idkwichname requested this one so I hope they like it!!

TW: EATING DISORDERS ARE A THEME THROUGHOUT

Eating disorders are deadly. Speak out if you need help which I know is incredibly difficult but please do. I've used this video as well as others to represent it correctly but if there are things that are wrong here please let me know and I will change them. Stay safe and be kind to yourself

https://www.lifeworkscommunity.com/eating-disorders-treatment/guide-to-uk-free-eating-disorders-helplines

https://www.bulimia.com/topics/eating-disorder-hotline/

Control. 

It was an important and key part of child development. When a child feels out of control, they do what they can to feel it again. When Dick's parents died, he felt out of control. The act was supposed to go how it usually did. His mother was supposed to grab him and they'd do a few tricks and the crowd would cheer for them. It was supposed to be fun. Then the wire snapped and suddenly everything changed. His world shattered. They plummeted to the ground and became a bloody mess. His mind took a picture and remembered to pull it up whenever closed his eyes. Then he wasn't even allowed to stay with the people with who he grew up. The authorities snatched him away and he tried to scream for them to let him go but they took him anyway. He didn't have a choice in the matter. They put him in a car and he just dealt with the situation as he was driven somewhere he didn't know. He was numb as he was led into a room and told this would be where he was staying until something happened. Something. He couldn't trigger that something to happen. He couldn't be the person to make the thing happen. He had to wait. He didn't have control. Then something happened. Bruce Wayne fostered him and took him home. That's where he was now, sitting in a foreign home at a dining table with food he didn't want. 

"You don't have to eat it bud. It's up to you," Bruce told him after watching the boy play with his meal. Those words struck something in the boy. That's right. He didn't have to eat it. He could choose this. He could choose what went into his body. He could control that. He chewed his bottom lip and stared at the food before nodding to himself. Did he want this food? No. Then he wouldn't eat it. He pushed his plate forward and Alfred swiftly picked it up. "Would you like anything else?" He shook his head. "Alright, then how about you go wash up?" He nodded and hopped off his chair, content with this discovery. Control was something his life had been lacking and now that he had it, he wouldn't let go of the death grip he had.  

So Dick grew up with a system. When things felt out of control, when he felt he couldn't get a handle on his issues when too much was happening to him, he'd control what he ate. He'd become calorie obsessed and almost challenge himself to restrict more than he ever should. It came with some relief to see the effects of his work such as his frame becoming slimmer and becoming much lighter. It was his little secret to keep control of life even when it damaged him. Perfecting excuses had come hand in hand with the coping mechanism so much so that no one was aware that he even had a problem with food. He'd argue he was sick, which he usually was thanks to his stomach cramping from the lack of meals, or he'd assure them that he was just training himself to run on low energy if he was ever kidnapped. Other times he'd say it was a diet and on a few separate occasions, he'd say he'd already eaten but he kept that one to a minimum in case anyone called him out on it. Once whatever stressful situation passed, he'd lightly let go of the restriction just to prove that this wasn't a problem. He could stop at any time, he assured himself. This was a coping mechanism, not something that needed seeing. Besides, he couldn't risk people finding out and making him give up his control. Everything was fine as long as he could stop right? Wrong. One particularly stressful school term mixed with pushing his abilities at night proved it could only last for so long without people finding out.

Batman watched his protege closely over the last week. He swore he never saw the boy eat at any of the meals they had together nor did he ever see Robin snack. This behaviour became even more peculiar when he noticed Robin wouldn't let Alfred make his coffee anymore. He'd watched from the doorway as his protege went to the fridge and stared at the back of the milk carton before looking at something on his phone. With a frown, he put the milk back and then did the same with the sugar. Eventually, he ended up with a black coffee which Batman knew for a fact he didn't like even without the look of disgusted glum on his face. He didn't say anything but he kept replaying the scene over in his mind, especially now that they were on a stakeout with little else to do but ruminate. There was something about it he couldn't get past. It was like he had all the dots on the corkboard but no yarn to connect the pins. He was missing the connective thread. 

