerable in a way they never allowed themselves to be when awake and aware.

Clark moved to stand beside him, his cape hanging loose over his shoulders. “You know this is the right call,” he said softly, his voice tinged with reassurance as he turned his head to look at bruce. “They’ll be safer on Earth, In Smallville.”

Bruce nodded once, though his jaw remained tight and a sigh escaped him. “I know.” He let out another low breath, his gaze fixed on Jason and flickering back and forth to all the kids. “That doesn’t make it easier.”

Alfred, standing on the other side of the room near the end of cots, he adjusted the cuffs of his jacket with practiced precision. “I dare say, Master Bruce, that they’ll forgive you eventually. Though I imagine Master Jason and Master Damian will be particularly vocal about their displeasure.”

Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line. He glanced toward Alfred, who stood near the transport controls and fledglings, his hands folding neatly behind his back. Even now as always, Alfred exuded calm and control, though his eyes softened as they met Bruce’s.

“Maste Bruce,” Alfred said, his voice softer but firm, “the children are resilient And they have you.” He paused, his tone gentling. “They will forgive you, even if it takes time.”

Bruce didn’t reply. He simply turned and began lifting Jason from the stretcher, cradling him as if he weighed nothing. “Let’s go, Sweetheart ” he said, his voice clipped but still filled with warmth.   

---------------------‐-----------------------

The farmhouse stood tall in the distance as the jet touched down. It was a big, two-story structure surrounded by rolling fields of green and dense woods that framed the edges of the horizon. The warm golden light of the setting sun bathed the land in warmth, casting long shadows across the driveway.

Clark stepped off the ship first, taking in the familiar sights and smells of home. The quiet chirp of crickets greeted him, a gentle reminder of the peace Smallville always offered.

“It hasn’t changed much,” he murmured, his voice carrying a tone of nostalgia.

Bruce followed after clark, Jason’s unconscious form cradled in his arms. “It’s quiet,” he said simply, his tone flat and neutral but even as he said it, he felt the tension in his shoulders start to ease ever so slightly.

The League worked quickly, carrying the sedated fledglings into the farmhouse. Diana cradled dDamianin her arms as with the same care she would a fragile vase, her lips pressing into a small smile as he shifted slightly in her arms. “He looks so much younger like this,” she said so quietly.

“He is young,” Bruce muttered, his gaze flicking toward his youngest son. “They all are.”

The interior of the farmhouse was carefully prepared. Reinforced windows, thick curtains, and dim lighting ensured the fledglings would remain safe and comfortable. The basement had been converted into a sprawling haven, with plush bedding, soundproofed walls, and enough space for each of them to have the semblance of privacy.

Alfred moved through the house like a man on a mission, checking every corner, adjusting curtains, and ensuring everything was neatly in the proper place it should be. “This will do nicely,” he said with a satisfied nod to himself. “Though I imagine Master Jason will have quite a bit to say about the decor.”

The first signs of stirring came hours later, just as the moon started to rise high in the sky. Jason was the first to wake, his groggy groan cutting through the silence of the basement. He shifted, his hands moving to slowly drag over his face as he tried to sit up.

“What the…?” His voice was rough, his words slurred. His eyes fluttered open, darting around the unfamiliar room. “Where the hell am I?”

Bruce stepped into the room, his movements careful but deliberate. “Jason, It’s okay.”

Jason’s gaze snapped to him, his eyes narrowing. “You knocked me out again, didn’t you?” His voice sharpened, the grogginess trying to give way to irritation. “Seriously, Bruce? What am I, five?”

Bruce crouched beside the bed, his voice calm. “You needed to rest. We couldn’t risk you fighting the move.”

Jason scoffed, sluggishly swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Oh, great. So now I’m just cargo to be hauled around? Real nice.”

“Jaybird,” Bruce said softly, the nickname slipping out before he could stop it. His hand rested lightly on Jason’s cheek, grounding him. “You’re not cargo. You’re my son and I needed to make sure you were safe.”

Jason froze at the nickname jaybird. It had been years since Bruce had called him that, and the familiarity of it, so unexpected, shook the edge off his anger. He shook his head, muttering, “You’re lucky I’m too tired to argue.”

The commotion woke the others though. Tim was the next to sit up, blinking blearily. “What’s going on?”

Barbara groaned, rubbing at her temples. “Why do I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck?”

Stephanie flopped back onto her new bed, her voice muffled by the pillow. “Because Bruce is Bruce,  and he can’t just ask us to do things like normal people.”

Damian stirred, his hand immediately reaching for Alfred the cat, who had curled up beside him. He scowled as he took in his surroundings. “This is unacceptable.”

Despite their initial complaints, the kids couldn’t help but be curious about their new environment. As they started to explore the farmhouse and its surroundings, the bond’s influence began to take hold, nudging them toward calm and comfort.

The air outside was cool and fresh, carrying the faint scent of grass, pine, and earth. It was a stark contrast to the sterile, filtered air of the Watchtower. The fledglings filed out of the farmhouse one by one, their expressions ranging from guarded curiosity to reluctant annoyance. The sprawling fields and meadows stretched out before them, dotted with patches of wildflowers and bordered by dense woods. The sky was a deep, endless black, glittering with stars.

Jason shoved his hands into his hoodie's pockets, kicking at a stray rock as he surveyed the open expanse. “It’s… quiet,” he muttered, the admission sounding almost reluctant.

Tim glanced up from his "phone", which was utterly useless this far from civilization and tweaked childproof. “Too quiet,” he agreed, though there was no real bite to any of his words. His gaze lingered on the stars, his expression softening. “I forgot how many stars you can see from here out here.”

Stephanie flopped dramatically onto the soft grass, her arms stretched out besides her as she stared at the sky. “Well, if we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere, we might as well enjoy the view.”

“You sound like a tourist,” Jason said, though there little humor in his tone.

Duke wandered a little farther ahead, his eyes scanning the treeline. “It’s not bad,” he said quietly after a moment “I mean, if you ignore the fact that we’re basically prisoners.”

Barbara moved up beside him, crossing her arms. “Prisoners with an amazing backyard,” she sarked dryly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much open space in my life.”

Cass, silent as ever, crouched near the edge of the field, her fingers brushing the wildflowers that grew in clusters. She tilted her head, watching as a firefly flitted past, its soft glow catching in the dark. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Farther back, Damian clutched Alfred the cat tightly to his chest, his expression just about as sour as ever. “This is a waste of time,” he muttered, though he made no move to turn to go back inside.

“Come on, Damian,” Jon said, nudging his companion lightly. “It’s not that bad. You could probably use the space to practice… whatever it is you practice.”

“Training,” Damian corrected sharply. “And I don’t need a field to train.”

Kon, leaning against a nearby fence post, gave a half hearted smirked. “Lighten up, kid. You might actually enjoy yourself if you stop pouting for five seconds.”

Damian shot him a glare but said nothing, his grip on Alfred the cat tightening as he turned his attention back to the woods.

From the porch, Bruce and Clark watched their kids intently. Bruce’s arms were crossed, his eyes tracking each of his children as they moved through the fields in front of the house. Clark stood beside him, his expression softer, almost wistful.

“They’re already relaxing,” Clark said quietly. “It’s subtle, but you can see it.”

Bruce hummed in response, though his gaze lingered on Jason, who was kicking at another rock with far less force than usual.

Clark smiled softly. “They’ll come around.”

--

As the days passed, the fledglings began to settle into the rhythms of their new environment. It wasn’t immediate, jason still grumbled about the lack of “real” entertainment, and Damian’s scowl seemed to be permanently etched on his face but the tension that had hung over them since their arrival began to dissappear.

The change was gradual, almost imperceptible at first. The bond between the kids and their parents, amplified by the fresh air and natural surroundings, worked its way into their subconscious. It wasn’t control at least, not exactly. But it was there, a soft, insistent presence that pushed them toward calm, toward trust, towards home.

Jason was the first to notice the change, though he didn’t recognize it for what it was. He found himself lingering in the kitchen more often, drawn by the steady and calm presence of Alfred. The older man moved with quiet efficiency, preparing meals and organizing supplies as if they were still in Wayne Manor.

One evening, Jason leaned against the counter, watching as Alfred set out a tray of "drinks". “You’re really going all out with this place, huh, Alfie?”

“Simply doing what is necessary, Master Jason,” Alfred replied, handing him a glass of warmed blood. “One must adapt to one’s circumstances.” Jason snorted, taking a small sip. “Yeah, well, it’s better than the Watchtower.”

Alfred arched an eyebrow at him from his post. “High praise indeed.”

Jason didn’t reply, but his smirk softened into something quieter, almost contemplative. He stayed in the kitchen long after Alfred left, staring out the window at the darkened fields.

Barbara and Stephanie quickly claimed the 'sunroom' as their sanctuary. The space was cozy, filled with overstuffed chairs and lined with bookshelves that Alfred had stocked with care and precision. The large windows overlooked the fields, though the heavy curtains remained drawn closed during the day.

“This is kind of nice,” Stephanie admitted one afternoon, curling up in one of the armchairs with a book. “I mean, for a glorified bunker.” Barbara smirked from her spot on the couch. “Don’t let Bruce hear you say that. He’ll think he’s winning you over.”

“Pfft, as if,” Stephanie said, though her tone was lighter then she liked.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the soft rustle of pages the only sound in the room. For the first time in weeks, neither of them felt the weight of their situation pressing down on them.

