Chapter Text
Dick Grayson has mixed feelings on the concept of ‘full circle’.
In a lot of ways, he could see his life as a circle—not that way of the whole life-and-death thing, because he’s seen more death than a mortician and he can’t even remember having held more than two babies in his life—but in that sense that everything that he’s started with, finds its way back into his life again.
There are those little things, where he catches himself remembering how to do little tricks his father taught him, or finding that he still can recall how to properly ride an elephant. Or when he taught Damian how to sharpen the batarangs in nearly the exact same spot Bruce did with him.
Really, the number one thing he considers to be full circle in his life was the time he spent as Batman, leading Robin through Gotham’s dark streets and leaping through the familiar skyline, and a ghost of himself trailing beside them with loud, echoing laughs.
Circling back to Nightwing was almost expected, at this point in his life. It was as close to going in a circle yet again without pulling on the pixie boots. And he probably couldn’t last long with the amount of teasing generated by his scaly underpants (which he totally rocked back then, thank you very much).
Despite everything that makes Damian, he sees so damn much of himself in the kid. But he did with all of the Robins, wearing his colors with that eager look—muffled or not—facing the world and giddy to leap in with both feet. Sometimes, he just wants to fix their shoulders in his hands and shake his head—trust me, you’re perfect right where you are—because don’t they see there’s no hurry? That being Robin will forever be the best time of their life, and they have to harness it.
“Hello!” Dick answers his phone, leaning on his counter with a spoon of frosted flakes halfway to his mouth.
“Grayson.” Damian’s steely voice cuts through, and Dick can vividly imagine the not-awkward-but-yeah-totally-awkward pose the ten year old is currently possessing. “I have a request.”
“For what?” Dick asks, dropping his spoon to his bowl and moving to grab his coat. “Anything you want, Little D.”
“Before you left, you informed me that I could call upon you for any help I needed—without question.”
“Of course. Are you at home?” Dick swaps the phone to his left ear long enough to slink into his coat, and grabs his keys.
“Without question, Grayson.” Damian repeats, and then adds quickly; as if he speaks fast enough Dick won’t hear him. “I want you to help me with my health homework.”
Dick raises an eyebrow briefly before shrugging to himself and continuing on. “Sure thing, Little D, I’ll be right there.”
“Tt.” Damian hangs up.
Dick doesn’t care, he’s just elated that Damian actually called him and asked for help. That fact alone is means for celebration. He cheerfully arrives at the manor, accepting a warm greeting from Titus while Damian stands behind the dog, arms crossed and scowling.
“Aw, don’t think I’ve forgotten you, Little D.” Dick swoops to his feet, the perfected art of stealing a quick snuggle from the dangerous child assassin, earning at least a 50 millisecond cuddle before Damian expertly twists out of the hold. Dick likes to think Damian enjoyed that fraction of a second, even if he won’t admit it.
“Is behaving like an adult beyond your capacity, Grayson?” Damian snaps, and Dick can tell by the slight pink of his high cheekbones that whatever this homework is has really riled him up.
“Easy, kiddo.” Dick holds his palms up in surrender. “Now, let’s see what you need help with.”
The scowl deepens. “It is preposterous. I would ignore it completely, if it wasn’t for the fact that my imbecile teacher has threatened to have me fail health if I do not complete the assignment.”
Dick follows him to the library, hands casually in his pockets while he tries to pretend like he belongs here, and that his heart isn’t thumping just a little harder in his chest. He can no longer tell if he misses the manor, or if he misses the feelings the manor used to give him.
Damian has his schoolbag leaning neatly against his chair, papers on the table with a pencil. Dick curiously picks up the top one, skimming the words.
“Healthy Relationships.” Dick reads out loud, raising an eyebrow. “Draw your family tree and write what each of them means to you. Full color.”
“Have I returned to preschool?” Damian demands, glaring at the paper.
“I think it’s a good idea.” His older brother tells him, gesturing for Damian to sit in the chair while sitting on the desk himself. “Not the family tree thing, that’s an overused concept, but being forced to do something you don’t want to. Builds character.”
“I have plenty of character. I have more than everyone in my class, including the teacher.” Damian stubbornly replies, not sitting down.
“Never hurts to have more.” Dick says cheerfully, sliding a blank page towards him. “Start with yourself.”
Narrowing his eyes, Damian takes the pencil into his grasp, writing ‘Damian’ right in the middle of the page.
