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"Father."
The man doesn't look up from his paperwork, only giving an absentminded hum in response to Damian's inquiry. It feels different than with Richard— at least Richard sounds interested when he feigns listening— and it makes Damian bristle.
"Richard looks at me," Damian says, voice sharp and even just like his mother taught him. "When I speak to him, that is. I would appreciate it if you afforded me the same courtesy."
His father looks up at that, and Damian tries not to think about the way his lower lip is starting to tremble. He isn't a baby— he's twelve, and his kill-count is in the triple digits. It's just…
Difficult.
Damian's mother was equally distant, he thinks, but she had at least seemed to value his opinion to some degree. To his father, Damian is nothing but a child— too young to have anything of value to say. It stings more than it should.
(It feels nice, though, too— to have somebody who cares about washing off the blood staining his hands. When Richard goes out of his way to purchase the more expensive vegan alternatives Damian knows he struggles to afford, it makes something warm and soft beat behind his ribs and beg to be let out.)
"What is it, Damian?"
He's prepared for this— he even asked Drake, loathe as he is to admit it, and has a binder full of research and proof to provide his father— but that doesn't make the current situation any less intimidating.
"I have been doing extensive research—" he can already see his father shutting down. It isn't about an animal this time, really.
(Why doesn't his father want to hear about the animals Damian cares so much about? They're important. His research on how to care for Batcow had been thorough and well-documented, it had helped them adjust to having a cow on the property.)
"— and have reached the conclusion that I may have what is known as Autism Spectrum Disorder."
That gets his father's attention.
The man blinks at him— as much shock as The Dark Knight will allow himself to show— and gestures for him to continue on.
Damian shifts his weight in a way that would have his mother scolding him, but he can't seem to help it.
Taking a deep breath, he continues. "I believe I fit well within the diagnostic criteria," Damian says. "I have even interviewed Richard on the subject, and he has given me ample examples of my own symptoms. Such as my inability to make or maintain friends my own age— although, I believe that can be attributed to the fact that many of my classmates are simply beneath me—"
He falters when his father holds up a hand and pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Damian," his father says. His voice is as cold as Grandfather's, sometimes. Damian, despite his training, struggles to tell what his father is feeling for most of their conversations. "You don't have to explain yourself to me. If you think you're autistic, I can schedule you an appointment."
Oh.
Damian had been expecting more of a fight.
"I— that's it?" He hates how small he sounds. How unsure. This is his father he's speaking to— not somebody like Richard, who finds joy in things that are small and weak enough for him to care for.
"That's it," his father agrees. "If that's what you want. We don't have to get you evaluated if you don't want that, either. It's up to you."
His fingers squeeze around the edge of the binder he's holding, gaze locked just over his father's shoulder. "I would find that acceptable," he says after a minute. "What will be required of me?"
His father gets up from the desk to clap a hand on Damian's shoulder and kneel down in front of him. "Nothing," the man says. "Not right now. I'll find you somewhere to go, and we'll figure it out from there. Now—" he straightens out. "Why don't you show me that painting you were working on?"
It feels— wrong.
His father sits in Damian's art studio, basking in the warm light coming through the windows— large, stained-glass panes with intricate patterns, because Damian refuses to live like he had with Grandfather, trapped in a small, dark room— and nodding along as Damian explains his latest piece.
The painting isn't anything special— just a landscape of the manor grounds— but his father asks to hang it up on the wall in the entryway. Asks to frame it, like it's worth something more than the paint it cost to make.
"It's beautiful, Damian," his father tells him. It's the most the man has paid attention to him outside of Batman and Robin, and Damian is left wobbling as the solid foundation he built his life here on is pulled from under him.
"Thank you," he gives his father a stiff nod. "But I will provide something better to hang in the manor. This is nothing but a practice piece— a way to learn the new paints Todd bought me."
"Of course," his father stands, now, and leans in close, pressing a kiss to Damian's forehead. It makes him feel like he's been electrocuted. The only person— aside from his mother— who's ever touched him that gently is Richard. "I look forward to seeing it."
And then his father is gone— disappearing just as thoroughly as he does in-costume— and Damian is left alone in the studio to stare at the wall.
The only answer is that his father has been replaced by some sort of mimic. His father has never been so openly affectionate in Damian's entire time at the manor. There must be something untoward happening, because—
Because—
He curls up in one of the window seats, pressed into the corner with his skin against the warm glass.
Maybe he doesn't need to tell Richard of the mimic right away. Maybe Damian can let it be— see what it wants with the family and find proof before he brings it up, lest he be laughed at by the rest of them.
One of his hands comes up to press against the spot the mimic kissed, curling into a fist against the skin of his forehead.
Yes, he thinks. The mimic can wait.