Chapter Text
Dick had always prided himself on his ability to read people. Years of working alongside Batman had honed his observational skills to a razor's edge. So when Damian Wayne started acting differently, Dick noticed immediately.
It began with small things. Damian skipped breakfast three days in a row, claiming he wasn't hungry. For a boy who usually ate with the precision and discipline of a trained warrior, this was unusual. Alfred had mentioned it in passing, concern evident in his carefully neutral tone.
"Master Damian has been declining meals more frequently, Master Dick," Alfred had said while pouring morning coffee. "I wonder if perhaps he's unwell."
Dick had filed the information away, but didn't think much of it until patrol that night.
Damian was quiet on the rooftops, quieter than usual, which was saying something. The boy had never been particularly chatty, but he typically offered tactical observations, complained about criminals' incompetence, or made cutting remarks about Dick's acrobatic showing off. Tonight, he said nothing at all.
"You good, Little D?" Dick asked as they perched on a gargoyle overlooking Crime Alley.
"I'm fine, Grayson." The response was automatic, clipped.
"You've been quiet tonight."
"I'm concentrating on patrol."
Dick let it drop, but his instincts were pinging. Something was off.
The next day, Dick stopped by the Cave while Damian was supposedly doing homework. Instead, he found his little brother staring blankly at a textbook, not turning pages, not writing anything.
"How's the homework coming?"
Damian startled, actually startled, which never happened. "It's fine."
"What subject?"
"History."
Dick glanced at the book. It was mathematics. He didn't call Damian out on the lie, but the concern deepened.
That afternoon, Dick received a call from Gotham Academy. Mrs. Williams, the school counselor, wanted to schedule a meeting about Damian's "recent academic performance."
"His grades have been slipping," she explained in that carefully professional tone educators used when they were worried but trying not to alarm parents. "Several teachers have expressed concern. Damian is brilliant, as we all know, but his last three assignments in English were incomplete, and he failed a mathematics quiz last week."
Damian didn't fail quizzes. Ever.
"Has he said anything about what might be going on?" Dick asked.
"He's been... resistant to conversation. Defensive when teachers ask questions. We thought perhaps there might be something happening at home?"
Dick bristled slightly at the implication but kept his voice level. "I'll talk to him. Thank you for letting me know."
When he confronted Damian that evening, the boy's defenses went up immediately.
"My grades are fine."
"Mrs. Williams says you failed a math quiz."
"One quiz is hardly indicative of a pattern."
"It is for you. And you've been skipping meals, you're distracted, you barely talk anymore—"
"I talk plenty."
"Damian." Dick softened his voice, crouching down to be at eye level with his little brother. "I'm not trying to interrogate you. I'm worried. If something's wrong—"
"Nothing is wrong." Damian's jaw was set, his eyes hard. "I'm simply tired. School is tedious, and I've been training harder. That's all."
Dick wanted to push, but he recognized the wall Damian had thrown up. Pushing now would only make him retreat further.
"Okay," Dick said quietly. "But if you need to talk about anything- anything at all, I'm here. You know that, right?"
Damian nodded stiffly and returned to his room.
Dick stood in the hallway, unease settling in his gut like a stone.
The breaking point came two days later during a routine training session in the Cave. Dick was running Damian through hand-to-hand combat drills when he noticed his brother favoring his left side.
"You're dropping your right guard," Dick observed.
"I'm fine."
"You're compensating for something. Are you injured?"
"No."
Dick moved faster than Damian expected, grabbing his right wrist and pushing up the sleeve of his training uniform.
Bruises. Dark purple and yellow, finger-shaped marks circling Damian's forearm.
"What the hell is this?" Dick's voice was sharp with alarm.
Damian yanked his arm back. "It's nothing."
"Those are fresh bruises, Damian. They're not from patrol— I would have seen you take a hit like that. Where did they come from?"
"Training."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying!" Damian's voice rose, anger flashing in his eyes. "I trained with Todd yesterday. He was rougher than usual. That's all."
Dick knew Jason's fighting style. These bruises didn't match.
"Let me see your other arm."
"No."
"Damian—"
"I said no!" Damian's shout echoed through the Cave. "Why can't you just leave me alone? I'm fine! Everything is fine!"
He stormed off toward the changing rooms, leaving Dick standing alone in the training area, staring at the space where his little brother had been.
Dick pulled out his phone and texted Jason: Did you train with Damian yesterday?
The response came quickly: No. Haven't sparred with the demon brat in two weeks. Why?
Dick stared at the message, his concern crystallizing into something sharper.
Damian had lied. And those bruises had come from somewhere.
Dick made a decision. He was going to find out what was really going on with his little brother, whether Damian wanted to talk about it or not.
Something was very, very wrong.