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It started off with small signs.
Bruises, mostly. Not unusual ones, not the kind that immediately screamed danger, just… frequent. Too frequent. Dark marks along Peter’s arms that he’d quickly pull his sleeve down to cover, wincing when he moved too fast, the poorly applied concealer on his face. On the rare occasion Dick saw Peter’s shirt ride up, revealing his deeply bruised stomach. The kind that overlapped in a way that made it hard to tell where one injury ended and the next began.
Dick noticed.
Of course he did. He noticed everything about Peter. The way he’d fidget with his glasses, the way he’d look down so his hair hid his expression when he was embarrassed.
That was the problem, because noticing led to thinking, and thinking led to spiraling, and Dick had been spiraling since the moment he found out he had a kid, a kid who had grown up without him.
So yeah. He noticed the bruises. Then he noticed the way Peter flinched. It was small, barely there, a twitch in his shoulders when someone moved abruptly, a step back when Dick reached out too suddenly, the way any loud noise made him wince. He’d cover his ears when he didn’t think people were looking.
And in his defense, Dick tried so hard not to jump to conclusions.
It’s just that he failed miserably. .
Because then came the exhaustion.
Peter was always tired. Not just teenager stays up too late tired, not midterms are killing me tired. This was bone-deep, dragging exhaustion, the kind that made Peter slump into chairs like gravity had doubled, the kind that made him blink a little too slow, react a little too late.
And he tried to hide it! That was the worst part. Peter tried, god, he tried.
He was as quick to smile as he was to drop that same smile, brushing things off, laughing at the right moments like he’d studied how to be okay and memorized it just enough to pass.
That’s when the anxiety stopped being quiet.
It escalated from there. Peter stopped mentioning certain things. “School’s fine.” “Everything’s good.” “Just tired.” Answers that were technically correct and completely useless. Dick tried not to push. He really did. The last thing he wanted was to scare Peter off. He was still new enough in Peter’s life that everything felt fragile. He didn’t even have any legal rights yet! He’d only spent the night at the manor once, and that was because him and Damian fell asleep while watching a spider documentary and he got coaxed into eating dinner and staying.
Also he hadn’t, like, gotten around to, y’know, telling Peter. That he was the cause for half of his genetic code. And he had an addiction gene, and Peter should really steer clear of that kind of stuff just in case.
One wrong move, one push too far, and Peter might pull away. The kid was more skittish than Damian sometimes.
Dick couldn’t risk that.
And sure, he sounded an awful lot like Bruce (thanks, Steph.) but he had something Bruce didn’t. A book on parenting. Specifically, how to care for a (obviously) traumatized teenager.
The breaking point came on a Tuesday. Peter showed up late to the Library, which wasn’t unusual, but this time he was limping. Just slightly, just enough that the untrained eye might miss it. Dick didn’t. He never wanted to miss anything about his kid again.
“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Rough day?”
Peter paused like he was thinking of an excuse, catching onto the way Dick eyed his leg. “Yeah, uh, gym. Twisted something.”
Gym. Sure, he didn’t buy that one bit, but he nodded anyway. “Did you make sure to ice it? Don’t want it to get worse.”
Peter shrugged like it didn’t matter. “It’s fine.”
Fine. Dick frowned, but let Peter change the topic. Duke was tutoring social studies for Peter. Him, Tim, and Damian took turns tutoring him. It was how they kept him coming to the library so they could weasel in as much food and free things they could convince him to take.
He sat and listened to Duke teach. Peter’s cheek had concealer on again.
—+—
That night, Dick didn’t sleep. He sat in the Cave, staring at the screen while footage played on a loop. School security cameras, hallways, entrances, classrooms. He watched Peter move through them, small and quiet, slipping between crowds like he didn’t want to be noticed. No obvious threats. No confrontations. Nothing. And yet Dick leaned back, dragging a hand through his hair.
Something was wrong. He could feel it.
The next day, he followed him. Not openly, not as Nightwing, just close enough. Peter left school like normal, head down, backpack slung over one shoulder, moving faster than most people his size had any right to.
Peter didn’t go home. He turned into an alley.
Dick’s pulse spiked.
He followed soundlessly, keeping to the shadows. Peter was already there, and he wasn’t alone. Three teens who couldn’t have been much younger flanked around him. Dick’s blood went cold. One of them shoved Peter, hard. Peter stumbled back, hitting the wall. Dick moved without hesitation.
He hit the ground between them like a blade. “Back off,” he snapped, voice sharp and dangerous.
The teen startled, swearing, stepping back instinctively. Peter blinked. “Wait—”
“Are you okay?” Dick cut in, already turning to him, scanning for injuries. Peter looked confused more than scared. “Uh… yeah?”
Dick didn’t relax. He turned back to the guys, eyes narrowing. “Leave.”
They didn’t argue. They bolted.
Dick exhaled, tension still tight in his chest as he turned back to Peter. “Are you hurt?”
Peter stared at him, then laughed, not nervous, not forced, just genuinely amused. Dick blinked. “…What?”
Peter rubbed the back of his neck, still grinning. “Okay, wow, that was very dramatic.”
Dick frowned. “They shoved you.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s kind of the point.”
“…The point of what?”
Peter tilted his head. “Training?”
Dick raised an eyebrow. “…Training.”
“Yeah,” Peter said, like it was obvious. “They’re helping me with self-defense stuff. I mean, they’re not great, but like, real-world unpredictability, you know?”
Dick stared at him, then at the empty alley, then back at Peter. “You’re telling me that you let people corner you in an alley—”
“They didn’t corner me, I picked the alley—”
“—so they could push you around—”
“Lightly—”
“—as training?”
Peter winced. “When you say it like that—”
Dick pressed his hands to his face. For a long second he didn’t say anything, then a laugh broke out of him. Sharp, disbelieving, relieved. “Oh my god,” he said, dropping his hands. “I thought—” He cut himself off.
Peter’s expression softened. “…You thought I was getting hurt,” he said quietly.
Dick hesitated, looking at Peter. He had put his glasses safely away in a case before turning into the alley. He didn’t actually need them, but seemed to keep them more as a memorial. It left his baby browns on display. While their eye color differed, their eye shape was the same. It never ceased to leave Dick breathless. This was his kid.
“...Yeah.”
Peter blinked, then looked down. “…Oh.” After a moment he added, a little unsure, “That’s… kind of nice?”
“Terrifying, actually. I just thought…” Dick huffed. “Because you were so evasive about the bruises that something bad was happening.”
Peter smiled faintly. “Yeah, that tracks for Gotham.”
Dick shook his head, the last of the tension finally bleeding out of him. “You can’t just do that. You could’ve gotten seriously hurt.”
Peter shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”
Dick faltered at that, but pushed the thought aside. One thing at a time. “Next time,” he said, pointing at him, “you tell me before you start alley fight club.”
Peter snorted. “Noted.”
Dick sighed, relief finally settling in his chest. Harmless. It was harmless. He’d been so sure. He glanced at Peter again, taking in the bruises, the exhaustion, the way he still held himself like someone used to taking hits and not making a big deal out of it.
Harmless, mostly.
“Come on,” Dick said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Peter perked up slightly. “Do we get Batburger?”
Dick scoffed. “Obviously.”
“Okay, yeah,” Peter said, brightening immediately. “So worth it.”
Dick shook his head, but he was smiling, and for the first time in days, he let himself believe he might be doing okay being a dad.