Dick had caught what you said that morning—“We’ll look at your report card at dinner tonight.” 
And he’d caught something else too—the flicker in your son’s eyes, that split-second pause before his reluctant nod.

He knew that pause. 
Growing up with Bruce, grades had always been… complicated. And while you weren’t Bruce—far from it—Dick could imagine why your son’s stomach had knotted at the thought.

You worked yourself to the bone just so he could go to school. That kind of dedication made any less-than-perfect report card feel heavy in the hands. Not because you demanded perfection, but because no kid ever wants to let down someone who sacrifices so much for them, no matter how much they pretend otherwise.

So when your son finally came through the door just as you were setting dinner on the table—noticeably later than his usual after-school return—and kept his gaze on the floor, Dick’s gut told him the report card wasn’t glowing.

Still, Dick was almost certain you wouldn’t be angry. Ninety-nine percent sure. You were one of those “If you tried your best, that’s what matters” people, and you’d never shame your kid over grades. But nerves don’t care about logic, especially when the fear of disappointing the one person whose judgement mattered the most sat heavy in the chest.

When you asked him to grab his report card and he didn’t come back, Dick pushed his chair back. 
“I’ll go,” he said gently.

He found your son upstairs, sitting on the edge of his bed, fingers white-knuckled around the folded paper. His head was bowed, shoulders hunched—the posture of someone already bracing for disappointment.

Dick stepped into the room without hurry, letting the door creak just enough to announce him. He sat beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight, and draped an arm across the boy’s shoulders. 
“Hey,” he said quietly, warmth threading through his voice. “You know… the world doesn’t end over one piece of paper.”

A hesitant glance. Dick smiled—the kind that says I’ve been there.

Ten minutes later, after a quiet pep talk filled with little jokes, assurances, and the promise that you weren’t going to explode, they walked back down together.

At the table, your son slid the report card toward you with the kind of reluctance reserved for bad news. Dick lingered a moment, meeting your eyes with a subtle look—the unspoken request to keep any reactions minimal.