Damian spent most of his time near the woods, Alfred the cat his constant companion. The youngest fledgling had always been fiercely independent, but the bond had softened his sharp edges in ways he didn’t fully understand or realize.

One afternoon, Bruce found him sitting at the edge of the treeline, sketching quietly as Alfred the cat dozed in his lap. Damian glanced up as Bruce approached, his expression guarded.

“You don’t have to check on me every five minutes,” Damian muttered, though there was no real heat in his words. Bruce crouched beside him, his voice soft. “I just wanted to see how you were doing, chum.”

Damian’s pencil stilled momentererly at the nickname. He glanced down at his sketchpad, his voice quieter. “I’m fine.”

Bruce rested a hand on his cheek, the gesture brief but grounding. “I know.”

Cass also spent most of her time outside, drawn to the quiet beauty of the fields and woods. She moved like a shadow, her presence subtle but constant. One evening, she stood at the edge of the field.

Diana found her there, blending seamlessly into the back. “It’s peaceful, isn’t it?” she said, her voice soft.

Cass nodded, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

“You’re doing well,” Diana said gently. “Better than you think.” Cass turned to her, her expression unreadable but her eyes filled with quiet gratitude. She didn’t say anything, but the faint smile that tugged at her lips was answer enough.

By the end of the first week, the fledglings had settled into a tentative routine. They still grumbled, still pushed back in their own ways, but the bond had taken root. They found themselves leaning into the comfort their parents offered, even if they didn’t fully understand why.

For Bruce, the change was bittersweet in the best way. He found himself using nicknames more often, "Jaybird, Timmy, Sweetheart, Sunshine", as if trying to rebuild the bridges that had once been almost completely burned. And the kids, despite their protests, leaned into the affection without realizing it.

One night, Jason sprawled on the couch Bruce passed by, ruffling his hair as he went. “You’re staying up too late, Jaybird.”

Jason rolled his eyes but didn’t move away. “and you’re hovering again.”

“I’m just here,” Bruce replied, his voice soft. “Get used to it.”

And slowly, they did.

--

As the days continued to pass, the kids began to settle in, though none of them realized just how much the bond and their new instincts were influencing them. They became quieter, more docile, their sharp edges softening in ways that felt natural but unexplainable.

For the first time in a long time, Bruce felt like they were Home.

Chapter Text

Jason was the first to notice the discomfort. It started as a dull subtle ache between his shoulder blades and back, something he wrote off as bad posture or one of Bruce’s many “family-building exercises.” He didn’t think much of it at first, until it didn’t go away. By the second day, the ache had deepened into something sharper, more insistent, unable to ignore. Jason shifted restlessly on the couch, trying to find a position that didn’t make his back feel like it was being stretched too tight, It didn’t work.

“Are you okay?” Tim asked from his spot at the dining table, where he was halfheartedly tinkering with a "child safe" dismantled gadget. Jason grunted in response, leaning sideways to rub at a shoulder. “Yeah, fine. Just… sore or something.”

Tim frowned. “Sore? how?” Jason rolled his eyes and waved him off. “It’s nothing. Probably slept weird.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

By the third day, Jason couldn’t sit still. The pressure in his back had intensified, shifting and rolling under his skin like something alive. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, but every time he tried to put it into words, he came up short. “You’re fidgeting,” Damian said bluntly one evening, his sharp eyes narrowing as he watched Jason pace the living room. Alfred the cat sat perched on his lap, his tail flicking lazily. Jason shot him a halfhearted glare. “Yeah, thanks for the observation, brat.”

“You’ve been pacing for twenty minutes,” Damian continued, unfazed. “You’re going to wear a groove into the floor.” Jason rolled his shoulders, wincing as the movement sent a fresh spike of discomfort and movement through his back. “Something’s just… off, okay? I don’t know how to explain it.” “Perhaps you should inform Master Bruce,” Alfred said suddenly from the kitchen, his tone calm but pointed.

Jason snorted. “Yeah, because that’s exactly what I need. More hovering.” But deep down, he knew Alfred was right. The discomfort was getting worse, and ignoring it definitely wasn’t working.

It happened in the middle of the night.

Jason had been tossing and turning for hours, unable to find a position that didn’t make his back feel like it was about to split open. He finally gave up, dragging himself downstairs to the living room. The house was quiet, the soft creak of the floorboards as he moved was the only sound as he collapsed onto the couch.The pressure had become unbearable. His muscles felt like they were pulling taut, straining against his skin. He pressed the heels of his hands into his back, trying to ease the tension, but it didn’t help.

And then the pain hit.

It was sudden and overwhelming, like a hot burning knife being driven between his shoulder blades. Jason doubled over, his breath hitching high as the sharp, burning sensation ripped across his back. “Shit,” he gasped, clutching at the couch cushions. “What the hell—” His voice broke off as the pain intensified, his body jerking involuntarily. It felt like something was moving under his skin, pushing and tearing and— God it hurt.

The sound of his choked-off cry echoed through the house, waking the others.

Bruce was the first to reach the living room. He froze momentererly in the doorway, his heart clenching at the sight of Jason curled up on the floor, his body trembling with the effort to hold back another cry of pain. “Jason!” Bruce was at his side in an instant, his hands hovering over him, unsure of where to touch without making things worse. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

Jason couldn’t answer. His jaw was clenched so tightly that his teeth ached, his hands fisted in the fabric of the couch as another wave of pain tore through him. The others began to filter in, their sleepy confusion quickly replaced by alarm as they took in the scene.

“What’s going on?” Tim asked, his voice sharp with worry.

“Oh,” Bruce mummed, his usual calm finally to be found again quickly. “Everyone back up. Give him space.” Jason let out a strangled wheezy groan, his back arching as something shifted beneath his skin. Bruce’s breath caught as he saw it, two faint outlines pressing against Jason’s shirt, the fabric stretching unnaturally.

“Oh,” Bruce whispered again, his eyes widening. “It’s starting.”

“What’s starting?” Barbara demanded, her voice cutting through the tension. Bruce didn’t answer her. He was too focused on Jason, his mind racing as he tried to figure out what to do. Clark appeared in the doorway, his face grim and stern as he took in the scene. “Bruce—”

“I know,” Bruce interrupted, his voice tight. “It’s the wings.”

Clark stepped forward, his hand resting lightly on Bruce’s shoulder. “We need to move him, Somewhere more comfortable.”

Bruce nodded tightly, his movements smooth as he helped Jason to his feet. Jason let out a hiss of pain, his weight sagging heavily against Bruce as they made their way to the larger room Bruce had prepared for emergencies. Jason barely registered the move. The pain had become all-consuming, his world narrowing to the searing, tearing, ripping sensation in his back. He gasped for breath, his vision swimming as Bruce lowered him onto a padded surface. “It’s okay, Jaybird,” Bruce murmured, his voice low and soothing. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” Jason’s head lolled to the side, his eyes glassy as he met Bruce’s gaze. “It hurts,” he choked out. “I know,” Bruce said, his voice holding firm and steady. He pressed a cool cloth that was handed to him to Jason’s forehead, his hands steady despite the panic swirling in his chest. “You’re going to be okay, Sweetheart.”

The room was tense, the other fledglings hovering just outside the doorway. Clark stood at Bruce’s side, his presence a steadying force as Jason let out another pained cry.

And then it happened.

The skin on Jason’s back split open with a sickening sound, dark, leathery shapes unfurling from the wounds, pushing against his ripping flesh to get out. Blood slicked the surface, pooling beneath and around him as the wings stretched and flexed for the first time after fully ripping out of his back. Jason’s screams faded into gasping sobs, his body trembling as the worst of the pain began to subside. Bruce knelt beside him, his hands gentle as he carefully cleaned the wounds.

“It’s over,” Bruce said softly, his voice filled with relief. “You did it, Jaybird.”

Jason didn’t respond, his eyes fluttering closed as exhaustion quickly overtook him. Bruce stayed by his side, his hand resting lightly on Jason’s nape.

The house was quiet again, though the tension lingered in the air. Bruce hadn’t left Jason’s side, his sharp eyes scanning his son’s face for any sign of discomfort. The other fledglings watched from a distance, their expressions a mix of fear and unease. “Is that going to happen to us?” Damian asked, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. Clark nodded, his expression gentle. “It’s part of the transformation but it’s different for everyone.”

Barbara crossed her arms, her jaw tight. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“You can,” Diana said firmly, stepping forward. “You’re stronger than you believe.”

---

Jason lay motionless on the padded surface, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the pain finally began to subside. His back was a mess of blood and torn skin, the dark, leathery shapes of his newly emerged wings twitching weakly in the faint light of the room. They were large and raw, their edges ragged, as though they’d been scraped against stone. Bruce knelt beside him, his gloves slick with blood as he carefully cleaned the wounds and new limbs. His movements were methodical, almost clinical, but his eyes betrayed the turmoil simmering beneath the surface. He hadn’t stopped murmuring reassurances, his voice low and steady.

“You’re okay, Jaybird,” he said softly, dabbing at the blood with a damp cloth. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

Jason let out a low groan, his head lolling to the side. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Safe? Yeah, sure. Feels real safe, B.” Bruce’s hand froze for a fraction of a second before he resumed his work. “You’re safe with me,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. He reached for a fresh clean cloth, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Jason didn’t respond. His eyes fluttered closed, his body going limp as exhaustion overtook him.

