WARNING: Some Language . . .

"Come on, Dick! You can do it!"

"I say, Master Dick, you are doing marvelously well," Alfred applauded the boy's effort as Bruce continued to call out encouragement.

Sweat dripped off of Dick's chin as he moved his hands along the bars and forced his feet to follow. The first time he had tried this, Bruce had needed to walk behind him and support most of the boy's weight with the gait belt around his waist. This was the first time that Bruce had felt Dick was strong enough to try it without any extra support. The man waited patiently at the opposite end of the parallel bars, ready to leap forward should his son need him to catch him.

The therapy sessions for Dick's rehabilitation had been grueling but the teenager had been making incredible progress over the last four weeks, moving from stretches to light weights and tension exercises to finally relearning the basics such as how to walk again. It had helped greatly that Bruce had religiously exercised Dick's limbs throughout the initial three weeks of his coma. The boy hadn't been forced to start from scratch with weakened and withered muscles that normally came with extended confinement and inactivity.

Complex movement, however, continued to elude him and Dick still needed help with dressing, hygiene, and eating. Alfred had been hoping to reintroduce the boy to the intricacies of writing this week but his aggravation that morning while getting dressed had led Bruce to the decision of putting off the new exercise for another two weeks. At least, until Dick had managed to remaster the art of feeding himself without spilling his food or brushing his own teeth without dropping his toothbrush. It would be better for the boy to experience success in a few things before adding something as complicated and frustrating as writing to his workload. It would have made Alfred's task much easier had Dick's struggles been merely physical but, while the boy seemed to remember his math skills, reading continued to remain beyond his scope.

As a result, the boy's emotions were scattered and volatile. He grew frustrated quickly and became angry, or worse, would fall into a crying jag after which he would become depressed and unresponsive to their efforts at encouragement. Bruce would practically flee the room when the boy would cry, giving his care over to Alfred to handle at this point. For Bruce, Dick's anger was far easier to deal with.

Of course, Alfred continued to chide him over what the butler described as his dereliction of duty. The guilt ate at him. Bruce knew he needed to man up and learn to deal with his son's wildly-fluxuating emotions sooner rather than later. Interestingly enough, Dick's emotional breakdowns weren't nearly as difficult for Bruce to manage while working out in the gym as they were while in the kitchen, bathroom, or bedroom. For some reason, Bruce felt that encouraging the boy to give the weights or parallel bars another go wasn't nearly as intimidating as encouraging Dick to try and tie his own shoes another time or to button his own shirt.

Leslie reminded him only yesterday morning that extreme mood swings were commonplace and even expected during recovery, particularly when the therapy was as intensive as Dick's had been. She warned him once more that he needed slow things down a bit but it wasn't Bruce who needed convincing. After they had explained Dick's memory loss to him, the boy had been a ball of fire. Dick would often push for his training sessions to be longer and harder than was recommended, until the inevitable confrontation between father and son, mentor and student, would arise and the evening would end, per usual, with angry tears on Dick's side and self-recrimination on Bruce's.

"You're almost there, son," Bruce coaxed. "Just a little further . . ." He clenched his hands to prevent himself from reaching for the boy too soon.

The boy almost made it, too, but just three feet shy of the end of the bars, Dick's legs gave out on him. His arms weren't yet strong enough to support his entire weight and he fell forward. Bruce was quick to step in and catch him before he hit the mat but Dick's gratitude wasn't in evidence today.

"Damn it," Dick yelled, slapping at Bruce's hands. "You should have let me fall!"

Bruce blinked at that bit of absurdity. "Why would you want to fall?"

The boy gritted his teeth so hard, Bruce could hear it.

"Because," he muttered angrily, "I deserve it!"

"What? That's ridiculous, Dick! If you can't manage it today, you will tomorrow or the day after that, but not if you fall on your face and possibly break an arm in the process!" Bruce chided.

"It would teach me to tough it out, to be a man," Dick growled. "Maybe then, I wouldn't cry like an baby at the drop of a hat and you wouldn't have to run away from me all the time!"

Bruce caught his breath. Alfred was right . . . But then, Alfred was always right. His discomfort around the weeping boy was causing Dick to push himself beyond his limits. And while Bruce often encouraged pushing one's own boundaries in the normal course of things, it wasn't recommended while one was recovering from a recent brain trauma.

Bruce put a supporting arm around Dick's waist and helped him to walk to a convenient mat, rolled up by the wall, on which to rest. It would have been easier had the boy allowed Bruce to just carry him but he knew without asking that Dick would have refused to be 'babied' to that degree.

"I'm not running away from you," Bruce denied. But of course, that was exactly what he had been doing, not that he would ever admit it to his son. Dick threw him a look that said he wouldn't have to admit to anything; the boy already knew the truth.

Dick took the towel and bottled water that Alfred offered him. "I want to try it again," he said as he opened the bottle with bumbling hands and quickly drained the water he hadn't managed to spill on himself.

Bruce sighed. Of course, you want to try it again. "All right. You can try again after you take a fifteen minute recess."

Dick scowled. Wiping his face and neck clumsily, he tossed the towel aside. "No," he insisted. "Now!"

"You need a few minutes to catch your breath first," Bruce maintained.

