Work Text:
“What are you smiling about?”
His littlest brother kept smiling. If anything, the smile got bigger. Seeing it made his blood run cold in his veins.
On the whole, Dick Grayson enjoyed it when his family smiled. He encouraged it, he sought it out, he did everything in his power to make it happen. He took pride in being the one to bring out their grins, particularly from the members of the family who thought expressing an emotion was a cardinal sin. They’d all experienced enough tragedies and needed some joy.
This, though? This was not a joyful smile. This smile seemed to promise pain.
“Dami? Lil D? Whatcha doing?”
Damian didn’t make eye contact or respond in any way. His gaze was firmly fixed on the sketchbook in his lap, his pencil dashing across it at a frankly alarming speed.
Dick tried to give him the benefit of a doubt. He supposed his brother could just be drawing something that did legitimately make him smile in a non-murder-y sort of way. Damian liked art, and he was good at it. He’d certainly spent enough time encouraging his little brother to take pleasure in a hobby that involved zero violence. He could be drawing a comic and had done something amusing. He could be drawing Jon in some sort of ridiculous suit. He could be drawing a terrible misfortune befalling Tim-
Was he drawing a terrible misfortune befalling Tim? Was he PLANNING a terrible misfortune that was going to befall Tim via a drawing? There had been a prank war raging between the younger members of the family for a few weeks, and from what Dick remembered, Tim had gotten Damian on multiple occasions. Their youngest brother could be plotting some sort of dangerous payback.
Dick wandered closer, trying to be casual in order to get a peek at the sketchpad before Damian wised up and bolted. He didn’t like to share his drawings for whatever reason, and he certainly wouldn’t allow it if he were using his skills for evil. His little brother was clearly distracted, though, so the acrobat thought he might get away with it for a change.
Of course, Damian looked up and scoffed, closing the book with an irate “Tt.”
Dick pouted. “C’mon, Dami, let me see it.”
The boy lifted his nose in the air. “You know Father told you not to snoop in my things, Grayson. Don’t think you’re fooling anyone with your so-called ‘sneaking’.”
“You wound me, Lil D. I’m not snooping at all.”
All he got in response was another chiding noise. Damian set the sketchbook on the perfectly polished coffee table in front of him and rose, and Titus, who had been sleeping nearby, instantly came to his master’s heels. The two swanned out of the room, heading to the stairs that led to their bedrooms.
Dick hesitated, looking at the book, then at his brother’s retreating back. Yes, Bruce had told him not to go through Damian’s things, that they had to let him have his privacy. He even agreed most of the time. Something just wasn’t sitting right, though, and Bruce had also taught him to trust his instincts, particularly when it could mean someone’s safety was on the line.
He reached for the sketchpad. Stopped himself. Picked it up, then put it down again. Finally, he closed his eyes, yanked it toward him, and flipped it to the newest drawing.
“DAMIAN!” he shrieked, leaping over the sofa and using the height from his jump to catch the banister of the stairs. The momentum let him flip over the railing, and he shot up the steps as fast as he could go. “DON’T YOU DARE DO ANY OF THAT TO MY ROOM!”