Clark stepped forward, his voice soft. “Bruce, let me—”

“I’ve got it,” Bruce snapped, his tone sharper than he intended. He didn’t look up, his focus entirely on Jason. “Just… keep the others back.”

Clark hesitated but eventually nodded, stepping back to the doorway where the other fledglings were clustered. They watched in uneasy silence, their faces pale as they took in the sight of Jason’s bloodied form and the dark wings that now stretched from his back. Once the wounds were cleaned, Bruce lifted Jason into his arms, cradling him as though he were a child again. The new wings hung awkwardly at his sides, their weight unfamiliar. Bruce moved carefully, as though any sudden movement might hurt him further.

He carried Jason to a clean bed that Alfred had prepared in the adjacent room. The sheets were crisp and cool, a stark contrast to the blood soaked ones they’d just ruined. Bruce laid him down gently, adjusting the wings so they wouldn’t be crushed beneath him.

“There,” Bruce murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from Jason’s forehead. “Rest, Jaybird. I’m right here.”

Jason stirred slightly, his lips parting as though he wanted to say something. But no words came, and he drifted back into unconsciousness. Bruce didn’t move. He moved a chair close to the bed and sat down, his eyes never leaving Jason. The others might have thought the crisis was over, but Bruce knew better. The transformation wasn’t just physical, it was emotional, mental, and it would take time for Jason to adjust. If he adjusted at all. Back in the main room, the fledglings were huddled together, their earlier bravado replaced by a palpable sense of growing unease. Tim sat on a recliner with his arms wrapped around his knees, his gaze fixed on the floor. Damian was unusually quiet, his grip on Alfred the cat tightening slightly. Even Stephanie, who usually masked her fear with humor, looked shaken.

Barbara was the first to speak. “Is that… going to happen to all of us?”

Clark nodded again, his expression gentle but firm. “It’s part of the transformation. Your bodies are still changing, adapting. The wings are a natural progression.” “Natural,” Damian muttered, his voice low. “There’s nothing natural about this.” “Damian,” Diana said softly, kneeling beside him. “I know this is difficult, but you’re not alone. We’re here to help you through it.”

“Help us through what?” Tim asked sharply, his voice tinged with frustration. “You can’t make that normal  You can’t—”

He broke off, his hands clenching into fists. The others glanced at him, their unease deepening.

“Tim,” Clark began, but he stopped when Bruce appeared in the doorway, his presence casting a long shadow over the room. “That’s enough,” Bruce said, his voice cold. His gaze swept over the group, his expression unreadable. “You’re all fine. Go to bed.”

There was a flicker of resistance in their eyes, but the bond pushed them toward compliance. Slowly, reluctantly, they began to disperse, each retreating to their rooms. Jason stirred sometime in the early hours of the morning. His body ached, and his back throbbed with a dull, persistent pain. He blinked blearily, his gaze landing on Bruce, who was still sitting beside the bed, his hand resting lightly on Jason’s arm.

“Still here?” Jason muttered, his voice hoarse.

Bruce’s lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile. “Of course.” Jason let out a soft huff, his head falling back into the pillow. For a moment, the room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of Jason’s wings as they shifted awkwardly.

Then Jason spoke again, his voice hesitant. “B… this whole thing. Us being here, being… this.” He trailed off, his brow furrowing as though he were trying to piece something together through the haze. “It doesn’t… feel right.”

Bruce’s hand tightened slightly on Jason’s arm. “What do you mean?”

Jason’s eyes fluttered closed, his expression troubled. “It’s just… something about it. Like we shouldn’t be—” The bond flared, warm and insistent, wrapping around Jason’s thoughts like a protective blanket. His words faltered, his frown smoothing as the discomfort in his mind was replaced by a wave of calm. Bruce’s jaw tightened as he felt the bond take hold, pushing Jason’s doubts aside before they could take root. He leaned forward, his voice low and soothing. “You’re just tired, Jaybird. It’s been a long night.”

Jason let out a soft hum, his body relaxing against the mattress. “Yeah jus'Tired.”

Bruce stayed by his side long after he drifted back to sleep, his hand never leaving Jason’s arm.

The bond wasn’t just affecting Jason. Over the next few days, the fledglings found themselves growing more docile, more compliant, though they couldn’t quite explain why.

Barbara caught herself lingering in the sunroom, her usual sharp focus dulled by a strange sense of contentment. Stephanie noticed she laughed more easily, her snarky edge softening without her realizing it. Damian found himself seeking out Bruce’s company, though he refused to admit it, and Cass spent more time watching the others with quiet curiosity.

None of them realized what was happening, not fully. The bond was subtle, its influence weaving through their thoughts and instincts until resistance felt like an afterthought.

Bruce knew what they were doing wasn’t fair, not entirely. But fairness didn’t matter. What mattered was keeping his kids safe, no matter the cost. If that meant leaning into the bond to ease their fears, to push away the memories of what had been taken from them, then so be it. They didn’t need to remember the details. They didn’t need to dwell on the past. All they needed was to trust him, to let him take care of them. And Bruce would make sure they did. He stood in the doorway of Jason’s room, watching as his son slept. The wings were still tucked awkwardly against his back, their edges still raw and unformed. It would take time for them to fully develop, to become part of him. Just like everything else.

Bruce’s gaze softened as he stepped into the room, brushing a hand through Jason’s hair. “You’re safe,” he murmured, more to himself than to Jason. “I’ll make sure of it.”

What Jason looks like: (ps if there's a way to put pics in the notes instead, pls lemme know!)

Chapter Text

The smell of drying blood still hadn’t left the room.

It clung heavy to the air, thick and metallic, crawling down the walls and soaking into the soft blankets beneath Jason. His wings, wet, dark, and still slightly trembling, were folded tightly against his back, twitching occasionally like a half-wounded animal. His breath came in shallow, semi-uneven drags, and the floor beneath the medical bed was streaked with red. He hadn’t said a word since he passed out and or the few moments he was awake.

Bruce hadn’t left his side, not for a moment.

The others had long since been ushered away, Clark and Diana gently but firmly guiding the fledglings from the room. They hadn’t resisted much. Watching Jason’s back split open had stolen the breath from their lungs and rooted something icy in their bellies. They needed air, They needed time. But Bruce had stayed, hunched over Jason like a statue made of grief and guilt. One hand rested lightly on Jason’s hair, carding through the matted strands again and again. The other cradled Jason’s wrist, his thumb brushing over the inside of it in a repetitive motion, counting each faint, barely there pulse, over and over and over.

“Jaybird…” Bruce’s voice was low, rough, and gravely. “You did so well, baby.” Jason didn’t stir. “You were so brave, sweetheart,” Bruce continued, quieter now. He bent lower, brushing his lips against Jason’s temple. “Daddy’s got you. You’re safe. I’m here.”

The words came out like a chant. A reassurance meant as much for himself as for the boy in his arms.

Elsewhere in the House

The other fledglings had been herded into the basement common area, wrapped in blankets, sipping warmed blood from insulated mugs. It had a routine feel to it, like an after-school nap time. Alfred, despite his own faint exhaustion, moved among them with precision and care. “Master Tim, sit up properly. Yes, that’s better. Master Damian, the mug is not a toy. Drink or I will spoon-feed you.”

Tim winced. “Don’t give Bruce ideas. He’d do it.”

“He absolutely would,” Stephanie murmured from where she lay curled under a weighted blanket, only her eyes visible. “Honestly, he might like it.”

“You jest,” Barbara muttered, her arms crossed tightly around herself, “but you saw how he looked. The way he scooped Jason up like a baby?”

“He bled through the mattress,” Duke added softly. “I’d carry him too.”

“Still,” Tim said, his voice tight with a creeping edge of fear. “Still. That’s going to be us. Isn’t it?” it stayed quite, no one wanted to answer that. But they didn’t have to. Cass, quiet and curled up in her corner, watched them with eyes too wide and too dark. Her fingers traced the line of her spine, feeling the faint heat blooming beneath the skin They were all starting to feel it. The ache. The pressure.

And worse... worse than the pain, was the change in how they were being treated.

By morning, Bruce had moved Jason from the recovery bed to a large, cushion-lined recliner that had been designed to accommodate fledglings. It sat in the center of the main living room, surrounded by pillows, a too-large knit blanket wrapped snugly around Jason’s shoulders. His wings had stopped twitching, but the tremors in his fingers remained.

He didn’t speak, not really. He whimpered occasionally. Made soft, helpless squiky animal like noises when someone adjusted his blanket wrong or when the light shifted and caught his eyes. Bruce was on him for every sound, every flicker of discomfort.

“Shh, I know, sweetheart. I know. It’s too bright, isn’t it? Daddy will fix it. I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

Curtains were closed. Lights were dimmed. No one was allowed near unless Bruce explicitly permitted it. Clark had approached once, cautiously, only to be met with a low, guttural growl from Bruce’s throat and a dark look that told him: Not yet.

Alfred was the only exception.

“I’ll need to check his bandages,” Alfred said quietly, holding out a tray of supplies. Bruce nodded, his jaw tight. “Be gentle.” Alfred met his eyes and said, with pointed softness, “Always.”

---

By midday, Jason had been fully cleaned and dressed in something loose and soft an oversized shirt with the back cut open for his wings, and a pair of soft fleece pants. The others would later realize that Bruce had personally ordered them in bulk, anticipating this moment. He didn’t speak.

