Disclaimer: Dusty is an OC, so he's ours, but everyone else is owned by DC Comics.

It was the slight creak of the door that alerted Dick to his visitor. He'd been engrossed in reading about the ongoing fraud investigation in Tarragon Pharmaceuticals - an investigation that was assisted by yours truly - and didn't notice that someone had been knocking on the door to the study.

"Daddy?"

Dick glanced up from his laptop. He wasn't surprised by the newly turned five-year-old's presence; Dusty had made it a habit to seek him out as much as possible whenever he was home, but the uncertainty in his little boy's voice had an alarm bell in his head chiming. He quickly saved his document and shutdown the computer.

"Hey, kiddo. What's wrong?" he asked, waving the child into the room.

Dusty bit his lip and shuffled in, clutching a colorful piece of paper tightly to his chest. This made even more alarm bells in Dick's head start ringing. Dusty was a happy child - Dick could count on one hand the only times his boy looked so doubtful...and he had a feeling it was because of that piece of paper.

"What do you have there, Dusty?"

If it was possible, Dusty clutched the paper tighter as he looked up at Dick with blue eyes looking lost. "Mrs. Lamone told us to make cards for Mother's Day..."

At the last two words, Dick felt the alarm bells in his head sound a major alert. Here it comes... He'd been expecting something like this to come up for five years now, but he'd never gotten around to mentally preparing himself for it. There was always something that would distract him from worrying over the issues involving Dusty, and he'd always tell himself: 'I'll handle it when it comes.' But the time came now and he suddenly felt himself jumping off the trapeze platform without knowing where the next bar came swinging by.

Still, he never let his cheerful smile drop.

"That's great!" He forced himself to be excited as he beckoned his son closer, "Let's see it."

Dusty, though, remained where he was.

Dick let his smile and his hands drop as he said softly, "Dusty, kiddo, what's wrong? You know you can tell me anything."

The five-year-old gave him a look that as though he wanted to trust Dick but was scared to be disappointed. Dick knew that look well - how many times had he done that to Bruce? But Dusty was asking, "You won't get mad?"

"What?" Dick sputtered in shock. "Of course not! Why on earth would I get angry with you?"

"'Cause Benny's daddy got mad when he asked about his mommy," the boy's lower lip trembled for half a second before he quickly unleashed the worry plaguing his mind in a torrent of words. "I didn't want you to get mad just 'cause I wanna know where Mommy is an' I know you love me but Mr. Calix said he loved Benny too an' he still got mad an' Benny's all sad now an' if you dun' wanna talk about Mommy-"

"Oh, Dusty. Com'ere." Dick quickly interrupted the babble and finally, Dusty shuffled over so Dick could pull him up onto his lap. "I will never, ever get mad about you asking about your mom."

"Promise?" Those teary blue eyes always got to him and Dick knew he never could say no to his son. Must be payback for all those time I pulled the puppy eyes on Bruce, he thought ruefully.

"I promise."

The tears blossomed into a bright smile and Dusty engulfed him in a hug. "I love you, Daddy."

"I love you too, kiddo," he held onto his son for a second or two before pulling back. "So, what did you want to tell me?"

The boy's gaze dropped to his chest as Dusty clutched at his shirt. "Daddy, where's Mommy?"

Dick let out the sigh that had been building in his lungs. He'd known early on that this was bound to happen: that Dusty would finally ask him about his mom - Cheyenne. But no matter how forewarned he'd been, it was still difficult to talk about Chey without feeling guilty, or hurt that he'd lost a good friend. But he owed it to his son for the boy to know about his mom.

He met Dusty's eyes as he solemnly said, "Your mom died when you were just a baby."

Dusty blinked in surprise before he bowed his head and barely whispered, "Oh."

Dick petted his son's back in comfort. "I'm sorry, son." Five wasn't too young to know about death...was it? Dusty seems to know, though, of how permanent it means when someone's died.

"How did...how did she die...?" the voice was almost muffled as Dusty kept his head bowed against Dick's chest but he heard it clearly.

