It all began a month ago, when Dean, finishing his assessment and redistribution of VenTech's finances after taking over the company, located a particularly large fund simply labelled Reparations. He then asked Doc about it, bringing a bulky file with him; Brock was there at the dinner table when it happened.

"It was one of my bleeding-heart little brother's projects," Doc informed Dean, waving a hand dismissively. "He thought that our dad—your grandfather—had caused a lot of damage in his research and adventures. And hey, maybe he did, but it was super science, and there's no room to worry about namby-pamby moral dilemmas there. Anyway, your Uncle JJ wanted to go around the globe and throw money at people who got caught in Dad's crossfire. Guess he didn't finish before he keeled over."

"He didn't 'keel over'," Dean informed him, annoyance clear in his tone. "He sacrificed himself for everyone on Gargantua-2."

He'd been doing stuff like that—criticizing Doc openly—for a few months now. Brock supposed that ousting your own father and seizing his company for yourself gave you some newfound courage. He himself couldn't help but feel pleased at Dean's willingness to take charge.

"Potato, tomato," Doc said with a shrug, pouring a truly revolting amount of grenadine into his rum cocktail.

"Puh-tot-toe," Brock corrected him, grimacing as Doc emptied the grenadine bottle.

Doc's disinterest didn't seem to satisfy Dean and only served to ignite Hank's enthusiasm.

"Hey, come over here with all those money diagram whats-its, Deano," Hank said, intrigued, pushing his plate away to make room. "Where was Uncle JJ planning on going next?"

For the next several minutes, Brock finished his dinner and listened to the boys pore over the documents, watching Doc grow more and annoyed as they did and wondering if he should intervene when it reached a boiling point. He knew it would get there eventually, that it was a matter of "when," not "if."

He was leaning against intervening, to be honest. Hank had been somewhat put out for a while that Dean had a bunch of new projects and he didn't. It was good to see Hank happy and the two of them getting along again.

"You know, we could take this whole thing over," Hank told Dean excitedly. "We've got both jets, we know what his plans were, and we have the money. It could be like one of our old Team Venture adventures."

And that was the comment that set Doc off.

"Nope! You will do no such thing!" he declared, shooting up from the table and shoving his chair back. "I explicitly forbid it. As head of VenTech—"

Dean's eyes flashed, and in an instant, he stood as well. "But you aren't head of VenTech. Not anymore. I am, because you were too irresponsible to handle it." He pointed emphatically to the various papers. "And you know what? Hank and I are going to resume Uncle JJ's work. It was important to him, and it's important to us."

Considering Dean, seeing his determination, seeing Hank's enthusiasm, Brock firmly decided against intervening. He didn't want to discourage the boys, and really, interrupting the argument would just delay it and bring it to happen again later on. Better to let them blow off steam at each other.

Doc threw his hands up into the air. "Oh, isn't that just swell ? You'd rather mourn for great Mother Earth like some kind of degenerate hippie just because Dad had to take liberties, instead of actually working with the scientific advances he was able to create because he took those liberties in the first place!"

"Yeah, well, maybe I can start celebrating all of his scientific brilliance once I solve all the problems he created for people in the process," Dean retorted. Shoveling the papers back into the file, he started toward the hall. "C'mon, Hank. Let's go to my study, and we can work uninterrupted."

"Lead the way," Hank singsonged, practically skipping behind Dean as he followed him out of the room. He tossed a victorious smile Doc's way. "And to think you told me I couldn't make a life out of going on adventures instead of going to college. Proved you wrong on that, Pop!" He fired a few finger guns in Doc's direction before spinning around and exiting.

"Ugggh." Doc made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and took a long swig of his cocktail before whipping around to glare at Brock. "This is your fault, you know. Raising them to be a couple globe-trotting transients who value the adrenaline rush more than they do their own family! How could you let this happen?"

Brock just shrugged, knowing it would irk Doc, and glanced at where Hank and Dean had disappeared off to the study. "I think I raised them just fine," he said, unbothered. He actually thought it would be good for the boys to get out of the penthouse and out into the world again. "I mean, what kind of parent wouldn't be happy to see their kids go off and make their own way in the world?"

Doc just rolled his eyes and didn't answer him, but when he didn't come to see Hank and Dean off for their first trip, it had never been more evident that he was that kind of parent.

"Your dad, uh, really wishes he could be here," Brock lied as he stood with Hank in the hangar bay.

"Is he hungover?" Hank asked knowingly. "I saw him pounding down Snapple-tinis last night. Guess he must really be upset about being an empty nester, huh? Plus he's used to having Dean gone, but not me. Man, he's probably real tore up."

"That's definitely it," Brock told him, determined to spare Hank's feelings. The "hungover" part was true, at least. Brock hadn't been able to pry Doc out of bed because of Doc's continuing caterwauling about his pounding headache. Of course, given the horrendous mood he'd been in the past few days, maybe it was for the best that he'd opted to sleep in instead of saying goodbye to the boys.

"Ah, well," Hank said airily. "Love as we would to take Pop's feelings into account first and foremost, we have to find our own paths to travel. Even if they are paths to . . . peril. "

With a flourish, he cracked the whip he was holding—he'd dressed up like Indiana Jones for their big adventure, complete with a fedora. But he had on sturdy boots and a good coat, and that was all that mattered to Brock. He supposed he should have just been grateful it wasn't the Batman costume.

"Think less peril, more philanthropy," Dean said from behind them, his footsteps echoing on the walls and high ceiling of the hangar.

Hank chortled, turning to look at Dean. "The man of the hour. Did you finally finish saying goodbye to your boyfri—whoa." He paused abruptly as his eyes landed on Dean.