But when Bruce offered a warmed mug and held it to his lips, Jason drank without complaint. He flinched when touched by anyone else. He leaned into Bruce’s hand. “You’re doing so well, my good boy,” Bruce whispered, brushing his fingers through Jason’s hair. “You’re being so brave.” The others watched from the doorway, quiet and solemn. Clark stood behind them, one hand resting on Jon’s shoulder, the other loosely curled around Kon’s wrist.

Kon had gone tense and pale when he saw Jason in that cocooned state he hadn’t spoken since. Jon, by contrast, looked sad. Deeply, deeply sad. “I don’t want it to hurt him like that,” he whispered, burying his face in Clark’s side.

Clark wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in close. “I know, honey. I know.” Diana appeared behind them, her gaze fixed on Bruce and Jason. “They won’t fight it,” she said softly, only for clark to hear. “Not forever.”

“Because of the bond,” Clark replied, his voice heavy.

“Because of the care,” Diana corrected. “Even if it’s… extreme. They crave safety now. Comfort. Contact. They need it.”

---

There was a shift in the Others, by nightfall, they had been “encouraged” into more rest. Bruce had insisted on tucking them in personally, one by one. He moved from room to room, wrapping blankets around their shoulders, smoothing hair back from foreheads, kissing foreheads goodnight.. or well good morning.

"Being an amazing big brother to everyone, dick" Bruce cooed at him when he saw the haunted dissassociative look in his eyes as he gently coaxed him into bed.

“Night, Timmy. Get some real sleep, okay?”

“Steph, don’t fight it. Let your body rest, baby girl.”

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing Barbara’s temple, “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

And by the time he reached Damian, the boy had already tucked himself under a pile of blankets with Alfred the cat curled up beside him. Still, Bruce knelt beside the bed, brushing Damian’s hair back softly. “You’ll be next,” he said, voice low and soft. “But I’ll be here, I promise, little one.” Damian blinked slowly, something flickering behind his eyes.

A question he didn’t voice, A need he couldn’t name, but he didn’t pull away.

Chapter Text

The house had gone still again.

Jason lay propped up in a pillow-drenched nest in the living room, his wings tucked awkwardly against his back, wrapped in soft gauze and Alfred’s careful handiwork. His eyes fluttered open now and then, only to shut again when Bruce would hum something low under his breath, rubbing slow smooth circles into the nape of his neck.

He was awake, but dim, too exhausted to do much more than mumble when coaxed. Bruce kept a feeding schedule now. Every few hours, Jason was given warmed blood through a straw or a sippy cup (yes, that had been Clark’s idea, and yes, Bruce had quietly thanked him).

When the others passed through, Bruce wouldn’t look up, he would only murmur:

“Quiet, please. Baby’s sleeping.”

And the tone was never up for debate. So the others learned to tiptoe.

It had started in Damian’s sleep.

He shifted restlessly under his fluffy weighted blanket, the fabric fur twisting around him as he turned again and again. Alfred the cat padded up the bed, meowing softly, begining to knead at his stomach, but even that didn’t help nor bring much comfort.

By morning, Damian was pale and silent, his mouth drawn tight. Every few minutes, his shoulders muscles twitched.

Bruce noticed immediately.

“Damian,” he said softly, crouching in front of him where he sat curled up on the couch. “What’s wrong, little shadow?”

Damian didn’t answer. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his entire body folded inward. The wings hadn’t broken through skin yet, but something deep in his posture had shifted, less coiled warrior, more aching cub.

Bruce reached out to touch his shoulder, Damian flinched.

Bruce’s heart clenched.

“Hey, hey,” he whispered, crouching lower until he was below damians eye level. “It’s okay, You can tell me.”

Damian’s voice was barely a breath. “It hurts.” Bruce’s expression crumbled.

He scooped him up without another word. Not a teenager, Not an assassin, Not a soldier.

Just his child, small, and suddenly soft.

Clark noticed it at almost the exact same time, Jon had stopped eating as much.

He wasn’t in pain yet, not like Damian, but his appetite had almost completely vanished overnight, and he kept rubbing absently at his upper back, frowning as if listening for something no one else could hear.

That morning, when Clark went to check on him, Jon was curled up in a quilt in the corner of the sunroom, knees hugged to his chest.

“Hey there, sunshine,” Clark said gently, kneeling beside him. “You didn’t come to breakfast.”

Jon shook his head. “Not hungry.”

Clark frowned. “Even for cookies?”

Another shake.

Clark pressed the back of his hand to Jon’s cheek. “You’re cold,” he murmured, then gathered him into his arms with practiced ease.

“Alright. Let’s get you comfy.”

“I’m not a baby,” Jon murmured into his father's shirt.

Clark smiled sweetly and hollowly. “You’re my baby. That’s different.”

By late afternoon, the farmhouse had changed once more.

Jason still dozed in his cocoon of blankets, sipping blood between soft encouraging murmurs from Bruce.

Damian now lay on a second daybed Bruce had dragged in just for him, curled on the other side of the room. He trembled now and then, jaw clenched tight until Bruce would reach over to stroke his hair or rub circles between his shoulderblades.

“Little prince,” Bruce whispered. “You’re doing so good. Daddy’s right here, Not going anywhere.”

Damian didn’t pull away.

And when Bruce stood to fetch another blanket, Damian’s hand shot out weakly, clutching his hand.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please stay.”

Bruce dropped back to his knees in an instant. “Always, lovebug.”

Across the hall, Clark mirrored him.

Jon now lay curled on his chest in another oversized chair, wrapped tight in a plaid quilt. He didn’t speak, but soft whines escaped him from time to time. Clark answered each with a kiss to the forehead and quiet nonsense phrases.

“Shh, I know, baby. That’s just the wings shifting again I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

He held the cup of blood to Jon’s lips like a bottle.

“Big sips, sweetheart. That’s it. My good boy.” The rest of the house had begun avoiding the main two rooms entirely.

Not because they were afraid, though they were, a little.

But because of the sight of it, Jason curled with twitching wings, Damian whimpering in Bruce’s lap, Jon small and pale in Clark’s arms, did something wrong to their brains.

It made everything feel off-kilter.
Too quiet.
Too soft. Cass and Kon were the first to feel the flickers of unwanted jealousy.

It didn’t make sense. But it was there that low, persistent itch crawling beneath their skin.

Watching Bruce rock Damian, Hearing Clark hum lullabies to Jon.

They didn’t want to be in pain. But something inside them whispered,

You’ll be next. And then you’ll get it too.

And they wanted it.

The affection, The comfort, The protection.

Even if it came through broken and ripped skin of limbs that shouldnt be tearing their way out. 

That night, Bruce didn’t sleep.

Jason lay draped over one side of his lap, wings twitching beneath a silk blanket. Damian curled against the other, tucked to Bruce’s chest.

He rocked gently in the oversized chair Alfred had brought down from the attic, stroking their hair in turns.

“I failed you once,” Bruce whispered, voice ragged. “But not now. Never again, You’ll never be alone again.”

He kissed Damian’s temple then Jason’s brow.

“I’ll keep you safe. Forever. Even from yourselves.”

When Alfred entered with a tray of warmed blood and soothing salves, Bruce didn’t even look up.

“Alfred,” he murmured, not even glancing away from his children. “I need more blankets.”

“…Of course, sir.”

Chapter Text

The farmhouse had gone quiet again so soon.

The kind of quiet that lingered too long in the bones, The kind of quiet that came after a storm, but before the next one rolled in.

Jason slept most of the time now, wrapped in plush blankets and silk-soft pillows, his wings still sore and sensitive, though healing. Damian had stopped crying out, though the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased much. He stuck close to Bruce, rarely saying anything, but always reaching for his father’s hand. Jon had fully folded into Clark’s arms, barely leaving his father’s lap for more than a few minutes at a time.

And Kon watched it all from a distance.

It started two days ago.

A pulse in his back, deep and hot like someone had placed fresh hot coal just beneath the surface along his spine and shoulders. The heat would come and go, unpredictable and subtle. At first that is, he thought maybe it was sympathy pain. Some twisted empathic reaction to being too close to the others.

But then the knawing ache began.

Dull and constant. A twisting sort of tightness between his shoulder blades, like something wanted out.

Kon stood in front of the bathroom mirror one morning, shirt discarded on the floor, examining the bare skin of his back. He couldn’t see anything yet, but when he pressed his fingers into the muscle there, he felt it. Something was wanting out.

“Not yet,” he whispered to his reflection, pleading to no one but himself. “Not me, not yet.”

He covered it well, at first. Laughter when the others winced. Jokes when Clark or Bruce brought warm drinks into the room. Sass when Alfred offered him a blanket. But it was getting harder.

The bond knew.

And worse, Clark knew.

There were no words exchanged, just a look. A shift in the air when Clark would glance at him too long. When Kon would shift in his seat and Clark’s expression would soften with something awful and sweet and knowing.

It made Kon feel exposed and childish.

Like there was a leash around his throat that hadn’t been pulled yet but would be. Soon.

Cass noticed next.

She didn’t say anything, of course. She just stared at him. Her gaze lingered too long on his back. Her fingers twitched when he moved. And when he hissed quietly after stretching the wrong way, just once, her head tilted.

He avoided her the rest of the day.

But the bond was getting louder.

