Chapter Text
Leslie settles in the chair across from him, staring over steepled fingers.
“You’re not ill,” she says flatly and Damian nods, staring down at the carpet. He traces its curling pattern, forcing down the urge to fidget with his sweater’s cuffs.
“But you’re not eating. Why?” the doctor asks and Damian shakes his head, keeping his gaze lowered.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he tells her and gets a loud ‘humph!’ in response.
“I might,” she says, dry as a drought-struck riverbed. “You forget that I’ve treated your family for years. I know what kinds of things you lot get up to.”
He bites his cheek to fend off the rising heat brewing behind his eyes. The curling pattern of the carpet ends in a stylised flower. He wishes this isn’t how he’d noticed it.
“This is something they do not experience,” he admits, “I am the only one who has done this. It is… shameful.”
“Shameful,” Leslie repeats flatly, and he nods. Silence settles between them. He knows he should look at her, that it is respectful to show attention when speaking to others, but he cannot bring himself to do it. He doesn’t want to see the disapproval in her gaze, the disappointment that must be present there.
The silence continues until Damian can hear every tick of the clock in the hall, the quiet murmur of voices in other rooms. Its weight grows until he can no longer bear it and he breaks.
“I have been undisciplined,” he chokes out, tears breaking free to fall down his cheeks. He swipes at them furiously as he tries to retain his composure. “I have given into gluttony. I was trained to be the best in the world, the heir to the Demon’s Head and the son of the Bat but I have let everyone down. I have become soft.”
“I have become fat,” he confesses and it hurts so much to say, but there is just as much relief, like cleansing an infected wound. Having just one person know what he has done is enough. At least there will be one person who understands why he must do this.
His breath shudders and he sniffs as his nose threatens to cause even more indignity by running. A tissue box is thrust into his field of view and he accepts it, wiping his face clean. Dr Thompkins gives him the mercy of time to breathe and collect himself before she speaks again and he feels a welling sense of gratitude to her for it.
A gentle hand lands on his knee and he jerks away in surprise. Dr Thompkins face holds no pity, remaining her usual steadfast self. He’s glad for it. Pity would have made him cry again and he cannot stand the idea of falling any further.
“Damian, you’re not fat,” she tells him seriously. “As your doctor I can tell you that you are within the healthy weight range for your height and age. I would actually recommend increasing your daily caloric intake slightly– you’re not eating enough to fuel your growth, especially given how active you are.”
He shakes his head in denial. She doesn’t understand the position he occupies, that his fitness is so much more important than it would be to a civilian.
“I never had this problem when I lived with my mother,” he admits. “My diet was heavily monitored and regulated. My adoptive siblings have been poor influences. She would be so ashamed of me for giving in.”
“Having a bit of extra weight isn’t a problem at your age kid, and having some extra padding would actually be good for you. You were borderline underweight when you arrived and you need the extra calories to grow. Your dad is six feet tall, your body is going to need all the energy it can get if you’re going to get there.”
Damian presses his eyes closed, fighting the moisture that wants to escape. He can’t think that way. He can’t.
“You just wait, one big growth spurt and it’ll all be gone,” Dr Thompkins assures him, sitting back, and then silence falls again. This time there is an extra thread of tension in the air and when he looks at her he can see there is something she wants to say.
“I’d like to recommend you talk to someone about your issues with food and body image,” she admits. “Your fasting has been extreme given the short time you’ve been dealing with this. Have you had any thoughts about hurting yourself?”
He imagines the clean, carved lines of flesh exposed by his knife, cutting away his imperfections and leaving sculpted muscle behind.
“No,” he lies. “None.”
***
He remains in the den when the doctor leaves, curling up into the corner of the couch and burying his face in one of the useless throw pillows until he can breathe again. The respite is short lived. A quiet knock sounds and the door opens to reveal the person he wants to see least. There is very little chance that the doctor kept her word of not telling father his secrets and he isn’t ready to lose his place here yet.
Bruce takes a step to the side and Cass slips past him, kneeling in front of the couch to inspect him. Her eyes hold his for only a moment before she leans forward and pulls him into her arms. Something about it makes him want to cry again which is utterly ridiculous. He is Robin, not some snivelling civilian. There is nothing that should be able to bring him to tears, especially not something as frivolous as this. He clutches her back, burying his face in her shoulder until the urge subsides.
A weight settles beside him causing the cushion to dip, and a warm arm wraps around his back. He pulls away from Cass and buries himself in his father’s chest instead, luxuriating in the slender fingers that move to caress his hair. His sister vanishes after a few minutes, the quiet click of the door shutting behind her the only sound.
“I’m sorry,” Father whispers, rubbing soothing circles over his back. “I shouldn’t have pushed. It was wrong of me to force you to see Leslie, I was just so scared something was wrong.”
“I understand,” Damian croaks, and Father drops a soft kiss onto his head.
“I love you so much, you know that?” Father asks and Damian fights to swallow the sudden lump in his throat.
“Yes,” he answers, hands tightening in the fabric of Father’s shirt.
“You can tell me anything,” Father promises. “Whatever it is, we’ll work it out, I promise.”
“I can’t,” he whispers back, and his heart aches. He wishes he could.
“Why not chum?”
He can’t put it into words. He can’t explain how nothing makes sense anymore, how the expectations that have always been on his shoulders have shifted, how the rules are so different and he never knows if he’s doing the right thing. He can’t explain how the very sight of himself makes him feel sick. He settles on: “Everything is different here. Everything.”
Father hums consideringly, arms tightening just a little to pull him closer. “If I can do anything to help…” he offers and Damian clutches him back.
“Just let me handle this. Please.”
“Alright love. If that’s what you need."