“You’re supposed to draw yourself, too.” Dick adds happily.
Damian demonstrates his lethal glare, and draws a smooth circle, with two eyes, a small nose, line for a month and short black hair. Dick thinks it has a surprising likeness.
“There.” Damian looks like he’d rather like to toss this paper in the fire. “Satisfactory?”
“You bet.” Dick ruffles his hair, and his little brother scowls. “Now Bruce.”
The child looks like he might argue, but Dick just smiles infuriatingly, so Damian writes ‘Bruce’ and draws a near-identical head, except with slightly longer hair. He murmurs once or twice about wishing he’d never asked for his help, earning a chuckle from Dick.
Without being prompted, ‘Talia’ is placed next to Bruce and above Damian, a simple face with long hair.
“There.” Damian says. “I’m done.”
Dick laughs and shakes his head. “Not even close, Little D. Now me, Jay, Tim and Cass.”
Damian furrows his brow. “None of you are related to me.”
His older brother gives him a long look, and appears just a little sad. “Family is so much more than blood, Dami, you should know that.”
Damian blinks, and sets a frown on his face before adding ‘Richard’, ‘Jason’, ‘Timothy’ and ‘Cassandra’ below his name.
“Better put Alfred on there too.” Dick says helpfully, pointing above Bruce. Damian opens his mouth to argue, and Dick continues, “Do you want help or not? You can’t forget Alfred, Dami.”
Alfred is added, and Damian gives each of the new additions little heads—Dick with long hair, Jason with a little streak of grey, Tim with bangs, Cass with slightly feminine lips and Alfred with the moustache.
Damian looks at the paper in distaste. “This is a ridiculous exercise.”
“I think you did great.” Dick says tenderly, earning a side glance from his brother. “Now, you’re supposed to write what each of them means to you.”
“No.” Damian replies frankly. “The teacher will live.”
“Aw, Dami…”
“Master Damian,” Alfred leans into the library, eyes settling on Dick before his lips turn up at the corners. “Supper is almost ready. Are you staying, Master Richard?”
“Yes, he is.” Damian says dismissively, ignoring the way Dick had been opening his mouth to answer. “Now help me color.”
Alfred looks to Dick, who shrugs good-naturedly and takes a pencil crayon from Damian.
At supper, Dick finds himself trying to desperately pretend like this is a normal occurrence, smiling and laughing for Damian who seems to be secretly (under the layers of quiet sullenness) pleased with his continued presence. Bruce doesn’t come to the table until the brothers had been eating for almost seven minutes, noticing Dick but not pausing his stride, taking a seat and accepting his food. “Good evening boys.”
“Hey B.” Dick grins, his heart flipping and betraying the easy emotions on his face. It shouldn’t be this nerve wracking to come home.
“Hello Father.” Damian says, eyes flickering up almost nervously, waiting for how Bruce would play this situation.
Bruce doesn’t hesitate to eat, to be seated the exact same way Dick had watched him for his entire childhood.
“How was your week, Dick?” Bruce asks, taking a sip from his glass and looking at his oldest son. Dick knows the look, it is quiet appreciation. Very quiet, mind you, but Dick had seen it before, and it causes the same flutters of bubbly warmth in his stomach as it always does. He smiles brightly, realizing that he didn’t miss the manor, or the feelings the manor gave him, but he missed Bruce and he missed Damian.
Dick happily explains his ventures of the week, prodding Damian at the end and asking him what he’s been up to—earning a prim explanation of events. Dick manages to get the three of them in a civil, almost warm conversation by the end of the meal, cementing his feelings. He missed the two of them, but the problem is, they’ve been here the whole time, and Dick knows he’s been selfish and stubborn. But now he doesn’t know what to do with himself and his surfacing feelings, so he does nothing.
They’re sitting together still, plates cleaned, and Bruce says, “I’m glad you’re here.” Before Dick can grasp the statement, he continues: “I want your input on a report.”
Bruce stands, and Dick follows him to the cave, Damian at his side. He can’t decide if the two sentences are connected or separate.
He decides it doesn’t matter.
[]
“Grayson, in the interest of keeping my teacher satisfied, I request you assist me with my latest health assignment. It involves identifying emotions and I cannot pretend to care enough to do a proper job, so your everlasting cheerfulness comes in handy for these situations.”