His thoughts broke when he heard Robin let out a low whimper. He darted his eyes over to him subtly, noticing the discomfort on the teen's face. Did he get injured last night? No, no he would've told him. Something did catch his eye though. His suit was baggy. Not enough to be immediately noticeable but enough for it to be caught when he close up. That was...weird. Why would the suit be baggy? He shouldn't be getting skinnier, he was already fighting fit. This wasn't a new iteration of the suit either so it couldn't be from missing an alteration. Another piece of evidence popped up on the mental corkboard. Limited eating, sudden weight loss, staring at the back of food packaging, and making his own drinks. Maybe he was sick and thought he was having an allergy to something. Surely he would've said something if that were the case though. Then again, it wasn't exactly Robin's thing to admit when something was wrong. He was secretive like that. The issue with that was Batman didn't know how to get the information out of him. He was awkward and clunky in his questioning and usually just made things worse. How do you even ask about this stuff and know you're getting the correct answer? Robin was getting a little too good at lying and even Batman had to really think about this. 

"There they are," Robin stated, pointing to the doors they'd been watching. 

"You get Ashworth, I'll get Ryman." The younger nodded. They stood up and he noticed how his ward stumbled a little but brushed it off as his legs probably going dead from inactivity. Then they jumped into action, causing their targets to rush off in separate directions. They'd anticipated this and set off after their assigned criminal. For now, Batman's worry was pushed to the back of his mind as he hunted down Ryman. 

That worry was suddenly thrown back to the forefront of his thoughts when Robin was taking too long to bring Ashworth back to their starting point.

"Where's the kid?" Ryman asked. He'd actually been quite pleasant whilst sitting tied up on the cold pavement. He didn't try to run off, mostly because there was no point when Batman was hunting you and didn't spit insults. It was a shame he killed twenty people, maybe they'd get along better. 

"He went after your partner," Batman replied. The criminal nodded. 

"Hey, are you feeding that kid?" The question caught him off guard because it didn't have a taunting or leading tone. It was genuine. The vigilante nodded, intrigued as to what his prisoner was getting at. "It's just that last time I saw him, he had a bit more substance to him. He looks awfully skinny." That's what Batman had been thinking lately too. Had he missed the true extent of the change? They say that when people make small changes if you see them every day you hardly notice it. You might think they look a little different but it's not until you look back on an old picture that you think wow they've changed. Did he need to look at an old picture? Not really since he had the embodiment of one of those. Ryman had told him there'd been a drastic change and now he was sick to the stomach. 

He had the thread. 

He winded it around the imaginary pins, connecting each of them with the line of red. 

Then he took a step back. 

Restricted eating, calorie counting, controlled intake, baggy clothes, and lightheadedness. 

He hadn't seen Robin eat this week because Robin hadn't eaten that week. At least, not around anyone. He wasn't sick in the sense of an allergic reaction or the flu. He was sick mentally. 

Robin had an eating disorder. 

The sentence hit him like a tonne of bricks. How he could he miss that? He was a detective for God's sake and he couldn't even see that his boy's body was eating away at itself. His brain skipped through piece after piece of one-off events he'd seen over the years and dismissed but now shed them in the new light. Each of them became an obvious sign. Ones that he discounted. All those excuses around eating. All those times he'd just assumed Robin wasn't hungry. All those days he'd seen him roam about the house in clothes far too big. Yet he'd ignored it all and there were years worth of the evidence. He needed to find Robin now. Leaving Ryman on the floor, Batman took off in the direction his protege had run off in. It didn't take him too long to find his boy. Only, Robin was lying on the floor with an anxious Ashworth moving him into the recovery position. 

"I swear I didn't do anything!" the criminal called out. "He just passed out chasing me and I-I-"

"Don't care," Batman growled out as he dropped to his knees to scoop up the acrobat. He was limp, his brow drenched with sweat and his skin drained of rosiness. His cheekbones were protruding and the bags under his eyes were the only thing giving a pop of colour to his face. He quickly pressed the button for the Batmobile as he cuddled his ward closely. Robin was tiny. His boy was tiny. This wasn't right but he was going to fix it. He was going to make sure of it. The Batmobile arrived not a minute later and Batman strode toward it, forgetting his mission. He'd let the police know where the killers were but he wouldn't be the one to bring them in. He cringed when a soft whine escaped Robin's lips as he was buckled into the passenger's seat. He typed in the coordinates of Leslie's office and hoped that the doctor was in.

She was.

Dick felt wrong. His limbs felt both weightless and heavy, the world around him was muffled and his very existence felt like he was sinking. He couldn't concentrate on anything but the hands cupping his right hand. It was big and warm, the fingers calloused and coarse. They were strong hands. He just knew they were even with his eyes closed. His mind flicked through to who the hands could belong to. 

Not Alfred, his hands were soft and wrinkly. 

Not Barbara's, hers were hardly as big. 

