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Damian missed his mother. Even if Dick was blind, he would've been able to see that. And Dick being Dick, he tried to help. Keyword being tried.
"Want to spar?" he asked on one of those days - days when Damian was so clearly homesick he could barely get through the day.
Damian shrugged and Dick led him down to the bunker, starting with his warm-up stretches. Which were significantly more stretchy than the rest of the family's.
"Hey," he called, trying to convey friendly competition as best as possible. "Bet you can't do this." He bent down so his forehead touched his shins.
Damian shrugged again and copied it effortlessly.
"How about this?" Dick sank into a straddle and stretched to both sides, toes pointed, knees carefully not rolled.
Again, Damian mimicked it perfectly, seemingly staring off into space.
"This?" Dick wrapped one leg around his hips and brought the other knee up to his chin, foot planted on the floor, before rotating away. "Okay," he said, frowning when Damian got it, "how about this?" He settled into a front split - toes pointed, always toes pointed - and brought his back leg up, grabbing his heel with his opposite hand when he couldn't stretch it any farther.
Damian huffed, a little more present, but replicated it flawlessly, actually able to stretch farther than Dick could.
Dick gently eased out of the stretch and moved to his other leg. "How?" he asked. "I'm not mad or anything, just most people can't usually do that without years of practice. And League of Assassins training doesn't explain all of it."
Damian scowled for a moment, then sighed. "Ballet," he admitted. "Mother taught me." He copied Dick again, stretching his other leg the same way and then moving backwards to the stretch they'd done before that.
"Are you any good?"
Damian raised an eyebrow, then nodded, standing and moving through a short routine, starting basic with pliés and then moving gracefully through several other motions before finishing with a series of what Dick recognized as fouetté turns, his one socked foot whispering against the hard floor.
"Wow," Dick breathed as Damian bowed gently. "You should sign up for classes. You're amazing."
Damian scoffed. "Don't be foolish, Grayson, I've seen how this culture treats ballerinos. If this was any other country, I might consider it, but not here."
"Fuck them," Dick said, startling himself with his vehemence. "You know how often I've been called girly for acrobatics?"
Damian shrugged.
"Often. Fuck them. Do what makes you happy, and Damian, if this helps you feel closer to your mom when she's so far away-" Dick swallowed and closed his eyes. "That's what Robin's about," he whispered. "It was her name for me. Her little Robin. Helping people, putting away the bad guys, it's all important, but in the beginning, it was just about my mom and how much I missed her. How much I still miss her."
Damian looked down at the ground. "I forget sometimes it's worse for you," he murmured.
"No, it's not." Dick stood and pulled him into a hug. "Just because your mom's still alive doesn't mean I have it worse." He sighed and knelt down to meet Damian at eye level. "Do you want to perform?"
Damian thought for a moment. "Yes," he murmured. "And no. It was - it was ours alone. It reminds me of her, bittersweetly, but it also feels like taking something away."
"Okay." Dick held him close. "Whatever you want, all you have to do is ask. Do what makes you happy."