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Has Richard Grayson Gained Weight at a Recent Sighting at the Wayne Gala?
His eyes hovered over the title for the thousandth time. With each word reread, his grip on the flimsy magazine strengthened. It was just some stupid article engagement baiting, Dick reasoned, yet he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. So there he was, half-naked and pinching his torso in front of a full-length mirror. His body was near perfect. Dick knew that. But perhaps some skin around his abdomen was… looser. He couldn’t help but remember the frequent pizza he’d been delivering home and feasting on after patrol, or the tub of ice cream he had been working his way through. This was so dumb.
“Richard?” A young voice called.
“One sec,” Dick bellowed back, quickly sliding the magazine into his courier bag instead of a trash can. He was going to read it again. And again. And again. He liked wallowing in self-pity, apparently.
He quickly slid on a plain Tee and strung the bag over his shoulder, planning to discard it by the table.
Dick quickly pushed open his old bedroom door and was met by Damian, who was hovering impatiently with his arms crossed and had a pout mounted upon his face. His younger brother had half-damp hair that lay slick on his forehead, and was wearing casual clothes he would never be caught outside in.
“Dami-”
“You said you’d eat dinner with us. Why aren’t you downstairs?” Damian immediately probed, using aggression to hide his concern.
“I… lost track of time. Sorry, Little D,” Dick huffed, bashfully rubbing the back of his neck. He gently laid a hand on Damian’s shoulder and herded the grumpy boy down the manor stairs.
The brothers approached the dining table, and Dick took note of the quiet chatter.
At the table sat Bruce and Jason, who were amidst idle chatter. Tim and Steph were also somewhere in the manor. Judging by the recently cleaned plates Alfred had just placed on a drying rack, the two had just finished and scurried off.
Alfred returned from the kitchen to finish setting up Dick’s cutlery. Upon seeing that Dick had come down from his room, he smiled warmly. Dick flashed him a grateful smile in return as he took his seat across from Jason and next to Damian, with Bruce sitting at the adjacent head of the table. Both men sent Dick and Damian quick nods of acknowledgment while wrapping up their conversation about a case Dick didn’t recognize. Now spending the majority of his time in Bludhaven, he frequently fell out of the loop with Gotham affairs. He would never abandon his city, but Dick’s occasional patrols with bats gave him endless comfort.
Some nights, Dick would yearn for having family watching his back, but he’d remember he joined them only a week or two ago. Dick would clench his fists and jump across the Bludhaven rooftops alone, not wanting to overstay his welcome in the sister city
Catching on to Dick’s somber, Jason wrapped up his conversation and shifted his form away from Bruce and towards Dick. He sent his older brother a mixed look that Dick ignored. Had he seen the magazine? It was decently popular—it came from a high-end celebrity publishing company—and their family was a hot topic in Gotham. Dick had found (and bought—the cashier shot him a strange and pitiful look) the issue at the check-out of a cafe he frequented.
Thankfully, Jason switched focus.
“So, Brat…” Jason started instead, prompting Damian to start talking about an art exhibition he was looking forward to. Dick silently watched the exchange and couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Damian being so passionate despite his usual demeanor. He noticed Jason subtly side-eyeing his empty plate while listening to Damian. Right. Dinner.
Alfred had made a large bowl of penne pasta, with enough to feed 2 or 3 families—they all ate significantly more than a typical man due to their… side jobs. Instead of reaching for the pasta, Dick scooped some salad into his plate. The excess dressing probably negates the lettuce’s nutritional value. He lamely scraped some dressing off with his fork. This was dumb, Dick repeated.
He knew that eating a small plate of salad wasn’t going to make him lose weight, nevertheless regain muscle. He also knew that it wasn’t a necessary goal, and that he was fit. And Alfred's pasta looked delectable. But he forced his hand down, instead picking at croutons.
Jason’s prying eyes returned to him. Didn’t he have his own problems to worry about? Dick immediately shunned that thought—family cared for each other. He sighed and shoved a forkful of lettuce, tomato, and cabbage into his mouth. Greens spilled out of his mouth messily, and he felt like a giraffe after an acacia snack. Two or three crunches in, Dick realised the table fell quite, and each member gave him a strange look. There was nothing wrong with eating salad. He must’ve been eating so poorly that it appeared unusual. Goddamnit, Dick.
Jason bit his cheek and stood up abruptly.
“I have to use the bathroom,” he announced, before glaring at Dick expectantly. Understanding his intent, Dick quickly chewed and swallowed the green amalgamation formed in his mouth.
“...same,” he whispered pathetically, launching himself up and then maneuvering around Bruce’s chair to follow Jason out of the room.
Bruce attempted to catch Jason’s attention, but the second Robin avoided his pointed gaze. Damian looked at the scene with irritation—it had been a while since Dick had joined him for dinner.
——
“You’re letting that fucking magazine give you an eating disorder! You eat like a fuckin’ robin, alright, if anything, you need to have more,” Jason accused in an aggressive whisper. His diction made Dick wince.
“That's- that's not what it- what are you-”
“No, you’ve always been like this. A damn dumbass who cares too much about what everyone thinks about him. How insecure are you that you let one shitty headline make you play with a few leaves and croutons for dinner?” Jason bit, “you’re being ridiculous.”
His brother's harsh words effectively riled him up. Dick clenched his arms in an attempt to stay level-headed, but before he could respond, a voice piped up.