He found himself standing outside the living room for too long that evening, watching Bruce cradle both Damian and Jason in his arms on the wide recliner. Watching Clark stroke Jon’s hair and murmur nonsense into his ear.

He told himself he was just checking on them.

But when Clark looked up and smiled and patted his thigh like he wanted Kon to come sit in his lap—

Kon turned and ran.

It happened in the dark, as these things always did.

Kon couldn’t sleep. The ache in his back had sharpened. The heat made his skin feel too tight, like he was wrapped in something that didn’t belong to him and was letting him know its displeasure. He tried stretching. Tried pacing. Tried shoving his face into the pillow and growling like an animal.

It didn’t work.

So he made the mistake of heading to the kitchen.

Clark was already there. Standing quietly in the low light, stirring warmed blood into two mugs. One was already poured, waiting. The other was still steaming, fresh.

Kon froze.

Clark didn’t turn around.

“I heard you walking,” he said oh so softly, without looking up. “You alright, kiddo?”

Kon said nothing.

Clark turned then, his eyes soft, warm, gentle. “Come here.”

Kon shook his head.

Clark didn’t repeat himself. Just waited.

And Kon, god help him, moved.

He told himself it was for the blood. Just to get the drink, just to ease the pressure on his back. But when Clark pulled him into a hug, slow and careful, one hand rubbing soothing circles over the tense muscles, Kon didn’t pull away.

He sank.

One slow breath at a time.

“I’m not—” Kon started, voice hoarse. “I’m not like them.”

Clark just hummed.

“I can fight it,” Kon said, quieter now, barely even whispering. “I can hold it off.”

“You’ve already stopped,” Clark whispered into his hair, kissing the crown of his head. “You just haven’t noticed yet.”

Kon choked on something between a sob and a laugh. Clark cupped the back of his head and rocked him gently. “You’ve done so well for so long. So stubborn. My brave boy.”

“I’m not—” Kon tried again, but the words died instantly in his throat.

“Shhh Let it happen, Let me take care of you.”

Kon clutched the front of Clark’s shirt, finally allowing himself to lean forward.

Cass, awake and quiet in the hallway, saw them. She didn’t say anything.

She just turned away, heart hammering in her chest, and curled up in the shadows. The bond whispered at her, cooing, soft and suffocating. It would be her turn soon. She could feel it.

And strangely?

She didn’t mind.

Chapter Text

The farmhouse felt too still.

Too quiet, Too padded, Too soft.

And Dick hated how easily he’d adapted and grown accustomed  to it.

He hadn’t meant to become the caretaker again, not like this exactly. But with Jason curled in Bruce’s lap more often then not, wings half-wrapped and tender; with Jon nestled into Clark like a kitten, with Damian barely talking, hardly moving, someone had to keep track of everything else.

So Dick did, like he always did.

He floated from room to room like a ghost, checking on siblings who no longer joked, no longer resisted, no longer fought. They just rested. Like they were waiting, Cocooning.

And Dick? He smiled. Coaxed water and mugs of blood into stubborn hands. Brushed hair out of clammy faces. Whispered encouragements in a voice that only shook once or twice.

He kissed Jason’s forehead when Bruce went to get more supplies, even though Jason didn’t stir.

He tucked a blanket tighter around Jon when Clark stepped into the next room.

He sat beside Damian’s bed while his baby brother stared blankly at the wall, one trembling hand curled into Alfred the cat’s fur.

“It’s okay, Dami,” he whispered. “You’re okay.”

He smiled the whole time.

And ignored the sharp, crawling heat digging its way out in his own back.

He could feel it, had felt it, since the night after Jason’s wings tore through. A pressure like a scolding hot coiled wire between his shoulder blades. An itching tension that wouldn’t go away, no matter how many times he stretched, twisted, or pressed his fists into it.

But he refused to call it what it was.

No.

Not when everyone else needed him to be fine.

To be steady.

To be Dick.

Because if he wasn’t—if he let himself break—then what was the point?

He kept smiling.

Even when his shirts started clinging with sweat to his back.

Even when his knees buckled slightly coming down the stairs.

Even when he felt the pull of the bond like a leash, he was already too used to wearing.

It was almost a ritual by now. Every night, Dick made his rounds.

Jason, sleepy, soft-eyed, half-murmuring nonsense in Bruce’s lap looked up and blinked when Dick brushed his hair back. “Hey.. big bird”

“Hey, baby bat,” Dick whispered, forcing a grin. “Still alive?”

“Mmm,” Jason sighed. “Barely.”

Bruce watched without speaking, but his hand never left Jason’s back, between the wings.

Jon, nestled in a blanket on the floor beside the hearth, gave Dick a weak thumbs-up when he passed by. Clark was stroking his hair, humming something gentle and warm and soothing.

“Hey, Jonny,” Dick said. “You holding up?”

Jon yawned. “Warm,” he mumbled. “S’good.”

Dick’s throat tightened.

He kissed the top of Jon’s head and moved on.

Damian had stopped speaking.

He lay curled on his side in the corner of the family room, one arm locked around Alfred the cat, the other fisted in a pillow. Bruce had brought in a weighted blanket and several smaller ones, which were now draped around Damian’s frame like a nest.

Dick approached slowly, crouching down. “Hey, baby bird.”

Damian blinked at him. His eyes were too wide. Too bright. He was trembling, barely but it was constant.

“Are you okay?”

Damian licked his lips. Swallowed hard.

Then barely a whisper, “It hurts.”

Dick didn’t think. He reached out and pulled Damian into his arms.

Damian didn’t fight him, Didn’t snarl or snap or hiss.

He clung.

Like the child he pretended he wasn't.

And Dick held him, carding fingers through his hair, whispering nonsense. “I’ve got you, baby bat. You’re okay. I’m here, I’m here.”

It happened so fast.

One moment, Damian was pressed tight to him.

The next, he tensed and he screamed.

A sharp, high, unearthly sound that tore through the house like a gunshot.

His back arched.

His body seized.

Dick gasped as something shifted under his hands. Something growing alarmingly wet and sharp and alive.

“BRUCE!” he yelled.

Bruce was there in seconds, Clark was steps behind him.

But they didn’t stop Dick from holding him, just knelt beside him as Damian screamed again, the back of his shirt rippimg, splitting, tearing, as something slick and brown and wrong pushed through.

His wings came fast, faster than Jason’s.

They split the skin with a spray of blood, flexing like a newborn bat stretching for the first time.

Damian passed out before they fully unfurled.

Dick, his baby brother's blood soaking into his shirt, didn’t let go.

“Shhh,” Bruce whispered, taking Damian’s now-limp form into his arms. “My brave little boy, Daddy’s here, I’ve got you.”

Clark wrapped a blanket around both of them.

And Dick sat on the floor, shaking.

He realized only then that his back burned.

And his hands were shaking.

And the bond?

The bond whispered in his mind, Soon.

What Damian looks like in this au.

Chapter Text

Jason was finally upright.

Wings still sore and tender, but no longer bleeding. His body had begun to settle, stiff but stable, healing in quiet little ways. Alfred had adjusted the bandages that morning, muttering approvingly under his breath.

“Your body is adapting, Master Jason,” he’d said, smoothing the gauze with gloved fingers. “Quite efficiently, I might add.”

“Tell that to the back spasms,” Jason muttered, wincing. “I feel like someone folded me inside out.”

He was perched on the edge of the couch now, fidgeting.

Stretching, Annoyed.

“I need to move,” he grumbled. “My legs are numb, I’m losing brain cells. I’m going to rot in this stupid pillow grave.”

“You just had your bones rearranged, sweetheart,” Bruce said absently from across the room, where he was kneeling beside Damian’s daybed. “Give it another day.” Jason glared. “I’m not your broken baby bat anymore, old man.”

Bruce didn’t even look up. “You’ll always be my baby bat.”

Jason flushed. “I hate it here.”

But he didn’t try to get up, Not really.

Bruce hadn’t left Damian’s side for more than a few minutes at a time since the wings came through.

The boy slept in pulses, tense, then soft, then twitching again. His wings, raw and delicate, were tucked against his back with Alfred’s special bindings, and Bruce adjusted them every few hours with frightening care.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright,” he cooed as Damian stirred. “Daddy’s got you. There’s my brave little bird.”

Dick stood near the doorway, arms crossed tight over his chest, trying not to watch. Trying not to remember the blood or the sound Damian had made when his skin split- tore open.

Trying not to imagine it happening to him.

But the itching in his back had become constant. A burning that crawled and bloomed under his skin. He rubbed it absently against the doorframe. Kon, sitting on the arm of a nearby chair, noticed.

“You okay?” he asked softly, Dick smiled too big, too easy. “Peachy.”

Kon didn’t press, but he didn’t look away either. Jon had barely moved in a day.

He lay wrapped in Clark’s arms like a child recovering from a fever, his face pressed into his father’s chest, only stirring when offered sips of blood or whispered encouragements.

He didn’t speak much anymore.

Didn’t need to.

Clark could feel it, feel the bond curling tighter, the instincts sharpening. “You’re close,” he murmured, brushing Jon’s curls back. “Almost there, baby.”

Jon let out a tiny, helpless sound.

“I’ll be right here. You’ll never be alone.”

The other soon to be fledglings had grown quiet over the growing days' movement, giving way to stillness, resistance to routine. Stephanie napped, curled against Barbara’s side. Duke sat with his back to the wall, a book open on his lap but unread. Cass paced like a caged animal, her eyes flicking to Dick over and over again.