He warred with himself over telling his son the truth - that Cheyenne had been killed by a jealous lover - but Dusty was still so young! The boy had just turned five and to toss a murder right on his feet... Dick didn't know how the boy would react but he knew his little boy deserved to know the truth. Dick wouldn't - couldn't - lie to his son.

So he decided to go for the partial truth. "She died in a car crash."

Dick continued stroking his son's back as Dusty digested the news. He waited for the boy to ask something, knowing that it wasn't enough for Dusty to know just how his mother died. He had to know who Cheyenne had been.

Dusty was quiet for a long moment, deep in thought. "Sheila said that when her grammie died, she went to heaven." he little boy said, turning his bright blue gaze to meet Dick's. "Is that where Mommy is too?"

"Of course, she did!" Dick grinned down at his son. "Cheyenne was a good person. She was strong, gorgeous, and talented. Did you know she once made a Lady Nightwing uniform and followed me out?"

"Really?" The sad eyes brightened considerably. "Awesome! Did she kick bad guy butt like you?"

"Sure did, kiddo. In fact, she once saved your Daddy from..." The afternoon wore on with Dick telling his son about Cheyenne Freemont, fashion designer, metahuman, and one-time Lady Nightwing.

Finally, it was time for bed, and with the pinky promise of telling Dusty more about Cheyenne, and finding a picture of her for him to look at, the five year old was settled on his bed and well on his way to sleep. Still, even though his child was sleeping, Dick remained leaning on the doorjamb.

The card Dusty had made for school was sitting forlornly by his son's bedside table, its bright pink and red hearts sparkling with the occasional glitter. It was a well-made card for a five-year old - well-made and impersonal. Dick had glimpsed inside the card only to find a childish scrawl of 'Happy Mother's Day' and nothing else. No dedication, no heartfelt message, nothing. It was as good as a store-bought card.

"I thought you would be downstairs by now." The voice came from behind him.

Dick jerked away from the doorjamb, whipping around to face his adoptive father. "You startled me."

The eldest Wayne ignored the comment and peeked into Dusty's room. "Something wrong?"

"No..." the former Boy Wonder tried to wave off his father's concern but quickly thought better of it. Bruce was still the World's Greatest Detective and Dick never could get a lie past the Bat. So he ran a hand through his hair as he admitted, "Dusty was asking about his mom today."

Bruce nodded and reached out to pull the door close, leaving a foot-wide space open. Just in case. This family still had more than its share of terror-induced nightmares and it helped if there was someone ready to offer comfort without having to get out of bed to find it. Then he turned and ushered Dick into the adjoining room where they could have a bit of privacy.

"What did you tell him?" Bruce asked without preamble.

"The truth. At least, some of it," Dick shrugged, looking away from his adoptive father's intense gaze. Sometimes the intensity of Bruce's blue eyes was too much to bear. "I made sure to keep things GP but I didn't lie to him."

"Omitting the truth can be construed as lying to some."

"I didn't tell him that Cheyenne was murdered." Dick said with a roll of his eyes. "He's five, Bruce. He doesn't need that weighing him down."

His adoptive father nodded, folding his arms over his chest as he waited.

Again Dick sighed as he confessed the worry that was plaguing him, "Was I...was I right, Bruce? In keeping things from Dusty? I mean, I knew he was bound to know the truth sooner or later and I knew I would have to tell him some time but..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I... It's hard to talk about..."

"Did you take time to mourn?" Bruce interrupted.

Dick blinked and thought back years, to the time when he saw the news report on the car crash. "I..." The crash had been so sudden. He'd just found out he'd had a son with Cheyenne and the next moment, she was gone. And then there'd been the hunt for the Pierce brothers, the assassin, Bruce's return, taking care of Dusty... "I...didn't. There was...too much to do."

"Raising a child takes up a lot of attention." Bruce agreed with his arms still crossed. Then his stern expression softened as he unfolded his arms to rest one hand on Dick's shoulder. "This weekend. Take Dusty to his mother. I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

Dick nodded, bowing to his adoptive father's wisdom. His worry wasn't appeased though, whether he'd done right by keeping things from Dusty or not, but he knew a dismissal when he heard one. "I will. Thanks, Bruce."