“Master Dick, Master Jason, your food is getting cold,” Alfred called, popping out from behind the wall. Deciding not to mention salad didn’t get cold, Dick scanned Alfred's face and sighed when he determined the man hadn’t heard their whisper-shout exchange.
“Eat some carbs, dumbass,” Jason concluded, gripping Dick’s shoulder tight and pushing him forward. However, he himself stayed behind.
“Dick… call Damian out here for me?”
Dick hesitantly scanned Jason and sighed. He re-entered the dining room before calling out to the youngest.
“Little D?” Bruce and Damian looked towards Dick and noted Jason’s absence. Dick completed, “Jason needs your help… in the bathroom.”
Bruce subtly huffed in amusement at Dick’s commitment to the bathroom lie, but it was quickly overshadowed by the frustration of being kept out of the loop.
Damian slowly slid off his chair with concern while Dick plopped back down. Dick watched his youngest brother trot out of the room before turning back to an expectant Alfred and Bruce.
Thankfully, Bruce stayed silent, waiting for Dick to explain.
“Don’t worry about it,” he started.
“Dick-”
“B,” He rasped exasperatedly. Bruce sighed and went back to eating. Dick’s eyes trailed back to the pasta. He never had an issue with food. It… it wasn’t an eating issue, he told himself. Maybe it was a problem, but he didn’t have a name for it. Ever since Bruce had taken him in—and before that as well, back when he pranced around in Haly’s circus—Dick had always scarfed down everything on his plate with little complaint.
Why did that damn magazine affect him this much?
The scrutinizing public was always reaching for nonsensical attention grabs, but Bruce had thankfully shielded his eyes from their words and pictures until he moved out. So perhaps magazines had always been putting out things about him, and he had simply been blind to them until recently. Or maybe not, and Dick simply had fallen off.
“So, B, hows-”
“Richard... It appears Jason requires your presence in the bathroom once again,” Damian interrupted, re-entering the dining room. Bruce nearly growled, his irritation clear. Dick shot him a sympathetic look before pushing back his chair and getting up again.
Dick and Damian swiftly switched places, and when the former made eye contact with his younger brother, he noted that his face twisted in a different kind a frustration than before.
Damian sat down and glanced at Bruce; his father was gripping his fork with concerning force—he swore
It was bending a little.
——
Dick nervously entered the hallway leading towards the nearest bathroom.
“Sorry.”
He looks towards his brother, surprised. Jason looked away, pensive.
“I- I don’t know why I freaked out like that.”
“It’s okay, Little Wing-”
“No. It’s not. I shouldn’t have gotten aggressive like that. I… was hoping you hadn’t seen the magazine. That was really shitty of them. You know it's not true, right?”
Dick paused. “Yeah.”
“You hesitated. It’s not true, Dickhead.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t- look, call over Damian. I think you should talk to him.”
Dick pursed his lips. What had Jason told him? He definitely didn’t mention the magazine—Damian was too young to have to worry about that. He paused once more before nodding and letting Jason walk ahead, slowly trailing behind.
“Damian, we need-”
THUD.
Bruce slammed his fist onto the table, each bowl shifting from the impact.
“That's enough! We’re done with this ‘bathroom’ switch game. We sit at the table and eat together, or you all get out!” Bruce barked.
Despite their respective moments of rebellion towards their father, all three boys flinched at his tone, and Jason and Dick quickly found their seats.
“Now, what is going on?” Bruce asked, voice stern but softening with curiosity and concern.
Dick looked towards Jason pathetically and sighed deeply. He slid his half-filled plate of salad away from him and walked to where he had left his bag. Opening it up, Dick pulled out the magazine and slid it towards Bruce, sitting back down in shame.
Since he was looking firmly away, Dick missed how Bruce’s face scrunched and how his hands dug into the magazine, permanently creasing it. Bruce lifted his gaze towards Dick’s plate. He grit his teeth and stood up.
“Dick, come with me,” Bruce ordered.
“Now who’s playing the ‘bathroom’ switch game?” Jason quipped. The glare he got in return shut him up real quick. Ashamed, Dick stood up and followed Bruce into the hallway, his eyes glued to his feet, and his arms wrapped around himself.
“I know it’s not true,” Dick half lied. He did know that to some extent. Jason was right. He cared about others' opinions too much.
“Chum,” Bruce started, ignoring Dick, “Are you alright?”
“I didn’t get stabbed last night, so I’m just peachy.”
“Dick.”
“I just- I don’t get why this provokes me so much, B,” Dick murmured.
Bruce raised his hand and laid it on Dick’s shoulder. It was the most comfort he could expect from his mentor, but Dick was grateful.
“I get it,” Dick doubted that, “but I need you to know that it is not true. But even if it was, and you had gained weight-”
“It’d be okay. I know, B,” Dick completed. He couldn’t imagine losing his body; it was closely tied to his worth. Maybe that was his problem. He tried shoving the thought away—it was hurting his brain. That would be a dilemma for future, older Dick.
“I’ll be sure to… deal with this,” Bruce said, holding up the crumpled magazine. Dick cracked a small, appreciative grin.
“Celebrity mags are always gonna be like this, B, there’s no use,” he replied.
“Nobody is commenting on my son and getting away with it.”
Dick laughed.
“Thanks, Dad.”