She could feel it, So could they all.

Dick was swaying.

And when he fell, everything would change again.

----

It happened fast, too fast.

Dick had just leaned forward to adjust the blanket over Damian, whispering some nonsense about how proud he was, how strong Damian was, how lucky they were to have him.

He smiled the whole time.

And then his breath caught. A full-body tremor rolled through him.

His hand snapped to the wall, catching himself.

“Dick?” Kon’s voice, low, startled.

“I’m fine,” Dick said, teeth clenched. “I’m—”

And then Jon screamed.

A high, warbling sound that yanked everyone into motion.

Clark lifted him upright just as Jon’s back arched and then split, skin tearing in a violent spray. Dark red soaked the blanket. His wings tore out, slick and twitching, folding hard around Clark’s arms like the limbs recognized him.

Dick made it two steps before the pain dropped him to his knees.

“No,” he gasped, one hand clawing at the floor.

Then—  rrriiiiiipp. 

His shirt was shredded.

The pressure exploded.

Cass caught him before he hit the floor fully, cradling his head as his wings erupted in twin violent bursts, sleek, black, with a navy-blue shimmer that caught in the low light.

The house held its breath.

Clark rocked Jon, whispering, “You’re okay, you’re okay, my sweet boy, just let it out, shh, it’s done. You’re safe now.”

Cass lowered Dick to the floor gently, stroking his hair as he trembled in the aftermath. He didn’t cry but the breath stuttering from his chest sounded so much like a sob.

Bruce stared at both of them, Jon and Dick, his jaw tight, a dozen emotions unreadable on his face.

Jason sat forward, eyes wide.

Duke whispered so low only few heard him, “...they’re all breaking.”

--

Within the hour, Dick and Jon had been moved.

Tucked in.

Cleaned.

Blanketed.

Cradled.

Jon curled back into Clark’s lap, wings twitching as he slept. Clark rocked him slowly, kissing his temple every few seconds like a clock counting down.

Dick lay in a new nest beside Jason, both of them half-asleep, limbs brushing.

Bruce whispered to them in turn.

“My strong boys. My good boys. My precious bats.” Stephanie curled tighter around Barbara.

Kon didn’t move from the doorway.

Cass?

Cass sat down and waited.

What both dick and Jon look like, didn’t mean to make Jon look that old but oh well.

Chapter Text

Jason wasn’t used to being this still.

He hadn’t moved much in days, not since his wings split through. And now, even with most of the pain gone, Bruce still wouldn’t let him do anything unsupervised.

Not to even stretch, Not to even walk to the porch.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Jason grumbled as Alfred eased him down onto a floor mat in the common room. “You’d think I was made of glass.”

“You’re not made of glass,” Alfred said, gently guiding Jason’s arm into a supported reach. “But you are newly fledged. And your wings, large as they are, require careful adjustment.”

“Translation,” Jason muttered, wincing as the tension pulled down his back, “I’m your oversized vampire baby.”

“Precisely,” Alfred replied, unbothered.

Jason’s wings, broad, leathery, almost bat-dragonesque, twitched under the stretch. Big-eared flying fox, Bruce had said. Heavy, velvety things that curled tightly around him when he was resting.

He was healing well. But Bruce still watched like he expected him to collapse. The moment Jason made a noise, even a grunt of exertion, Bruce materialized.

“Too much?” he asked, crouching nearby.

Jason growled with a embarrassed flush creeping up his face. “I’m fine.”

Bruce just kissed his head.

Jon now refused to be anywhere but on Clark’s chest.

His wings were tiny, delicate, and fluttery, barely moved without twitching from the nerves underneath. A bumblebee bat, Smallest in the world. And now curled up like the baby he was being treated as.

Clark rocked him slowly on the porch swing, wrapped in a flannel throw.

“Feel okay, sunshine?” he whispered.

Jon mumbled into his shirt, “Sleepy.”

“Then nap. I’ve got you.” He didn’t move for the rest of the afternoon.

Damian was improving, but Bruce hovered like a vulture.

His little brown bat wings were thin and fast, light and twitchy, responding to the smallest shift in his mood. They curled high around his shoulders like a shawl. He still slept mostly. Still craved touch.

And when Bruce wasn’t there, it was Dick, half-healed and wings weakly folded, who kept him company.

“Your wings are fast,” Dick whispered once as he tucked a blanket around them both. “Even I don’t think I could dodge you.” Damian said nothing but he didn’t move away either.

Dick’s wings were enormous.

Spectacled flying fox, something bigger, wilder, and heavy. His wings shimmered when the light hit them, all shadowy blues and blacks. They rippled with every breath, beautiful, terrifying.

And again so damn heavy.

He hadn’t left the nest couch in two days. Every time he tried to sit up fully, someone was there, Jason, Bruce, even Diana, pressing him back down with coos and soft hands and you’re not ready yet, baby.

So he stopped trying.

They bathed him with warm cloths, Fed him by hand, Brushed his hair.

And the worst part?

He let them.

Stephanie hadn’t spoken much. Not since Jon and Dick broke.

She sat near the window most days, watching the others be held, cradled, treated like cherished things. She joked less. Fidgeted more.

Her back ached.

She ignored it.

Duke had taken to pacing. Reading. Then rereading the same paragraph five times. He couldn’t concentrate. Every time one of the winged made a sound, his eyes snapped toward them.

Kon had gone quiet again.

He no longer fought the bond but he resented it, deeply.

He felt it in every breath. Every flinch when Clark looked at him too long with a knowing look. Every instinct screamed to go to him. To crawl into his lap and rest.

And Cass?

Cass watched.

Always watching.

Silently.

Quietly.

Feeling it creep up her spine.

By nightfall, the fledglings who had wings were asleep again, tucked and held, swaddled and comforted.

Jason curled up in Bruce’s arms.

Damian pressed into his side, Dick wrapped around both of them like the eldest blanket.

Jon, still in Clark’s lap, murmured in his sleep. Clark kissed his temple again.

Kon stood at the edge of the room and whispered shakely to himself, “Not yet.”

Steph rubbed her shoulder and said nothing, Duke exhaled, long and low, Cass turned her face toward the window and closed her eyes.

Chapter Text

The farmhouse had gone… soft.

After the sudden chaos of wings tearing flesh and screams breaking the silence, the world had gone padded again. Too quiet. Too safe. The air inside hung warm and slow like a lullaby daydream that wouldn’t end.

The winged fledglings, Jason, Jon, Damian, and Dick, had entered what Alfred politely called “stage three nest behavior.” Which, in practical terms, meant they no longer tried to leave their nests. Or argue. Or resist much of anything.

They were still weak, still aching.

But more than that, they were content.

Tucked.

Cradled.

Cuddled and constantly held.

Jason’s bandages and salves came off on day fourteen, revealing smooth skin beneath and heavy, velvety wings that twitched when Alfred rubbed additional salves into the joints. He hissed, grumbled, but didn’t pull away.

Bruce called him “my brave little bat” and “sweet boy” in the same breath.

Jason only rolled his eyes once.

Dick still needed help sitting up sometimes.

His wings were gorgeous, sleek, shadowed, shimmering, but dense. Every time he tried to move too much, Bruce or Alfred, or Diana had a hand on his back.

He let them, He no longer jerked back when Bruce fed him.

He no longer flinched when he was kissed on the forehead. He just leaned in and let it happen.

Jon spent most of his time in Clark’s lap, occasionally tucked into his hoodie like an oversized baby koala. His wings, delicate and faintly twitchy, were nearly weightless. But the nerves inside them lit up if he was left alone for more than an hour.

Clark never let that happen.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into Jon’s curls each morning, rocking them both like time didn’t exist.

And time, for a while, didn’t.

By the end of the second week, everything felt padded.

The remaining kids, the not-yet-winged, tried to fall into rhythms, but it felt wrong. Like trying to walk across a room full of sleeping animals. No one talked loudly. No one moved quickly.

Even Stephanie had gone quiet.

She curled near the foot of the big couch, watching Dick sleep with a hand half-draped over Jason’s arm. Bruce was there too, fingers running slowly and softly down Damian’s spine as the boy twitched in half-sleep.

And the bond?

The bond wrapped tighter.

Like a blanket around a throat. 

Tim held out longer than anyone expected.

He kept busy or tried to. Reading, reorganizing Alfred’s herbal shelves, and taking notes that no one asked for. But by day sixteen, his posture had begun to change. Shoulders hunched more. Eyes dulled.

He stopped using the library.

He stayed closer to the nest.

His back ached. Not just so wrong. Buzzing. Alive. Like something inside his back was withering.

It came to a head on the nineteenth day.

Tim had woken up before everyone else and gone outside, something none of them had done alone in weeks. The fields behind the farmhouse were quiet, the morning mist hugging the grass.

He sat under the old tree, trying to pretend his back wasn’t burning.

Trying to pretend he wasn’t jealous of the soft noises Dick made when Bruce rubbed his wings. In the way Jason curled into Alfred’s touch. Of the murmurs, Clark whispered to Jon in the dark.

He hated it.

And he wanted it.

He didn’t hear Bruce come up behind him.

“Morning, Timmy.”

Tim flinched. “Hey.”

Bruce crouched beside him, offering a thermos of warmed blood. Tim didn’t take it. “Your back hurts.” Tim didn’t reply.

Bruce reached out slowly, so slowly, and placed a warm hand on his shoulder.

