The next morning Bruce left Dick in Alfred's able care as he went down to the Batcave. The computer had pulled up two Lydias; one a chemist, and one a psychologist. He pulled up their information from the Department of Motor Vehicles computer files. The disappointment was crushing when neither of the women's pictures matched the woman he had seen at the vet hospital. Alfred had been correct that the woman was their best lead for more information.

The list of Lydias among the students at Gotham Community College, Gotham's University of Science and Technology, and Hudson University was more impressive, but still not more than twelve in all. He didn't even bother narrowing down the list by field of study, just brought each of the yearbook photos up on the screen.

His fist slammed into the metal counter of his worktable, leaving a sizable dent. His frustrations were mounting. Dick was running out of time. He couldn't be expected to live out his life in a padded cell, which might end up being the safest place for him at the moment. He hadn't been home more than two days and already Bruce could see his need to move was beginning to get the better of him.

His strength was returning faster than Bruce could have hoped for, even with the setback caused by the activated trigger. Dick was already eating soft foods as of the previous evening, and holding it down; the nausea from his concussion now completely gone. Bruce was concerned by the boy's hesitancy to ask for painkillers. It was obvious he was still in a lot of pain, but it was only when he was offered the medical relief that he would take something. He wondered of that came from having to suffer in pain for the majority of his captivity or some faulty idea that he should be strong enough to take it.

Bruce thought about his own tendency to refuse medications while he was working on a case, and wondered if Dick were trying to emulate the Batman's stoicism in the face of injury or illness . . . But unless the medication made him too sleepy to work, jumbled his thoughts, or affected his balance or depth perception, Bruce would always take it without complaint. Sure he had the stamina to work through most pain and illness when he had to, but doing so reduced his effectiveness in the field, and so he didn't often refuse medications for pain or fever unless he had no choice.

Still, Dick was moving about on his bed without much trouble. And the boy hated that he continued to need help with even his most basic needs. He wanted to have the freedom to move about his room, at least. Of course, Bruce knew he wouldn't be satisfied with that even after a day's time. The only thing keeping him in place now was his weakness and joint pain.

The tinnitus continued to be a problem on occasion, but had been improving over the course of the time he had been home. His equilibrium was still an uncertainty as he hadn't much opportunity to exercise his balance without standing on his own. Bruce was hoping that by the time he could stand unassisted that the problem will have corrected itself.

Dick's headache, although he claimed had improved, was continuous. Very little seemed to help the constant throbbing without drugging him into a stupor. Physically, the worst, however, remained the bruising of his chest. The boy never seemed to be able to catch his breath. In fact, the only time he had managed a truly deep breath was after his nightmare, when the need for oxygen temporarily outstripped his pain.

Bruce planned to help Dick this morning with his memories by chatting with him about things they had done together in the past and the little he knew about the boy's parents and his days in the circus. Leslie had suggested asking him a few open-ended questions and seeing what came out of that. Until he could do something about Dick's triggers, however, he would avoid the subject of Batman and Robin as much as possible. The very idea that a dream might have the power to activate a trigger had terrified him.

In the meantime, Bruce thought he might give Harlow another call and see what became of any of the equipment the police might have confiscated from the veterinary hospital Crane had been using for a lab. The man had proven useful with his insightfulness, and Batman had been impressed by his freakish ability to gather information and make connections from even the slightest of clues.

Later, this afternoon, Batman would take a little trip. Although he would prefer to keep Dick safely ensconced in his room, he had a feeling that Robin's presence might be necessary to get the results he was looking for. Maybe he would go alone first, and then if he absolutely had to, he would bring Robin later.

Bruce expanded his search for a biochemist/psychologist named Lydia to several surrounding cities, even going so far as metropolis. He also decided to look into medical technicians and biologists, including employees of hospitals, medical laboratories, and research facilities as well as the faculty of every college, tech school, and university within a hundred mile radius.

Harlow had agreed to search for the items Batman had described to him, and would alert him to his progress via an untraceable number Batman had set up for the Commissioner Gordon when the Bat signal wasn't a viable option.

Once that was completed, Batman had called in his favors, requesting help in formulating and processing a possible antitoxin for Robin. Now, all he could do was wait . . . In the meantime, Bruce headed upstairs where a very antsy bird was likely driving Alfred batty.

"Can you tell me about your mother, Dick?"

Dick looked up from where he was stirring his applesauce. "But why can I not have spaghetti?"

Alfred looked up from where he was setting down a glass filled with a sports drink. "Because, Master Dick, Dr. Thompkins was very specific in the order in which you are able to return to a regular diet. Spaghetti, at this juncture, is sure to induce some unwanted discomfort. I would think that you have enough of that right now to want to avoid incurring more . . . Particularly if the more was unnecessary and easy enough to prevent."

Bruce cleared his throat. "Dick, pay attention. Can you describe what she looked like?"

"Who," the boy answered glumly.

Bruce sighed and leaned over to grasp Dick's chin lightly in his hand; turning the boy's face toward him. Bruce had to refrain from wincing when Dick flinched away from him and pushing at his hand.

"I'm sorry," he apologized; swallowing a growl at yet another testament to Crane's abuse. "Can you describe what your mother looked like?"

