There was a social worker assigned to the Grayons, though that name also encapsulated the non-related members of their circle. He was a round man, short, brown and bald, and reminded Cassandra of a Buddah with glasses. His demeanor followed his appearance, and Cassandra appreciated his easy optimism. He reminded her of Dick, and she could see the two men hit it off well, despite the stressful circumstances. Even so, Cassandra could also see that Dick wasn't going to open up to a stranger about some of the deeper things plaguing him.

Which was a shame, since this social worker, Mr. Carson, had said he was there to provide support and counsel throughout RJ's treatment, and he was available to all members of the family. Unsurprisingly, no one had taken him up on that, but Cassandra did have an irrational hope that this stranger would see that Dick needed help and force some on him. Then again, as the saying went, you could lead a horse to water, but you couldn't make him drink. Dick had a counselor literally within arm's reach, and wouldn't breathe a word of the inner turmoil coloring every movement he made.

That's not to say Dick took no advantage of the service offered. He could sometimes be pried away from RJ's side to discuss procedures and facilities for after his son was discharged. With Carson's help, Dick was able to go over the mountain of medical information thrown at him and make plans for the second stage of treatment. Last Cassandra heard, there was a children's cancer center in Metropolis that had a lot of experience treating infants, and Dick had chosen that facility over another highly recommended facility in Gotham.

His reasons were his own, and Cassandra hadn't been privy the discussion, but Bruce was furious. He insisted that the Gotham facility was better, and raged that any doctors or specialists that didn't already work there could be hired and brought in, but Cassandra suspected he was just jealous that he wasn't included. The more Dick spoke with Carson, the more Bruce's hackles got raised, and it wasn't long before the situation grew tense.

"I've seen toddlers less sulky," Tim groaned. He and Cassandra were in the waiting room, watching Bruce fail to conceal his unhappiness. "Think we need to enforce that fifteen-minute rule?"

"Not sure," Cassandra replied. She kept her eyes on Bruce, monitoring his levels of agitation. He wasn't at his boiling point, yet, but he was past the point where he would contribute anything positive. It didn't help that all visitors had been ushered away from RJ about thirty minutes ago, including the father, for a swarm of medical professionals to surround the baby. Naturally, Bruce began looking for ways to control the situation, either through eliminating RJ's sickness or his own ability to be hurt by it. He was seconds away from threatening to sue the hospital when Alfred said he'd step on his charge's injured foot if he didn't get some peace and quiet.

So now Bruce sat in a plastic chair and grumbled at the world, and with his employer reduced from red alert to yellow, Alfred went off to check on Jason, unwilling to let him disappear completely on the fringes. Barbara dealt with her tension by typing furiously on her laptop and insisting she was working on some world-level threat. But the movement of her fingers told Cassandra that Barbara was just keysmashing most of the time. Not that she would call the woman on it.

As for Cassandra, she was learning far more by just sitting quietly and paying attention. For example, she saw a tense efficiency to the doctors and nurses attending RJ, but no traces of panic. They took swift, deliberate actions and spoke without levity in their expressions, but their body language didn't indicate that they were delivering devastating news, nor did Dick act like he was receiving any. Not desirable news, perhaps, but not yet crisis level.

When she last saw RJ, she had noticed that the baby was taking shallow breaths. It hurt him to breathe deeply, something that wasn't surprising given the nature of his surgery. She'd mentioned that to one of the nurses, afraid to bring it up with Dick when he was finally smiling for more than two seconds at a time, but it turned out they were already aware. In fact, Cassandra suspected that the only reason the nurse didn't get offended was because her speech was too simplistic to sound patronizing. But RJ's behavior was common after surgery, and many patients built up mucus in their lungs due to the shallow breathing, leading to infections. Cassandra was assured that they were doing everything they could to prevent that from happening.

Watching everybody now, she was beginning to suspect that an infection had developed, despite best efforts. But while everyone moved with urgency, their behavior was worlds away from the movements and expressions exhibited when the baby was first brought in. From this, Cassandra surmised that the hospital staff had the situation under control, and pestering them or throwing a fit would only compromise that.