Tim shuddered.

“I can feel it,” Bruce said quietly. “You’re close.”

“I don’t want to be.”

“I know.”

Tim looked away, jaw tight, Bruce leaned closer. “But you will be.”

That night, Tim didn’t come to dinner.

The rest were either asleep in the nest or nearby, watching quietly. Bruce found Tim on the floor of the study, back pressed to the wall, sweat on his brow, shirt ripped down the spine where the tension had pushed too far.

“Don’t touch me,” Tim gasped, shaking.

But Bruce didn’t listen.

He scooped him up with the same care he’d used on all the others and carried him to the main room, murmuring soft, awful comforts all the way. The wings came fast.

Eastern Red Bat.

Bright copper and smooth black, delicate veins.

Beautiful.

Bloody, Tim passed out halfway through.

Jason sat up, dizzy, and whispered, “We’re all gonna fall, huh?”

Bruce laid Tim between Dick and Damian, curled him tight, cleaned the blood.

Kissed his brow.

“My good little thinker,” he whispered. “You’re mine now.”

Chapter Text

Four Days After Tim

Cass had always known she’d break.

She wasn’t afraid of it. Not like the others. Not like Jason, who had growled and cursed through every inch of healing. Not like Tim, who’d folded only when the pain won.

Cass didn’t need to be chased.

She just needed to be held.

And so, when the ache started low and sharp between her ribs, threading through her spine like silk dipped in fire, she didn’t scream.

She didn’t run.

She walked into the living room, knelt by Bruce, and placed her forehead against his knee.

Bruce froze, then slowly, gently, he reached down and stroked her hair.

“Are you ready, little one?”

Cass nodded.

No words.

Just breathe.

They moved her to the nest.

Jon was sleeping, half-curled on Clark’s lap, his wings twitching lightly as if dreaming. Dick was mostly asleep, head resting on Damian’s arm. Tim hadn’t spoken much since his wings came, but his hand crept out to brush Cass’s fingers when she lay down beside him.

She took it.

Held it.

Then the pain came.

Her wings were thin, narrow, quick, split from her back with wet sounds. Her breath hitched once, twice, but she didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Just lie there, trembling, and let the bond take her.

Eastern small-footed bat.

Her wings were delicate, quiet, and fast. Already twitching as if they had somewhere to go.

But she didn’t leave the nest.

She just turned her face into Bruce’s side and let him wipe the blood away.

Jason was done sitting.

After nearly who knows how many weeks of being coddled, watched, and fussed over like a newborn, he’d finally been cleared to walk again.

Under supervision.

He almost choked when Clark told him. “So what, I get a leash now?”

Clark only smiled. “No leash. Just a chaperone.”

Diana followed him on his first real walk outside. Jason stretched, wings flaring wide and strong behind him, massive and powerful, big-eared flying fox leathery and reveled in the air, hitting his face.

“You think they’ll let me fly next?” he asked dryly.

Diana raised an eyebrow with a soft, fond smile. “Let’s work on standing upright first, sweet bat.”

Inside, the remaining three paced invisible circles.

Steph hadn’t slept well in days. Her laughter was brittle now. Forced. She cracked jokes while hugging herself.

“Everyone’s joining the club,” she whispered to Babs one night. “Guess I’ll be last.”

Duke stayed close to Alfred. He didn’t speak much but every time Cass twitched in her sleep, he looked like he wanted to reach for her.

Kon... tried not to look at Clark. But he could feel the bond curling like smoke around his ankles.

Cass lay in the nest, her wings fluttering gently as Bruce tucked another blanket around her. “You did so well, sweetheart,” he whispered. “So quiet. My quietest star.”

Jason sat by the hearth, watching, eyes shadowed. He stretched his wings again.

They were strong, He was ready, He wanted out, but Bruce met his gaze.

And said, “Not yet, pup.” Jason looked away, And in the dark, Steph whispered:

“...I think I’m next.”

Chapter Text

It had been building. Stephanie laughed the loudest. Teased the hardest.

Cracked every joke she could think of, even if they didn’t land. Even if her voice shook halfway through, the others saw it.

The way her smile never reached her eyes. The way her fingers pressed into the base of her spine when she thought no one was looking. The way she’d look toward the nest, stare at Dick and Tim and Cass curled in warmth and care, and look away before the bond could reach too far.

On the fifth night after Cass’s wings came, Stephanie didn’t make it through dinner. She stood up, tried to make a joke.

Fell to her knees instead.

Clark caught her before her head hit the floor. Steph blinked up at him, breath coming in short, clipped pants. “I’m fine,” she said automatically.

“You’re not,” Bruce said gently.

“I can walk—”

“You can’t,” Alfred replied, already kneeling beside her.

Bruce crouched and ran a hand down her back. She shivered.

“Burns,” she whispered, her smile falling away. “Everything burns.”

Bruce’s eyes darkened. “It’s time.”

They brought her to the nest, laid her down between Tim and Cass. Both reached for her hands. She took them. She didn’t argue when Bruce began cutting away the back of her shirt. Didn’t flinch when Diana knelt to brace her legs.

Didn’t scream until it started.

Her wings tore through like velvet knives, stretching wide and shining gold-brown in the firelight. Jamaican fruit bat, rounded, lively, broad, and soft. She sobbed into Bruce’s chest.

“I didn’t want it,” she whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “But you needed it, baby girl.”

Jason had been waiting.

Watching from the sidelines while Cass and Tim, and now Steph took their turns. It had been weeks. He could walk. He could move. He was stronger. So when Alfred stepped out for a moment and Bruce was distracted helping Jon stretch, Jason slipped out the side door. He made it to the edge of the field before the itch in his wings got the better of him.

He looked up at the open sky, tensed.

And jumped.

It was less “gliding” and more “catapulting oneself with zero upper wing strength and a desperate need for catharsis.”

Jason flew for maybe three seconds.

Then: WHUMP.

Face. Grass. Air was knocked clean out of his lungs.

His wings screamed. The joints screamed louder. He rolled onto his back, gasping, wheezing, dying inside.

“Okay,” he groaned out loud. “Okay, that was… so f—”

“JASON.”

Bruce’s voice cracked through the sky, and everything went black.

He didn’t remember getting carried inside.

Just that when he randomly woke up, Alfred was scolding him. Clark was frowning. And Bruce was silent.

That was worse, so much worse.

“I just wanted to fly,” Jason croaked.

Bruce sat down beside him and, without a word, gathered him into his arms. Jason stiffened. “Don’t—don’t baby me—”

“I almost lost you. Again.”

Jason closed his eyes. “…I know.”

“You’re grounded. Nest only. Two weeks minimum.”

“Bruce—”

“No.”

Bruce kissed his temple and rocked him gently.

“You’re not allowed to break, baby bat. Not on my watch.”

By dawn, Stephanie was curled beneath a fresh knit blanket. Jason was back in the nest, hissing every time he breathed.

The others? Watching.

Feeling the bond twitch behind their ribs.

Chapter Text

Even Duke had started pulling away from the others, quietly, slowly, but Kon?

Kon had always been good at ignoring things that didn’t make sense. Growing up as a half-Kryptonian clone had taught him how to roll with the punches, even when life threw something bizarre his way. But this? This was something else entirely.

He’d watched his brothers and sisters fall like dominoes. One by one. And he’d stood there, teeth gritted, spine straight, growling through the ache in his back and the bond that curled tighter every time he dared to look at Jon.

He didn’t sleep much anymore.

Didn’t eat either, not unless Clark fed him himself.

And even then, only because the alternative was Clark’s soft, pleading eyes and the way he whispered, “Come on, baby boy. You need to stay strong.”

Kon had never felt weaker.

It started in his wings.

Or rather, the space they wanted to be.

. It wasn’t painful, not yet, but it was there, a constant presence that refused to be ignored. He caught himself shifting uncomfortably in his chair, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to shake the sensation. It didn’t help.

“Kon, are you okay?” Jon asked one evening, glancing up from the makeshift game he was playing on the couch.

“Yeah, fine,” Kon replied quickly, a little too quickly. He forced a grin, ruffling Jon’s hair. “Don’t worry about me, kid.”

Jon frowned but didn’t press the issue, turning his attention back to the screen. Kon let out a quiet breath of relief, leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes. He could feel it again, the strange, subtle pull beneath his skin, like something was waiting to break free.

As the days passed, the tingling turned into a dull ache, and Kon’s unease grew. He started wearing looser shirts, avoiding mirrors, and keeping his distance from Clark. He wasn’t sure why, but the idea of Clark noticing something was wrong made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t explain.

He wasn’t ready for that conversation.

Kon found himself spending more time outside, wandering the fields and woods that surrounded the farmhouse. The fresh air helped, if only a little. The ache in his back felt less oppressive when he was moving, and the open sky was a welcome distraction.

One evening, he stood at the edge of the field, his hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets as he stared at the horizon. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson. It should have been peaceful, but Kon’s thoughts were anything but.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, rolling his shoulders again. The ache was sharper now, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was pressing against his skin from the inside.

“You’re going to give yourself away if you keep doing that.”

Kon spun around, his heart skipping a beat. Jon stood a few feet away, his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

“Doing what?” Kon asked, trying to sound casual.

Jon rolled his eyes. “The fidgeting. You’ve been doing it all week.”

Kon forced a laugh, ruffling Jon’s hair again. “You’re imagining things, kid. I’m fine.”