No, he knew this hold. He'd felt it before. He went through the codex of memories contained in his brain and pulled out one from when he'd been stabbed. He'd been sitting in the hospital after surgery and Bruce was holding his hand for comfort. The hands belonged to Bruce. Maybe those soft murmurings were also the billionaire. Dick needed visual confirmation so he put all his energy into opening his eyes. His eyelids felt like weights and his eyes felt dry but he still forced them open because the anticipation of confirmation was something he couldn't deal with for much longer. 

When he finally got his eyes open, he was met with a dimmed room. He was staring at a machine. Heart monitor, his brain filled in. Hospital then. He dragged his eyes down to his hand where he could see Bruce. He was right. Confused, he went back through his last memories. Ashworth had been caught in a dead-end and he was going to cuff him when his whole head hurt. His stomach felt like it was eating itself which didn't help. He'd blinked a few times but he could clear the black dots racing in to cover his vision. His body felt painless for a brief moment before he felt like he was falling. The memory cut out there. He must've passed out. 

"Hey, you're awake," Bruce greeted. The man's tone was soft and comforting, washing Dick with a sense of ease. He was safe, the voice had told him. After nodding, Dick became aware of something in his throat. It wasn't a breathing tube, he'd felt that before. No, this was different. It stung. He followed the foreign feeling from his throat, through his nose, onto his cheek and behind his ear. Slowly, he turned to see if it was connected to something but to his horror he found a bag of something thick. He put two and two together. It was a feeding tube. His hand flew up to his face but never made it there. Bruce caught him by the wrist and guided his hand back down. 

"What're you doing?" Dick asked in a frantic voice. 

"You were severely malnourished," the older answered. He reused the tone that was supposed to make the acrobat feel safe but he couldn't feel reassured when he'd just lost control. His thoughts spiralled with panic and all he could focus on was frustration.

"You had no right to do this! I didn't say you could do this!" the teen yelled, his voice cracking. 

"Chum, please. You're sick."

"I wasn't sick! I could've stopped," he snarled back. 

"No, you wouldn't have," Bruce replied matter of factly. "Because you've been doing this for years. It only took me today to realise. I'm so sorry I didn't notice sooner." His words were lost on the other. 

"Shut up, you can't just force-feed me. Get it out of me now!"

"I can't do that."

"Then get someone who can! I don't want it, I don't. I don't. I don't." Tears bubbled up in his eyes as reality sank in. He'd been found out. Things would be out of control again. He needed to be in control. This wasn't fair that once again someone was storming into his life and snatching something that offered comfort away. Why was this wrong when he could've stopped?

"Dick, I know it's terrifying. I can help if you tell me what triggered this. I can help you fix this."

"It didn't need fixing! Y-you ruined everything!" Bruce didn't rise to it. He didn't leave which Dick had expected. He just sat there and held his hands as he wept. Occasionally, he'd offer comforting shushes but Dick was too far in his seething anger to register the kindness. He wanted to push Bruce away but he just couldn't. He wanted to feel comforted whilst his world crumbled.

During his recovery, Dick went through so many emotions. 

At first, he was pissed beyond belief. He yelled more at Bruce than he ever would've in his life. Especially when he came home from the hospital to find everything had its calories blocked out and when he googled anything to do with calories it was missing. Bruce had put a block on the word and he wasn't allowed to go grocery shopping with them until he stopped trying to look at calories. 

He felt shame for being caught. For jeopardising his career because if he'd passed out at another time, in front of any other criminal, he might not just be hooked up to an IV and feeding tube. He felt shame that everyone watched what they said around him and wouldn't mention food unless necessary. 

The shame lingered before manifesting into the pure embarrassment of needing help. He thought he was doing such a good job of hiding. He thought he could keep doing it as much as he needed and stop but he never really did stop. 

Then the terrifying realisation set in of what exactly he'd gotten himself into. Food would be different for a very long time, perhaps never going back to what it was before without serious work. He broke down. Had relapses. Things got worse before they got better. He was depressed, swallowed up by his emotions and losing his coping mechanisms before. It got dark. Very dark. Yet through it all, Bruce stayed. He made sure he went to therapy, he did everything he could to make food seem less intimidating, he listened to how Dick needed control and offered other outlets, and he sat there through the arguments and attempts to push him away. He stayed.

Then Dick finally felt it. Happiness. He clung to that sense of accomplishment and pride in overcoming this. It had been hell but he got through. He got better. Although he'd always carried the weight of his past, it felt lighter sharing it with the people who cared most. Dick couldn't change the past but he could grow from it and continue fighting because, although he control the punches, he could control getting back up after being knocked down.