"Bruce needs a distraction. Or babysitter," Cassandra muttered, and Tim nodded.

"I have an idea for that. It might even get him to open up a little." Now that was some idea. "I could use a distraction myself."

Tim appeared calm on the surface, but Cassandra could see he was just as unsettled as everyone else in the room. Not surprising, considering how many times he'd been in the hospital with a loved one, and how many times he'd lost someone he cared about. And even with a doctor they knew and trusted, Stephanie had still passed away. But as always, he kept the bulk of his feelings to himself, while his movements were practically screaming. "At least Dick's more... stable." Less likely to throw himself off the roof. That seemed like a real possibility for a few hours. The depth of Dick's self-hatred was staggering, and Cassandra wished Bruce could see things the way she did. It wasn't healthy for Dick to base his own worth on Bruce's opinion, but since that behavior wouldn't be unlearned overnight, his adopted father's explicit approval was going to be essential to helping their friend.

On the other side of the room, Dick was approaching Bruce. His posture was hunched and tense, and his hands were clenched up inside his pockets. But his eyes were wide and his mouth slightly open, allowing for deep breaths when he wasn't nervously swallowing. "He said he wants to go home," Tim said, breaking into her observations. "I mean, he's back with us, so he already is home, but that's a good sign, right?"

Dick sat down beside Bruce, who acknowledged the presence with a grunt. Cassandra watched Dick wipe his palms on his jeans, gathering courage. He was about to risk being vulnerable, he was going to ask a question. "He didn't want to talk. Now he does." That was good. Across the room, Dick posed his question to Bruce, but they were too far away to be overheard.

Not that one needed audio for Bruce's response. It was quick and preoccupied, completely unaware of the effort it had taken to ask, and Cassandra suspected, of the real meaning behind the asking. Dick spoke again, now a statement. His carriage was a bit more timid this time, as if testing how his information was received. A second attempt prompted a long discourse from Bruce, mostly clinical and detached, but with a small bit of that childlike disgruntlement seeping through. The more Bruce talked, the more Dick pulled away. A minuscule amount, but it was telling: he was no longer open and turned towards his mentor, even if they were sitting side by side.

"He wants to talk. But won't," Cassandra sighed. "He doesn't feel safe."

Tim frowned. "Why not? We're his friends, why can't he talk to us?"

"We're kids." Hardly normal ones, but it was true. "He wants a dad." A brand new father didn't turn to children for advice or support, but to wiser and more experienced adults. And whatever hurts had been inflicted on Dick's soul were serious enough to send him into the arms of a parent, the person charged with protecting him and making him feel loved. The person who gave advice and guidance whether the child asked for it or not. "Maybe we can help. Or a doctor. But he wants Bruce now. That has to be first."

"Yeah, and that means Bruce needs to be sensitive and empathetic for more than half an hour at a time." Tim groaned. "When I first became Robin, I thought all he needed was a partner to anchor him. But now..."

"What?"

"I don't know. That one Bible quote of yours might have it right." First cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye.

"Bruce... is blind?"

Tim nodded. "How's he going to know how to help Dick, when he's got a beam of wood blocking his view?"

Cassandra saw the logic, and grimaced. "Not a beam. It's a whole building."

It's not that Dick really expected much from Bruce. Years of experience had taught him not to get his hopes up in that arena. Sometimes Bruce would surprise him, and be so gentle and understanding about whatever Dick approached him with, but it was more often that Dick met with a wall of cold, black Kevlar. It was a little different when Dick was young, back when all he needed was a pair of warm arms to get him through. His problems were more complicated now, more weighty, and he was far less innocent than he'd been all those years ago. But what Bruce didn't understand was that a hug would go just as far with an adult as with a little kid.

And right now, Dick didn't need someone to fix his problems. Some of them were his burden to carry, and others were already being handled by the hospital or law enforcement. He didn't necessarily deserved to be rescued from some of the things plaguing him, others were beyond anyone's control, but most were simply not important at the moment. He just wanted to know he still had a place in Bruce's life.