Dick face looked distinctly unhappy, and he turned away as he answered. "She had long hair," he recited, monotonously. "It was dark, though not black, like mine or . . . Sh-she had sawdust in it."

Bruce frowned. What . . .?

"Her eyes . . . seemed bluer then," he whispered. "The . . . The . . . I can't remember the word for it. The dark middle was smaller, but not focused like it was supposed to be. She was looking at me, but . . . but not."

Bruce blinked. Was he . . . Was he describing . . .?

"She was pale; paler than usual. She had lighter skin than . . . me and . . . And it was splattered with spots of red."

"Dick!" Bruce jumped up and sat on the bed, grabbing Dick by the shoulders, startling the boy. He blinked up at him like coming out of trance or waking up from a dream.

"What?" His eyes were damp, but he looked confused, as if he wasn't consciously aware of what he was saying.

Dick had refused to speak of his father at all. And now he described his mother as she had been at the time of her death! The memories were all there, but he was repressing them. But when asked the most simplest of questions about them, he either refused to speak at all or spoke of their death. Bruce was no psychologist, but it worried him.

He decided to change tactics.

"Do you remember the day you came to live here," he asked. "At the manor?"

The boy was silent for several long moments, and Bruce thought he might need to repeat the question when Dick finally answered.

"It was so big," he said, quietly. "The stone looked forbidding, but the sun was shining and the sky was blue, so that helped. The . . . The room inside seemed cold."

"The foyer," Bruce supplied.

Dick nodded. "The . . . foyer." He repeated carefully, like he was tucking the word into a safe place where he could retrieve it later. "But it had that big, pretty . . . light; with crystals dangling."

"Chandelier," Bruce told him.

This time Dick met his gaze; a slight smile lifting his lips. "Chandelier," he said. "I really liked it. The chan . . . The chande . . ."

"Chandelier."

"Chandelier," he said, concentrating. "I really liked the . . . chandelier."

"What did you like about it?"

I liked the way the . . . chandelier turned the sunlight into rainbows," he then grinned; the smile reaching his eyes for the first time in the past hour. "I wanted to swing on it," he admitted, laughing.

"You have," Bruce told him, chuckling at the memory of the first time he and Alfred had discovered their little acrobat hanging from it. He hadn't laughed at the time, but now . . . Time had dimmed the fear that the sight had startled out of him, leaving only amusement now, after the boy had dropped safely into his waiting arms.

It dawned on him then that that moment had been the first time Bruce had caught him when he fell . . . Of course, it had been a controlled fall, but he remembered the feel of snatching that little bundle of energy out of the air and clutching him to his chest for the first time. Dick had been here for all of three days when that happened. He wondered at the amount of self-control the boy had had to impose on himself to make it that long before giving in to temptation.

When Bruce refocused his attention back into the present, he saw Dick staring at him with a fair bit of awe.

"You caught me . . ." he whispered, some unnamed emotion glittering in his eyes.. "You caught me then, and you've been catching me ever since."

Bruce's expression softened and his smile gentled. He tousled the dark hair. "Yes, and I'll continue to catch you for as long as you need me to."

"Really?" Cerulean blue eyes searched gray-blue ones.

"Forever, if necessary," Bruce promised.

Abruptly, tears filled those amazingly, blue eyes, and the boy's breath hitched. He carefully moved into Bruce's lap and wrapped his too-thin arms around his neck. "I love you, too, Daddy," he whispered into his ear. "And I promise I won't forget again. I'll be strong for you."

Bruce's heart stuttered again like it did every time Dick insisted on calling him that. The happiness it inspired in him was tempered by that vague sense of guilt that kept him from truly enjoying the title the way he wanted, but he couldn't bring himself to complain about it.

"But why can't I go with you?"

"I told you, chum," Bruce explained. "It's too dangerous. I can't risk exposing you to a trigger. There could be one where I am going . . ."

"But you said this is about curing me," Dick argued. "Shouldn't I be there, too?"

"You will be," Bruce assured him. "Eventually. But not tonight."

Dick was so frustrated he was ready to throw something. He grabbed up his pillow and pounded a fist into it. "It's not fair!"

"This isn't about fairness, and you know it," Bruce countered. "If it were, then you wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place."

"How long," he whined. "I'm so tired of just sitting here, doing nothing."

"Hopefully not much longer. I want you safe and well, also, but we need to be careful . . ." Bruce could see his words weren't having the kind of effect that he had hoped for.

Dick frowned. "Careful is just another word for forever," he yelled, and without thinking threw his pillow across the room.

He hadn't meant to throw it. He was just so frustrated and upset . . . He hadn't aimed at anything, but apparently the pillow had flown across the room and knocked the now empty glass off of the dresser. He didn't know for sure because he hadn't looked, too intent on his pout to do anything but stare out the window; anywhere but at Bruce. He didn't want to see the older man's disappointment in his childish behavior.

But it wasn't the image of a shattering glass that caused his reaction . . . No, it was the sound.

The tinkling, crackling, smashing sound lit up a secret area of his brain, and he just reacted; helpless to do otherwise.

He grabbed his ears and screamed . . .

Oh No!