Gotham, December 17, 2019, 8:35 PM EST

"There you are."

Dick swiveled the main computer's chair enough to catch a glimpse of Bruce descending the stairs over his shoulder. As Bruce neared, he eyed Dick's feet on the desk but didn't scold him or shove them off.

"Yeah, I just needed a moment," Dick said, fiddling with his thumbs.

"Not enjoying the continuous parade of friends bidding for your time?" Bruce asked, leaning against the desk. When he crossed his arms, Dick noted the manila folder in his grip.

Dick sighed, dropping his feet to the floor. "I love seeing everyone again, but it's a lot. I've been alone for the better half of two years, so the sudden influx of people is slightly overwhelming."

It'd been three weeks since the incident in Canada, and two weeks since he'd been allowed to return home under the condition he remained under strict medical surveillance. Thankfully, having maintained consciousness to the Watchtower, his medical team deemed him sound enough in body and mind to make his own medical decisions. So, naturally, he refused to disclose any more information than he needed to or before he had time to process it.

Bruce wasn't happy when Dick declined to sign the League's medical information release form that allowed his doctor to disclose the extent of his injuries to the rest of the Bats. It wasn't Dick's fault the only League paperwork approved third-party individual, and his emergency contact wasn't present; one Jason Peter Todd. As an adult and following several questionable medical decisions on Bruce's part, Dick had made the legal change years ago. However, he'd failed to enlighten Bruce of the change until he'd arrived at the Watchtower a few weeks ago.

Watching his doctor stand firm in the face of Batman was both impressive and honorable. So as mandated, Dick saw a local doctor twice a week, who sent the appointment report back to the League doctors. Over the last two weeks, though, it appeared Bruce was willing, for the time being, to ignore the Zitka-sized refusal in the room. But the Bats knew that if Dick wouldn't sign a form to make them privy to something, it probably meant there was something worth hiding. Sadly, their assumptions were correct, but Dick wasn't ready to admit it.

The events in Suez, the Canary Islands, Paris, and Canada had taken a toll on his body, especially the ritual in Canada. From his initial discussions with his doctor, his heart was, as the doctor calmly said, damaged or, as Dick eloquently translated, fucked. His doctor had suggested perhaps the condition was a temporary case of broken heart syndrome, which occurred following stressful or intense situations. However, further tests revealed the problem was more crippling than a broken heart. His recurring symptoms of chest pains, shortness of breath, and irregular heartbeats were likely permanent.

Despite this, he was healthy enough to move about unaided, but it wasn't without difficulty. The cave stairs posed too great a challenge for his heart, and he had to take the elevator whenever he came down here. They may have defeated Trigon, but he'd clipped Dick's wings and grounded him in the end.

"I get it. But they all want to see you and make sure you're okay," Bruce said, snapping Dick out of his thoughts.

"I know. I know. I'm grateful, but I need a little space right now," Dick said, waving him off before quickly adding, "Not from you, I mean. You're fine. If anything, I need a mental distraction from everything. You know?"

Bruce nodded, smiling as he stared off into the darkness.

"I may be able to assist with the distraction piece. You're not approved for the field, but there is a potential case you could help gather intel for."

Dick perked up at the mention of vigilante work. But, of course, he'd have to present a letter of good health to Bruce before he was allowed to don the Nightwing suit again, which was unlikely. So he'd take any challenge to stimulate his mind if Bruce allowed it.

"Is that what the folder is for?" Dick asked, gesturing with his head toward the folder.

Bruce glanced at it before turning back. "No, that is something else I needed to speak with you about. It's actually why I came down here."

"Ah, well, here I was thinking you were just bidding for my time," Dick attempted to joke, but his energy fell flat.

Bruce gave him a half smile. "Be patient with everyone. Sometimes people think their presence can add fuel back to a fire, helping it grow, when, in reality, they're smothering it. People fail to realize that for a fire to become stronger, the best thing is to let it get some air and breathe," Bruce said.

Dick leaned back in the chair and raised an eyebrow.

"Are you talking about me or someone else?"

"Both," Bruce said, uncrossing his arms to set the folder down and lean on the desk with flat palms.

"So you still haven't heard from Jason either?" Dick asked, understanding the unspoken subject matter.

"The last time I spoke with him was with you in Canada."

Dick stared off into the blackness of the ceiling as he lay back.

"Same." He sighed. It'd been three weeks since Jason handed him over to Cyborg and abandoned him. He'd thought Jason would've shown up at the cave by now, if not the Watchtower, but as far as Dick knew, the only person who'd had any contact with Jason was Tim. And even that was minimal. He'd sent a few vague texts stating he had a backlog of errands to deal with as the Red Hood since the Ravager case had preoccupied him for so long.

For the most part, the topic of Jason was as taboo as Dick's medical situation. So he was surprised Bruce was mentioning it now, but not surprised the conversation ahead made Bruce nervous. Bruce was uncharacteristically tapping his finger, and while it was subtle, Dick, trained by the best, noticed. Bruce must have caught his eyes tracking the movement.

"I'm glad you mentioned Jason. I wanted to ask," Bruce started, his finger hovering before landing on the desk and staying there. "Did anything happen between you two?"

Dick's lounging, relaxed position turned stiff, betraying his Bat training. Then, when his brain caught up, he sat forward, straight and awkward.

"No. I mean, yes," Dick stammered. "Like yes, I died in front of him. Again. That was pretty shitty of me. I'll add a dollar to Alfred's swear jar. Sorry. He was mad at me for doing stuff without telling anyone."

If Bruce's raised eyebrow indicated anything, it was how he'd mucked up that response.

"I—nothing happened like…."

"Dick," Bruce said, interrupting him.

Dick crumpled under Bruce's knowing gaze, falling back into the chair. "Sorry."