It didn't need to be much, Dick already expected to be disowned to some degree. It was fine if Bruce cut him out of the will, took away his costume, even banned him from the manor, but Dick needed something to hold on to. He didn't care how small it was, so long as he could stay somewhere in Batman's orbit. Bruce had been surprisingly kind, if a little contradictory, and all their other friends seemed to genuinely want Dick around, so while he worried that the tide could shift at any minute, he dared to believe things might work out. If he was lucky, Bruce might still be feeling that fatherly desire to offer comfort with no lectures or strings.

So, with a great gathering of courage, he approached Bruce to talk. And it was good Dick wasn't expecting much, because nothing of substance came from that. Bruce was in a mood, and as usual, wanted people to obey his orders or leave him alone. It probably wasn't the right time for a discussion beginning with, "Hey, remember when you taught me all life has value and we dish out justice instead of vengeance? Yeah, I decided to go and do the opposite of that. Is it cool if my bastard son and I crash at your mansion for a while?"

A few years ago, Dick might have been offended by Bruce's petulant tone, or hurt by the borderline dismissive behavior. Now, he deserved whatever Bruce chose to say to him, or not to say. He knew his mentor was feeling stressed out by the situation, knew that Dick himself had caused the scenario where all of Bruce's adult and childhood fears could re-spawn, so he sat calmly next to the other man and endured the silence, punctuated by the occasional complaint. Bruce was, miraculously, not lashing out at him, and Dick had no desire to rock that boat.

But he drew the line when Bruce started criticizing Mr. Carson. "He's not such a bad guy, you know."

"He's incompetent," Bruce snorted, tapping his foot on the tile. His eyes were burning into a small plaque on the wall detailing a donation from the Wayne Foundation, probably wondering why it wasn't giving them any magic karma now. "And superfluous. Not to mention, social workers have never done you any favors." Dick tried to keep his blood from boiling. There were a lot of bad memories, and a few grudges, but Bruce had no idea... "We need doctors, not quack counselors right now."

"RJ needs doctors, and he has them," Dick pointed out, trying to keep his voice reasonable. He didn't want a repeat of Bruce calling up every cancer specialist in the country and trying to fly them into Gotham, despite the fact that cancer wasn't even the evil they were currently treating. "Gotham has some of the best pediatricians and practices in the world, and it's a relatively slow night, otherwise. Nothing is getting in the way of his care. But I need someone to help me decide if I want to make my kid miserable with a bunch of six month chemo cycles, or make him super miserable for a shorter time with smaller cycles, or take a chance on a newer procedure with less chemicals." Dick said with a little more edge. "And I need someone who has answers every time I have a question, or can find me resources I didn't even know were available. And someone to tell me it's totally normal to get sick all over the floor when talking about central intravenous catheters, and that sticking all this poison and sharp stuff in a baby doesn't make me the guy from 'Saw.' That's Carson."

And it made Bruce so jealous. Dick could see that, and maybe, not so long ago, it would have made him happy. He would have loved to know that Bruce wanted to be the one supporting him, that his mentor would do everything short of kicking down a hospital for him, or that Bruce actually wanted Dick's attention. The idea of Bruce welcoming Dick's pleas or questions as more than an excuse to say 'I told you so' had rarely been more than a fantasy.

But right now... "It's nothing your family isn't capable of doing."

"Oh, really?" Dick felt his voice dripping with disdain, and felt bad about that. He hated Bruce's stubbornness, but it was ungrateful of him to discredit everyone's efforts to support him. They didn't have to go so far, and Dick hadn't expected them to. Especially since they might regret it later. He forced an apologetic grimace. "It's his job to hold our hands and walk us through this. So why burn ourselves out when we don't have to?" A bit hypocritical, since sleeping and eating were still things Dick had to be reminded and even prodded to do. But at least he was trying.

Bruce, though, the man had a comfort zone, and wild horses couldn't drag him out of it. "I don't like things being out of my control."

