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It's Dick. Dick is standing outside the front door. His hair is shorter than when Bruce last saw him. He's taller. Not tall—he'd never expected to grow tall, considering his lineage of acrobats—but he's taller than he had been at 18. He's filled out more, as well, all lean muscle. He's a man. He'd be...twenty-eight. Bruce hasn't seen his son in ten years. He'd technically been an adult when he—but he hadn't been a man, not really. Bruce hadn’t been there to see him grow up.

There's a bag slung over his shoulder. A...a gun in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. A Beretta. There's a knife at his hip, another strapped to his ankle, mostly hidden beneath his jeans.

There's a scar on his cheek, just beneath his left eye. It's thick and jagged, a deep, painful wound. He'd have almost lost the eye to that.

"Dick?" Bruce's voice comes out hoarse and broken.

Dick isn't looking at him. His eyes are on Bruce's feet. They're glassy, like he's not exactly present. He stays silent. 

"Dick?" Bruce says again. He's not sure if he's repeating it because Dick didn't answer, or if he's doing it out of disbelief—saying it just to hear himself say it.

Dick's eyes snap to Bruce's, sharpening to a keen awareness. His breath hitches and his throat works, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. He opens his mouth. It moves, but nothing comes out. He pauses, clears his throat and tries again. He takes a breath.

"Hi," he breathes out. It's a small sound.

Bruce's throat constricts and his heart plummets into his stomach. It's been so long that he'd forgotten what Dick's voice sounded like. He's ashamed of himself when he realizes that. This new version of Dick has a deeper voice, but it's still the same. The sound of it makes Bruce's chest clench.

He should question whether or not the man before him is really his son. This could be a trick. It could be Clayface or some other kind of shapeshifter. He could have been hit by fear gas, or, or… But he doesn't. This is Dick. He knows it is.

Another son back from the dead. He doesn't deserve these miracles, has never done anything to earn them, but he won't question it. Dick and Jason deserve them.

"Hi," Bruce says back. He can't find any other words right now.

"I, um." Dick rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, his jacket shifting to expose the Beretta more. He notices Bruce's eyes flick to it and he jerks his arm back down, letting the jacket fall back into place. "I was hoping...can I come inside?"

Bruce stares at him for a few blinks before the words register. His brain is glitching.

"Yes. Yes, of course." He stumbles back, opening the door all the way. Dick looks down at the threshold, one raised foot hovering before it, hesitant. Then he lifts it past the door jamb and steps inside like nothing has changed.

He looks around for a moment then blinks and quickly looks away from his surroundings, like he's afraid of what he might see. His gaze flickers back to Bruce.

"Why—you answered the door. Is Alfred…"

"I—Alfred is—is away. Visiting family."

"Oh." Dick's shoulders relax, minutely. He'd been worried about the possible answer.

"D-do you want to...we should go to the sitting room."

Dick nods and Bruce turns. He can feel Dick at his back even though his footsteps are silent. It's...not smart, maybe, to turn his back on this man that he doesn't know anymore. The man with a gun. But he doesn't care.

He leads Dick to the sitting room, neither of them speaking for the short trip. He wonders if Dick would have remembered how to get there had Bruce not been walking ahead of him.

They settle awkwardly into comfortable chairs. Neither lean back, their postures remaining straight, tense.

Bruce is the first to break the silence. "We thought you were dead."

Dick looks away. "I haven't been—I was never. I was with...I was captured."

Bruce's blood runs cold. Captured. For ten years his son had been held captive, and he hadn't known. How long had Dick been holding out hope that Batman would come for him? That his father would come to save him?

When had he finally lost that hope?

"Captured." Toneless. If he allows any emotion to leech into his voice, he isn't sure which one might surface. "Who."

"Slade Wilson."

Bruce's blood runs from cold to hot in an instant. Deathstroke. Slade. All this time. Bruce had faced Slade since then. Stood before the man who had his son captive and he hadn't known. Slade must have been so smug, dancing around in front of Batman knowing that he was holding on to what was most precious to him.

Deathstroke was dead. A week ago. The news had buzzed through the community, a subtle celebration. Heroes never relished in someone's death, but sometimes one would come as a relief. Sometimes one felt like a victory, even though it shouldn't.

Slade's death came as a shock. He was known for being indestructible. No one really thought this could ever happen.

Even more interesting was that his death came from a betrayal. Someone had seen it from a distance and spread the account around—Slade had been in the crosshairs of an enemy, and his apprentice had moved in the way to protect him, but then he'd just...stepped away, left Slade open for attack, suddenly vulnerable in a way that neither of the two men had ever allowed to happen before. Slade had died for that. His apprentice had disappeared right after, and Slade's killer walked away unhindered.