He'd turned around to walk out of the room but paused when Bruce called out, "Wait.

"You asked whether you did the right thing or not," Bruce was glancing upwards as he spoke, his expression wistful. "I can't answer that for you; not when I've kept things from you and your brothers too."

"What? Bruce, when did-"

"Zucco. That time when you thought he'd died from a heart attack. Jason's mother. Steph. I've made...a lot of decisions that I have regretted over the years."

Dick grinned and waved off his adoptive father's regret. "Aw Bruce, that was nothing. We all knew you were only trying to protect us-"

"No," the eldest Wayne cut in. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he spoke, "When I first knew who Dusty was, I didn't know what to think. No matter how much I'd tried not to make you to be like me, I was afraid you were turning out the same." He dropped his hand and met Dick's gaze. "When Damian came I wasn't expecting it. I'd planned for several contingencies, but this one I didn't - wouldn't - believe possible. I was wrong.

"And when Dusty came, you weren't expecting it either. I was afraid you would do the same mistakes with him that I did with Damian." His lips quirked up in a small smile. "But I was wrong in this one too. You...you did wonderfully with Dusty. With Damian. And you did it without my help."

Dick blushed and ducked his head. "It wasn't hard. I had Alfred."

Bruce gave an answering smirk. "True, but don't forget: I had Alfred too. Didn't keep me from making the wrong decisions with regards to raising you four."

"Aw, Bruce, you were-"

His adoptive father held up a hand to interrupt. "No, Dick. Don't make excuses for what isn't your problem. I have my failings and you have yours, but in this," a corner of his mouth quirked upwards, "you did good, son. You did good."

Dick opened his mouth to say something witty but his words failed him. He'd waited years for Bruce to say he was proud - of him, of what he'd achieved, of what he'd learned - but the older man almost never said those words. The only things that came out of his adoptive father's lips were criticisms or things work-related; only pushing him, challenging him. Bruce had been more affectionate when he was younger; but over the years the more Gotham threw at them, the darker Bruce became. It got to the point where Dick couldn't take it anymore and left.

But now, here was Bruce saying those words that he'd been wanting to hear for a long time. And he...he didn't know what to say.

"Bruce..."

The older man exhaled noisily as he glanced in the direction of Dusty's room. "It was his card, wasn't it?"

The change of subject yanked Dick out of the jumble of half-formed words and emotions in his head. "What?"

"Dusty's Mother's Day card. I saw it by his bedside table." Sharp blue eyes studied Dick in inquiry. "He showed it to you, and that's why he was asking about his mother."

Dick winced and nodded. "I know it's nothing but...his card - it's so plain! When I made cards I always wrote personal little messages that I thought my family would appreciate. Dusty's card though..."

Bruce shifted his weight on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked wistfully upwards. "'Dear Bruce, thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for teaching me and for letting me join you. Thank you for the chance to help.' "

At first, Dick could only gape at his adoptive father, then he felt his face turn redder and redder as Bruce enumerated each and every little message Dick had written in all the cards he gave Bruce. They were mostly childish thanks; years of gratitude for each time the head of Wayne household spent hours with him. But as he grew older and gained more friends, the messages became more superficial.

"'Thank you for the birthday presents, even though I know Alfred was the one who picked it out. Thank you for the supply of batarangs, I was starting to run out. Thank you for the-' "

"Alright, alright!" Dick threw his hands up in exasperation. "So you memorized every card I wrote and probably kept them."

But Bruce wasn't finished. He grinned and said, "'And my personal favorite: Thank you, Bruce. Even though you're not my Dad, it sometimes feels like you are.'"

Face still hot, Dick was too embarrassed to meet his adoptive father's eyes. "It felt like I had two Dads," he admitted softly, "when I grew old enough to appreciate that."

"And it felt like I had a son. Four sons and a grandson." He clapped a hand on Dick's shoulder again and moved to usher the younger man out of the room. "Talk to Dusty tomorrow. Tell him about his mother. I'm sure he'll be encouraged to make another card for Mother's Day now that he has something personal to write about."

"Thanks, Bruce. Dad."

"You're welcome, son."