"Well, thanks for finally admitting that, but I don't really care how you feel." Maybe Bruce wasn't the only one in a bad mood. "RJ has pneumonia. So you can swallow your control issues or take them somewhere else, because I'm not risking you driving out the people who are supposed to be helping us." That ended up sounding a lot more bitter than Dick had any right to be, considering how much Bruce had done for him, and continued to do. He wondered if maybe he was a little bitter, and if so, was it because Bruce failed him in some way, or because he failed to earn everything he'd foolishly thought he deserved?

"Pneumonia?" The looked of horror on Bruce's face only rankled Dick more.

"Yes, pneumonia, I just told you ten minutes ago!" he snapped. "Do you listen to me when I talk, or do we all sound like insects to you?" That fear in Bruce was immediately replaced by hurt, and unlike the satisfaction he used to get out of that as a teen, Dick now felt like he was stabbing himself in the chest with those words. "Sorry, I'm just... yeah. His fever's not going down, and now he's got a cough and a lung infection going. Kid can't stay healthy for two seconds, I think he's trying to give me an ulcer." He tried to smile, but Bruce didn't return the gesture.

Instead, he began to glower. "How did this happen?" the man demanded with all the authority of his alter ego. Dick was a little surprised he didn't slip into the voice. "Can't these people do their jobs properly? I thought they were monitoring him!"

"Calm down, Bruce."

"No, I will not!" And Bruce got to his feet with purpose. "This is supposed to be one of the best facilities in the country! How do they just sit back and let my baby get pneumonia? I'm going to go and tell that-"

"He's not your baby!" Dick shot, rising to his feet as well. "And neither am I! So shut up!"

And Bruce did.

Dick's throat was suddenly dry. "He's not... and I... we're not yours. Not that way..."

"Dick, I..."

"You don't even know the first thing..." Dick trailed off helplessly, then gave a broken sigh. "Sure, I hate the social worker who stuck me juvie and then lost my file, that whole thing sucked. But the one who harassed us the better part of a year after I got caught lying about broken bones and going to school doped out on painkillers? Him, I love. He probably saved my life."

"What do you mean?" Bruce hadn't ever known, hadn't ever asked and probably hadn't really listened at the time. It had been a huge hassle, nearly compromising their identities as Batman and Robin, but the social worker's dogged persistence provided Dick with a way to say he was overwhelmed. At school, at home, in high society, in his own skin. The mask of perfection had finally fallen, and he let it go in order to cover up for Robin.

He said he hid injuries from Bruce in order to not be a bother, admitted to being afraid that if he caused too much trouble, if he let his grades drop, if he was anything less than a model, adjusted teen, Child Protective Services would find him another home. He didn't want to be taken away from his new family, he didn't want to disappoint his new family, they were all believable lies. To go to such extremes worried the caseworkers, but Bruce was such a loving and concerned parent in public that no one thought he encouraged that behavior.

His social worker forced Dick to talk, and gave him an excuse to be less than perfect. Sometimes he could let his grades falter a little. He could let himself be seen as miserable or unhappy, and then have someone try to cheer him up. Sometimes, he could even take a day off of school when recovering from a night of beating up goons and have a plausible reason for staying home. Bruce found it all an annoyance, but did admit it made it easier for both of them to excuse certain aspects of their night lives, simply by admitting they weren't the flawless family they'd tried to present themselves as.

But it seemed Bruce never suspected how little of a cover it actually was, or that one of Dick's biggest fears was that he wouldn't be good enough for Batman, or Bruce. That Bruce would regret ever pulling him up off the circus floor...

"You don't know what I've needed or what I've done..." Dick continued, trying to find words for his anger, sorrow and turmoil. "But you keep thinking you can just take over my life..."

"Dick, I'm trying to help you," Bruce said, obviously confused, but also a little upset that his help was not being received with gratitude. He always got like that. "This isn't easy for anybody, and you've been through a lot. I can tell you're not in a good place right now, and I'm worried about you."

"You think I make terrible decisions, I heard you earlier," Dick retorted. "You think I can't take care of my own kid."