Jon didn’t look convinced, but before he could say anything else, a faint chirping sound broke the silence.

Kon froze.

It was soft, almost imperceptible, but it was there, a high-pitched, bat-like sound that seemed to come from nowhere. Kon’s eyes widened as he realized it wasn’t coming from nowhere. It was coming from him.

Kon clamped a hand over his mouth, his face flushing with embarrassment. Jon’s eyes widened, his gaze darting between Kon and the surrounding woods.

“What was that?” Jon asked, his voice tinged with both curiosity and alarm.

“Nothing,” Kon said quickly, his voice muffled by his hand. “It’s… nothing.”

Jon tilted his head, his expression skeptical. “It didn’t sound like nothing.”

Kon opened his mouth to reply, but another chirp escaped before he could stop it. He groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, come on.”

“Kon?” The voice was calm but firm, and it sent a shiver down Kon’s spine.

He turned slowly, his heart sinking as he saw Clark standing a few feet away, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

“Dad,” Kon said weakly, his voice cracking slightly. “Hey. What’s up?”

Clark’s eyes narrowed slightly, his sharp gaze zeroing in on Kon’s shoulders. “You’re hiding something.”

“I’m not hiding anything!” Kon said quickly, his voice an octave higher than usual.

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Kon.”

The bond flared between them, warm and insistent, nudging Kon toward honesty. He tried to fight it, but the instinct to listen, to trust was too strong.

“It’s nothing, I swear,” Kon muttered, shifting uncomfortably. But as he spoke, another chirp escaped, this one louder than the last.

Clark stepped closer, his voice softening. “Kon, let me see.”

Kon hesitated, his hands clenching into fists. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just need—”

“Kon.” Clark’s voice was gentle but firm, his tone leaving no room for argument.

With a reluctant sigh, Kon turned his back to Clark, his shoulders slumping. “Okay, just don’t be weird about it.”

Clark carefully lifted the back of Kon’s shirt, his breath hitching as he took in the sight before him. The skin between Kon’s shoulder blades was swollen and red, the faint outline of something dark pressing against the surface.

“Oh, Kon,” Clark murmured, his voice heavy with both sympathy and guilt.

“I told you it was fine,” Kon said, his tone defensive. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s not fine,” Clark said softly, his hand resting lightly on Kon’s shoulder. “You’re starting the transformation.”

Kon tensed under his touch, his jaw tightening. “Great. Just what I needed.”

Clark guided Kon back to the house, his hand never leaving his son’s shoulder. Kon grumbled the entire way, but the bond made it impossible for him to pull away. It wasn’t control, exactly, but it was enough to keep him from fighting too hard.

Inside, Clark sat Kon down in the living room, his expression calm but serious. “You should have told me,” he said quietly.

Kon crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the floor. “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to deal with the whole ‘hovering dad’ thing.”

Clark sighed, his hand running through his hair. “Kon, this isn’t something you can go through alone. It’s going to be painful.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Kon muttered, wincing as the ache in his back flared up again.

Clark knelt in front of him, his voice soft. “You don’t have to do this alone, okay? I’m here. We’re all here.”

Kon glanced up at him, his expression conflicted. “It’s just… a lot. You know?”

“I know,” Clark said gently. “But you’re stronger than you think. You’ll get through this.”

That night, Kon’s discomfort turned into something sharper. He paced his room, his wings twitching beneath his skin as the transformation began to intensify. He tried to stay quiet, but the occasional chirp or groan escaped, drawing Clark’s attention.

Clark appeared in the doorway, his expression immediately shifting to concern. “Kon?”

“I’m fine,” Kon said through gritted teeth, his hands clutching at his shoulders. “Just… go back to bed.”

Clark stepped into the room, his presence calm but firm. “Let me help.”

Kon hesitated, his body trembling as another wave of pain rolled through him. He wanted to push Clark away, to tell him he didn’t need help. But the bond wouldn’t let him. It pushed him toward trust, toward safety, and he hated how much he wanted to give in.

Finally, with a defeated sigh, Kon sat down on the edge of the bed, his head hanging low. “Fine. Just… don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Clark sat beside him, his hand resting lightly on Kon’s back. “You’ll be okay,” he said softly. “I promise.”

Clark had always been protective of his boys. It was part of who he was, always watching, always ready to step in when they needed him. But since the transformation, that protectiveness had taken on a new intensity. He could feel them through the bond, their emotions brushing against his like whispers in the back of his mind. It wasn’t just love anymore. It was instinct. Primal. Unrelenting.

Kon was trying to hide his pain, but Clark could feel it, sharp and jagged, every time the boy shifted in his chair or rolled his shoulders. Jon was quieter, his worry radiating in soft waves that tugged at Clark’s heart. They were his boys, his babies, and the bond made it impossible to ignore their struggles.

“You’ve been staring at me for like five minutes,” Kon muttered, breaking the silence in the living room. He was slouched on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, his wings twitching faintly beneath his skin.

Clark blinked, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “I’m just making sure you’re okay.”

Kon rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. You don’t have to keep checking on me every five seconds.”

Jon, seated on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest, glanced up. “You’re not fine. You keep fidgeting.”

“Thanks, Jon,” Kon said dryly, shooting him a look. “Really helpful.”

Clark leaned forward, his voice calm but firm. “Kon, there’s no point in pretending. I can feel it, you know. The ache, the discomfort. You don’t have to hide it.”

Kon stiffened, his jaw tightening. “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want you to feel it.”

Clark’s expression softened, though the bond pulsed with quiet insistence, nudging Kon toward submission. “You don’t have to push me away,” he said gently. “Let me help.”

Kon’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him as the bond took hold. He hated how easily it worked, how quickly it made him lean into the comfort Clark offered, even when he didn’t want to. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice low. “But only because I’m tired of arguing.”

Later that night, the transformation began in earnest. Kon had been pacing his room, trying to walk off the growing tension in his back, when the first sharp spike of pain hit. He doubled over, his hands braced against the wall as a low, involuntary groan escaped his throat.

Clark was there in an instant, his super-hearing picking up the sound from across the house. He appeared in the doorway, his eyes narrowing as he took in Kon’s hunched form.

“It’s starting,” Clark said quietly, stepping into the room.

Kon turned to him, his face pale and strained. “No kidding,” he bit out, his voice tight with pain.

Clark crossed the room in two strides, his hands coming to rest on Kon’s shoulders. “Breathe,” he said softly, his voice steady. “I’ve got you.”

The bond flared again, warm and insistent, wrapping around Kon like a protective cocoon. He felt his body relax despite the pain, his instincts urging him to trust Clark, to let him take control.

“It hurts,” Kon admitted, his voice trembling.

“I know,” Clark murmured, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m here. You’re not going through this alone.”

The pain was excruciating. Kon’s body trembled as the skin on his back stretched and bulged, the faint outline of wings pressing against the surface. Clark stayed by his side the entire time, his hands gentle but firm as he steadied Kon through each wave of agony.

“You’re doing so well,” Clark said softly, his voice soothing. “Just a little longer.”

Kon let out a strangled groan, his hands clutching at the sheets as the first tear split across his back. Blood trickled down his spine, and Clark’s heart clenched at the sight. He moved quickly, carefully cleaning the wounds as the wings began to unfurl.

They were large and soft, the membrane a dark, translucent black and white stripes that shimmered faintly in the light. The edges were delicate, almost feathered, with fine veins visible beneath the surface.

Pied badger bat.

High-contrast black-and-white, broad and strong, but jagged around the edges. Wild and restless. They slammed against the floor as if refusing to be subtle.

The wings twitched, testing their new freedom.

Clark gently adjusted them, his hands steady despite the ache in his chest. “They’re beautiful,” he said quietly, his voice filled with awe.

Kon let out a weak laugh, his head lolling back against the headboard. “Yeah, sure. Real beautiful.”

Clark smiled faintly, brushing a hand through Kon’s hair. “You’ll get used to them. I’ll help you.”

Jon peeked into the room sometime later, his wide eyes fixed on Kon’s wings. “Does it hurt?” he asked hesitantly.

Kon glanced at him, his expression softening. “Not as much now,” he said. “It’s… weird, though.”

Jon stepped closer, his curiosity outweighing his nervousness. He reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing against the edge of one wing. “They’re so soft.”

Clark chuckled, his arm draping over Jon’s shoulders. “They are, aren’t they?”

Kon sighed, leaning back against the pillows. “Great. Now I’m a walking pillow.”

Jon grinned, his earlier worry fading. “Better than a walking rock.”

Clark smiled, though the possessive warmth of the bond pulsed faintly in his chest. His boys were safe. That was all that mattered.

That night, alomst all of them slept in the nest.

Wings tangled.

Hands touching.

Murmurs of cooing and shushing and quiet weeping and the awful, intimate sound of surrender.

Bruce stood over them, arms folded.

Clark came to his side.

“...It’s almost done,” he said.

Bruce nodded once.

“I’ll start babyproofing the rest of the house,” Clark added.

“Do that.”

They turned to look at their fledglings.

Jason, grounded again.

Tim, Cass, Steph: curled like sleeping birds.

Jon and Kon, a tangle of arms.

Dick, silent, smiling in his sleep.

Duke, and Barbara the only one's still holding themselves upright, but barely.

The nest was almist whole.

But the world?

The world had narrowed to this,

Softness.

Possession.

Claws hidden in comfort.