"Renegade," Bruce breathes. It makes sense. No one knows Renegade's identity. He'd shown up...maybe a year after Dick had died—no, after Dick had been captured.

There hadn't been a body. Bruce should have known.

Dick visibly flinches at the name. He doesn't confirm it aloud, but Bruce doesn't need any more confirmation than that.

"Dick, I'm so—"

"No." Dick shakes his head. "No," he repeats with conviction. "Don't—I can't hear that right now. Please."

Bruce nods. "I don't know what to say. What can I say, Dick? You're alive. You're alive and you came home. I don't know what to do," he admits. "I don't even know where to go from here."

"I need sleep," Dick says. Bruce notices for the first time that Dick is trembling, minutely. How had he not seen that before? There are bags under his eyes, exhaustion pulling at his features and reading in the lines of his body. He must be dead on his feet to want to sleep at a time like this. Has he slept since Slade died? Likely not much, from the looks of him.

"Of course. Of course, I'll—your room is still—"

Dick shakes his head. "I'll take a guest room. I'll make it up myself."

"Do…" Do you know the way? Bruce stops himself from asking. "Do you want me to come with you?" he asks instead.

"No. Thank you. I think I need to...be alone. I'm sorry, I know that's not what you want to hear right now, I just...this is a lot. I just need…"

"You don't need to explain, it's okay son."

Dick freezes and Bruce realizes immediately why. Son. Dick must not have felt like anyone's son in so long. Did he still consider Bruce to be his father? After he'd been abandoned? Left in the clutches of a killer for...over a quarter of his life. 35 percent of his 28 years spent under the thumb of a ruthless killer.

He'd been with Slade as long as he'd been with Bruce. Had he…Oh god.

Had he come to think of Slade as a father?

——

Dick has been in his room for over ten hours before Bruce can't handle the wait any longer. He knocks quietly on the door, just a gentle tap so as not to wake Dick if he's still sleeping. When he doesn't get a response he turns the knob, opens the door just a crack and peeks in.

Dick is still fast asleep. He lays curled on his side on top of the blankets, his boots still on his feet and his jacket draped over himself. His gun and one of his knives lay on the side table within easy reach. Bruce can see the slight bulge of the boot knife still strapped to his ankle.

His face isn't relaxed in sleep. It's tense—his whole body is tense. Bruce wonders if it's from nightmares or if it's just ingrained in Dick to always be ready for a fight. Based on the fact that Dick hadn't even taken his boots off to sleep, Bruce guessed it was likely the latter. Maybe both.

Bruce moves to close the door back—if Dick had been out for ten hours he must have been truly exhausted and Bruce intends to let him sleep for as long as he needs—but before he can step out, Dick's eyes open, immediately clear and alert. He doesn't say anything, doesn't move, just watches Bruce warily. Bruce's heart skips a beat at that. Dick's looking at him like he isn't sure if he's safe.

"I'm sorry," Bruce says quietly. "I didn't mean to wake you. I was just making sure you were alright, you've been asleep for a while."

Dick sits up, his jacket sliding off of his chest and onto his lap. Despite his alertness, his eyes are red and puffy from sleep, his hair slightly mussed.

"Sorry," he says, voice rough from sleep. "It's just been a while."

"No need to apologize. You should get some more sleep, I'll go."

Dick shakes his head. "No, I need to get up, I'm not supposed—" He cuts himself off, frustration flashing on his face. Bruce has no idea what he had been about to say, but Dick doesn't continue, and he doesn't ask.

"Alfred left pre-prepared meals," Bruce says. "I can heat something up for you."

Dick glances at the clock on the wall. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for patrol?"

Bruce raises his eyebrows. "I'm not going on patrol, Dick."

That frustrated look again. "You don't have to miss patrol for me."

Bruce is flabbergasted. "Chum, I just found out ten hours ago that you haven't been dead for the last decade. I'm not going on patrol tonight."

"I—okay."

"Come on," Bruce says. "I have a feeling you haven't eaten in a while, either."

Dick doesn't deny it and he follows Bruce to the kitchen.

Bruce heats up a plate of Alfred’s chicken zucchini casserole. One of Dick's favorites. His eyes sting at the sight of it as he slides it into the microwave. When he places it on the table, Dick stares at it.

"You remembered."

"Of course I remembered. I remember everything, Dick. Everything."