"I don't." Well, that hurt, not like Dick didn't expect it. "Not by yourself, at least. I'm trying to do what's best for both of you," Bruce amended, and his voice was both stern and pleading. Dick closed his eyes and wanted to just give in, just throw his pride away and do whatever Bruce said.

But he couldn't, not on this one issue. "Well, you're right. Because I'm the one who decided to give RJ this operation. I knew it was risky, and that there would be complications, everyone told me in explicit detail all the ways this could go wrong, and I told them to go ahead and do it anyway. It was my decision to put my baby under the knife when he's not even a month old, when that scalpel is about as long as his leg."

Dick turned his head to the floor, feeling queasy at the green look on Bruce's face. "We didn't have to have it so soon. I'm not sure how much longer we could have left it, but they could have tried to stop the growth of the tumor first and control the bleeding before operating. Let him get another few weeks of growth before slicing him open. It's an invasive surgery, risky for even an adult, but I'm the one who talked with the doctors and looked over all the options and I'm the one who decided we were going to put my kid through this. Because I'm his father, and it's my job to make those decisions." His eyes were so full of tears that when Dick looked up again, all he saw was a blur. "So if you're going to get mad at someone, Bruce, don't yell at the people busting their butts to keep RJ alive. Get mad at the one who knew he could get pneumonia or worse and decided to do this anyway. Get mad at the person who probably gave him all the defective cancer genes in the first place. Take your rage out on the dumbass who brought him into this world."

He heard Bruce take a few steps toward him, even if he couldn't see through the tears. "Dick..."

"No, you're right. I'm dumb and irresponsible, it's a fact. I admit it, I'll do whatever you say, Bruce, once this is over. I'll never disobey you again. But only when it comes to me, you don't get to make decisions about RJ. He and I are a family now, and you don't get to decide..." Words suddenly failed him, and Dick's throat seized up.

Bruce sounded a little choked himself. "I understand..." Probably not fully. Dick wasn't sure whether or not he cared. "You're right. RJ is your son, and it's your decision." Bruce admitting Dick was right. He should be making a joke about the world ending, but it didn't feel as validating as it should have. "You're an adult, at any rate. You have the right to govern your own life. The right to make your own mistakes..." Yes, Bruce couldn't quite let it go of that disapproval. "Of course, I'm probably going to be the one paying for the cancer treatment in Metropolis, when Gotham is both better and closer to home..."

"What do you want me to do, grovel?" Dick asked wearily. Bruce froze. "I'll get on my knees if you want, I've sunk lower." The fight was all out of Dick, but he still had one principle left. "Or I'll do it for someone else. I don't care, but I'm going to take care of RJ, and I'm the one who decides what's best for him. If you can't live with that, I'll go somewhere else." He swallowed. "I'm not asking much. Just this, and I won't fight you on anything else. I'll do everything you say, I'll finally be that perfect soldier you should have had from the beginning." And then everything would have been better, no one would have suffered.

But Bruce just stared at him. Dick's vision was still too clouded to see, but he could sense it from the intense silence. Finally, Bruce spoke. "I don't want that."

It felt like a million little thumbtacks digging into his sternum. But Dick forced himself to nod. After all, did he really expect anything else? Even if he toed the line, even if he was the obedient pawn he always should have been, why would Bruce ever want him now? Nothing made up for the past.

That's what he thought, until he felt Bruce's arms around him. "I don't want that. I just want you home where I can keep you safe."

"Then sit down and stop yelling at the nurses," Dick grumbled, but his hands curled into fists around the fabric of Bruce's shirt. "Stop trying to micromanage me. When I want your help, I'll ask for it."

"Okay," Bruce said. That was all, but it was more of a concession than Dick ever heard him make before. It brought more tears to his eyes, and a few sounds that he refused to call sobs.

It was anyone's guess how long Bruce would last before trying to take over again. But for now, it was a gift, and Dick clung to it with everything he had.

It was far more than he expected from Bruce. Maybe there was a reason to hope?