Dick smiles at his phone, the message ended by Damian hanging up without saying goodbye. He’s already getting ready to head to the manor, not even bothering to stop at his own place.
“Anna is pushed off the swings at school by her friend Nicole. How might she feel towards Nicole?” Dick reads out loud, the two of them seated in the sitting room, Damian’s arms crossed and refusing to even read the ‘pointless’ questions himself.
“Who cares?” Damian replies.
Dick snorts, elbowing his little brother. “How you even pass any of your classes, anyway?”
“A lot of patience.” Damian snarls.
“Aha. Oh, and how’d you do on the family tree thing?”
Damian’s fingers curl slightly, a cue Dick knows is his way of expressing discomfort. “I did well.”
“Great! Now, answer the question and maybe we can manage to not piss off your teacher any more than we have to.” Dick says cheerfully.
“The girl would feel inferior for allowing herself to be pushed around.” Damian answers moodily after a couple moments.
Dick forces him to write that down.
Alfred comes later, much the same as the night before, and Damian once again implies that Dick is staying without question. He even ends up staying the night, asleep in his own bed and staring at the walls, thinking that he needed to get more of his own stuff in here again.
It was a slippery slope from there.
Four nights in a row Damian calls for ‘help’ on his health homework, and after that Dick just comes straight to the manor in the evenings without being asked. It’s so easy to fall back into the routine, into their household. To move back home. His clothes migrate back into his room, his vehicles fill the garage again, Alfred automatically sets a place for him and Bruce is… lighter. Damian seems almost pleased with himself, smirking when he sees Dick waiting for him, to help him do the silly worksheets his fifth grade teacher assigns ‘just to spite him’. Like he’s done everyone a favour by manoeuvring Dick back home.
Dick realizes it, very suddenly, when he’s out on patrol. By himself, of course, but Batman and Robin are in his comm. link, keeping to themselves and fighting Clayface. They’ve cleaned up and Dick is on a stakeout by himself, when Robin addresses him through the comm.
“Will you be returning home afterwards, Nightwing?”
He lifts a hand to activate his comm. and answer, when it hits him, with a real clarity, that he’s moved back into the manor. He’s moved back into the manor.
“No, not tonight.” Dick replies slowly and quietly, not to alert the people he’s staking out. Robin doesn’t reply after that.
Later, running his hand under a tap and watching the blood wash from a silly injury away, standing in his apartment. He can’t decide what to do. He’d basically invited himself back to the manor—but Damian had been pulling the strings, he wanted him home—yet he’s not sure why. He doesn’t know why he returned, and now he’s not sure why he left, and why he’s staying away now.
So he stays away, because it’s easy. Damian is sullen and moody whenever he speaks with him—but what’s new. He asks for help with an assignment and Dick claims he’s got work, got patrol, and has anything else. Damian stops asking after the second night.
No, because on the third night, he appears at his door. All child and short, with a drawn up hoodie and sneakers. “Grayson.”
“Damian.” Dick says in surprise, inwardly cursing himself. Of course Damian wouldn’t just let this go.
“I tried being subtle, but obviously that wasn’t enough to get through your thick head.” Damian crosses his arms and narrows his icy blue eyes. “Father is unbearable without you. Return home, this is ridiculous behaviour between you both.”
Leave it to Damian to make it sound like it was anything other than his own wants fuelling his request.
“Da—“
“If it is because you do not want to, doing things you do not want to do builds character.” Damian tells him, quite cheekily for him. “You can never get enough character.”
Dick actually laughs, because yeah, he said that.
“You are coming home.” Damian manages to make it sound like he is doing Dick a great favour.
“I’ll think about it, okay?” Dick relents, ruffling Damian’s hair and grinning when he doesn’t pull away for at least 2.5 seconds.
He thinks about it, and he knows he’s just been dodging the feelings, what he really wants, because he’s afraid of the full circle again. That he’ll go home and he’ll leave again, because his life is one god-damn circle, and it always returns to where he doesn’t want it to. But maybe, for Damian, it’s a risk he’ll take.
[]
He’s sitting, head bowed, in front of the computer, working. His hair is ruffled up one side, cold coffee next to him. It’s late. Bruce is getting up, brushing past his oldest son, and speaking without turning.
“I’m happy you’re home.”
Dick smiles to himself, there is no mistaking the sentence, nothing following it. Bruce is already gone and if the words weren’t echoing in his head, he might’ve imagined them.