"I don't know everything that happened while I was gone, but I reviewed all the body cam or mission footage available to me."

Oh, God. Dick dropped his head into his hands between his knees. Thankfully, none of the flirtatious footage from Suez had survived, but the files from Paris and Canada had remained intact. He'd know. He'd gone back and watched them for his mission report, which, with two years' worth of intel, had taken him over a week working nearly non-stop to finalize. He'd suspiciously left out specific details, such as the oral transfer of nanobot trackers or his belief he'd woken up in heaven after seeing Jason following the ritual.

"Bruce," Dick said with a small voice. He suddenly felt like a kid who'd done something wrong and was about to be scolded. "Jason isn't here."

An awkward silence lay between them as Dick stared at the ground.

"And?" Bruce finally asked.

Dick blinked a few times before sighing. "He's not here. I think that implication speaks for itself."

Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder, drawing Dick's eyes upward.

"You're not mad?" Dick asked. He'd known Bruce a long time. The man wasn't an idiot.

Bruce's hand remained, but his gaze went over Dick's head.

"I don't understand, and I don't necessarily approve. But I don't disapprove either. You're both my sons, but I realize your relationship may be far from brotherly. At least from one side, anyway. You came from different situations at different times. Your overlap was minimal compared to the others, and your relationship grew outside the life I experienced with you both."

Dick cringed at the awkwardness of the conversation as Bruce continued.

"Which is why I'm not sure how you'll respond to this," Bruce said as he grabbed the folder and held it in front of Dick, who blinked at it before taking it.

When he opened it, a completed original copy of a 'Petition for Adoption of an Adult' form stared back at him. When he flipped the page, the statement stating the Petitioner, Bruce Wayne, was requesting to adopt the following adult, Richard (Dick) John Grayson, over eighteen, made him suck in a breath.

"Bruce," he breathlessly said.

"I should've done it years ago, but I didn't want you to think I was trying to replace your parents. It took you so long to adjust. I was so unsure of what I was doing back then. Not that I have any clue now."

Dick swallowed before closing the folder, gripping it tightly. "Bruce, I don't need paperwork to know you care or to make anything official."

"I'm not doing it because I feel like I have to. I'm doing it because I want to. You're my son, Dick. You always have been. I've made many mistakes, with this one being the biggest."

Bruce stared back at him with sad, regretful eyes. Dick stood up and encompassed Bruce in a tight hug, resting his head against Bruce's chest.

"I always knew, Bruce. You had your ways of showing you cared. I won't lie and say it wasn't hard to watch you adopt others without asking me. But they needed it; I only ever wanted it, and I see that now," Dick said as Bruce returned the hug. After a few moments, they separated, and Dick returned the folder to Bruce.

"Is that a no?" Bruce hesitantly asked.

Dick chewed his lip, thinking of the rooftop in Paris. "I can't give you an answer until I get some of my own."

Bruce took the folder. "I thought you said the implication was obvious."

"Jason has surprised me before," Dick said, staring at Bruce's chest to avoid eye contact. It was almost Christmas, after all. The hopeless optimist in him was waiting for a Hallmark holiday, movie-style appearance. "If there are any embers, I want to leave the door cracked so the fire can breathe. Then, if the fire dies instead, I'll have my answer. Or some wise metaphor like that."

Dick playfully punched Bruce's shoulder, making him chuckle.

"It's only wise because it came from Alfred."

Dick laughed, too. Thankful for the break in the tension. "Figures."

Bruce released a heavy breath. "I respect your decision. But know, this paperwork is ready to be filed at any point if you change your mind."

"Noted. Thank you, Bruce," Dick said, stepping back. Bruce's eyes wandered over him, making Dick feel slightly self-conscious. To the naked eye, he appeared healthy, and for that, he was thankful. When Bruce's eyes lingered on the silver chain barely visible under his shirt and around his neck, Dick sat in the chair again and leaned forward. The dog tag under his shirt fell forward as he rested his elbows on his knees.

He'd been surprised when Wintergreen arrived with several of Slade's and Ravager's items for Dick to keep. When he'd seen Slade's US Army-issued dog tags in the box, he'd initially refused, stating Joey deserved them. But according to Wintergreen, Joey had insisted they go to Dick. He'd worn them every day since Wintergreen presented them to him. He wasn't sure how long he'd wear them, but the guilt of Slade's death still clung to his being, and he couldn't bare to part from them at the moment. It would take Dick and the rest of the family time to digest the events in Canada that ultimately allowed Dick to come home. Like his heart and Jason, Slade was a taboo topic.

A tightness encompassed his chest, triggering concern. He needed a distraction.

He forced the biggest, lop-sided smile on his face and sat up, tilting his head.

"So this case," Dick said, lifting his feet back onto the desk as he leaned back in the chair with hands behind his head.

Bruce smiled, searching his face. Dick wasn't sure if he hid his internal turmoil well, but Bruce eventually gave him a nod and turned to the computer, shoving his feet to the ground.

"Alfred will have to add money to his swear jar if he catches you with your filthy feet on this desk," Bruce said with a smile, tapping into the keyboard. Dick caught himself and laughed at the fatherly response; the pain in his chest momentarily forgotten. It was just that, though. As he listened to Bruce go over background details regarding the case, the pain returned dull and achy.

He was confident, perhaps optimistic, that it'd get better. But either way, he didn't have the heart to believe otherwise.

A/N: For those who made it to this note, thank you. The story may seem incomplete and open-ended, but that is by design. I always intended this story to have a sequel. I'm thinking of exclusively posting the sequel on AO3 because I've had very little interaction on . So if people are reading this, let me know! And I may post on both websites. However, as of right now, it's looking like A03 will be my main writing site soon.

Again, thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story!