Brock was startled into silence at the sight of Dean, or really, at his outfit. Gone were any college hoodies or even speedsuits, and in their place was a navy blue pinstriped suit that consisted of a vest and trousers, worn with a crimson tie. A pair of high-tech goggle rested on Dean's forehead, emphasizing his auburn hair, and the cuffs of his white shirt had been rolled to his elbows.

He did the ensemble justice, and the clothing emphasized just how much those bio-bots had enhanced his body. But what struck Brock the most was just how much Dean looked like his grandfather—practically his spitting image. Just looking at him brought a faint trickle of unease to stir inside of Brock at the sight. The long-deceased Jonas Venture Sr. was the only person he'd ever witnessed wear that type of pinstriped suit. It had been his trademark, visible in almost every publicity still of his escapades with Team Venture.

Dean just shrugged at their stares, unabashed. "Figured that if I'm going to be atoning for the awful things Grandpa did, I might as well look the part. At least this way, if someone runs up to me and tries to punch me in the face, we know that's a person we need to be working with."

Even a year ago, Dean would have faltered at their questioning gazes and stammered awkwardly to justify his choice. He'd grown up a lot since then, Brock realized with a surge of pride.

He clapped Dean on the shoulder, giving him a grin. "Nah, you look fine. Just freaked me out a little bit, seeing you dressed up like a dead guy."

"Yeah, you look so much like Grandpa," Hank chimed in, grabbing Dean's face between his palms and tilting it this way and that way. "It's weird."

"Thanks, bro," Dean said dryly, gently elbowing him away before turning to Brock. "I've left Pirate Captain in charge, and now that I've reinstated the board and left Pop with no decision-making power whatsoever, there shouldn't be any unmanageable issues while I'm gone. But call if you need me."

"Or me," Hank added brightly, chuckling. "You know, that's so metal. We grew up calling Brock for help whenever we needed him on our adventures, and now we're going off on an adventure and telling Brock to call us if he needs."

"Irony," Brock corrected. "That's irony. But yeah, you're right. It is."

Actually, it made him kind of sad. The kids he'd spent more than the past two decades protecting didn't need him anymore. Hell, they weren't even kids now. In his mind's eye, Brock always pictured them as younger, as six-year-olds with a penchant for finding his spare lighters and setting whatever was in reach ablaze, as gawky and clumsy teenagers who'd hit their growth spurts before they could adjust to their significantly longer limbs.

But as they stood in front of him, Brock was faced with reality: Hank and Dean were both adults, independent from their father and thus independent from him. And while they were each dressed in a costume of sorts, they were both their own man, willing to stand up for themselves and each other.

He'd done a good job with them. They'd done a good job with themselves.

Without hesitating, he swept them both into a bear hug, holding them tightly. "You can still call me, you know. I can take the other jet right down to wherever you are."

"We know," Hank informed him cheerfully. "And we appreciate it. But it's kind of my goal at this point to not need rescuing quite as much as I used to. No burn on you, Brock," he rushed to tell him. "You've always been awesome. But if we're going to be making up for Grandpa's mistakes, we can't be making all kinds of our own mistakes and then relying on our bodyguard to bail us out."

"That's very mature of you," Brock said sincerely.

"Thanks. I think it's the whip." Hank preened. "Very adult, not for kids, very dangerous—" he cracked it again, forcing Dean to jump out of the way and into Brock to avoid its lash.

"Very lucky for you that you'll have plenty of time for practice," Brock replied dryly. "Do me a favor: don't be swinging over any ravines on that thing until you know what you're doing."

"No worries," Hank promised him, winding up the whip and pushing the coil onto one shoulder. "I'll send you videos of all the cool stuff I learn to do with it."

After giving him one final hug, Hank holstered his bag and marched up the stairs to the jet, turning and waving to Brock just before he vanished inside and nearly braining himself on the doorway when he turned back around. It was such a typically Hank goodbye that Brock's heart ached slightly at the sight of it.

He looked back at Dean. "You know you don't have to do this whole 'Around the World to Apologize for Dickhead Grandfather' campaign if you don't want to, right? Not that I'm saying you shouldn't, but if this trip is just an excuse to stick it to your dad, you don't have to go through with it."

"It's not," Dean assured him. "I want this, Brock. And maybe—maybe a trip like this one will help me figure some things out." He glanced around, as if checking for eavesdroppers, and then leaned closer to Brock to speak, an excited grin spreading over his face. "Jared proposed to me. Just as I was saying goodbye. I said yes, of course, but well, it's a big step." A hint of Dean's typical anxiety glimpsed through, and he shrugged. "Now I'm hoping that spending some time away will help me make sure marrying him is definitely something that I want."

"Congratulations," Brock said warmly, giving Dean's shoulder another squeeze. That sad part of him twinged again—the boys really were grown up now. But Dean was happy, and so was Hank, and that was what had to matter.

"Thank you," Dean replied happily. Then, for just a minute, worry crossed his features. "You'll keep it a secret, won't you?"

"It'll be your story to tell, if you ever want to," Brock assured him. "Speaking of stories—if you want to come back here and tell some, you'd better get going."

Dean smiled at him, and even with his resemblance to his grandfather, the expression looked far more genuine than any of the pictures of Jonas Venture Sr. smiling ever had.

"Thank you, Brock," he said, and gave him one more hug before shouldering his bag. "I'll let you know when we've landed safely," he told him, waving as he began to walk to the X-X-1.

"I appreciate it," Brock said. With the boys being adults, they really didn't have to check in with him anymore, but he was glad that they were considerate enough to.

He stood there and watched the hangar door rumble upward, watched the stairs retract, watched the jet begin to roll out towards the runway.

And he stood there, waving and watching, as the jet gained speed and took off into the air. And then the Venture brothers, his boys, were off on their way to their latest adventure.