"I've already lost three years," Dick practically snarled. "I don't have a few minutes to spare."

"Dick, what are you trying to do? You have nothing to prove to me," Bruce told him. "There is no need to push yourself to this degree. You are going to cause yourself more harm than good."

Dick's mercurial mood abruptly exploded and Bruce watched helplessly as the day began to spiral out of his control. He was Batman! He should be able to handle a teenaged tantrum but he felt completely out of his element here. He refused to look for Alfred, however. Dick was his son and Bruce was determined to somehow help him traverse this enormous mountain.

"Stop babying me, Bruce! I'm not a ten year old anymore," he snarled angrily, slapping Bruce's supporting hand away. "I'm a teenager now," he declared, despite the childlike tears that were leaking from his eyes. Dick brushed an arm across his face awkwardly.

"If you won't help me, then, I'll find a way to do it myself," Dick told him, pushing himself off the mat. Unable to support himself, of course, the boy fell onto the cushioned mat beneath them. Dick began making his way back to the bars on his own, his legs too weakened by his efforts to even manage a decent crawl.

Bruce by his side in an instant. Kneeling next to the boy, he forced his son to turn and face him.

"Dick, I want you to stop this now," Bruce begged him harshly as Dick pushed ineffectively at Bruce's arms.

"Get off me!" he yelled. "Run away, Bruce, like you always do! I don't blame you . . . I hate me, too! If I could run away from what I am now, I would!" Dick's chin wobbled for a second, and then the boy hung his head as he burst into tears again. He pounded the mat in impotent rage as Bruce stared at his son, shocked by the vehemence of the boy's self-hatred.

"I don't hate you, son," Bruce told him, his words spoken loud enough that he would be heard over the ringing that Dick was likely still experiencing. "I could never hate you."

A horrible feeling of déjà vu washed over him. He made a mental note to tell Alfred to store Dick's medicines in Bruce's room. He would rather take unnecessary precautions than to be surprised some morning should Dick give in to his depression during the night. Although,The boy no longer suffered from a trigger and was no longer affected by fear gas, those issues that had been exploited by the chemical and psychological mélange from Crane were still present. And, if anything, Dick's emotional threshold was even lower now than it had been while standing atop the bridge support.

Terrified by the direction his thoughts were turning, Bruce acted out of instinct and pulled Dick into a hug. His son had always thrived on physical contact and Bruce didn't believe that even this latest injury could have changed that basic component of Dick's personality. And, while the boy now understood that he wasn't a ten-year-old anymore but a thirteen-year-old, without his memories and experiences, Dick was far closer, emotionally and psychologically, to the child he used to be than to the teenager who was alternately clinging and shoving at him now.

Weak from his exercise, Dick could only fight against his father's embrace for a few short minutes. However, once he realized that Bruce wasn't going to let him go anytime soon, Dick allowed himself to slide his arms around the older man's neck. Sniffling, Dick buried his face in Bruce's neck as he struggled to master his emotions. The familiar scent of Bruce's cologne was calming. It told him that he was home and reassured him that he was safe.

His father . . . But Bruce wasn't his father, was he? That's what the man had told him and the pain of that confession had been like a knife in the boy's heart.

How many nights since then had Dick laid awake in his bed and struggled to remember his 'real' father. He still didn't have a face for that mysterious man. Of course, if he had to admit it, Dick didn't try very hard. The very act of remembering continued to shoot spikes of red-hot pain directly into his brain, enough so as to make him sick on occasion. There had been a moment once that Dick thought he had glimpsed . . . something, but it slid away so quickly he was never quite certain what it was he had seen. The silhouettes on the poster in his room told him next to nothing about the couple who had supposedly created him.

As far back as he could remember, which admittedly wasn't very far, it had been Bruce that tucked him into bed at night. It had been Bruce reading to him; Bruce sitting beside him at the dinner table; Bruce that had helped him with homework . . . Well, Bruce and Alfred, but still . . . every memory that Dick associated with his father had been occupied by Bruce!

And now even those memories were being supplanted by new ones of Bruce looking at him sadly or with what, Dick was sure, had to be disappointment. If he were really adopted, then Bruce must be wishing he had kept the receipt so that he could return the defective model for one that was new and not damaged beyond repair.

Slowly, Dick began to relax into Bruce's embrace. As he did, the stress of the past few weeks became overwhelming. Trying to catch up to his body mentally, struggling to accomplish even the simplest tasks, doing his best to become a son that Bruce could be proud of . . . Trying to cram three years' worth of growing up into just a months' time!

Suddenly Dick found himself clutching at the man with everything he had as all the emotions, all the frustrations, all of the physical and mental challenges began to collapse in on him. He didn't want to cry anymore. He struggled to keep it in, to be strong because . . . God! If Bruce ran away from him again, he would lose it completely.

But Bruce didn't leave. He didn't run away this time.

Instead, Bruce held Dick even tighter, helping him, unknowingly perhaps, to hold it together a little while longer. The lump in Dick's throat grew larger while the prickling in his sinuses warned the boy that fresh tears were imminent.

"You are going to be okay," Bruce whispered to him. "I'll see to it. I'll help you. But you need to understand, son, that even if you never improve past this point, I'll always love you. I'll never give up on you . . . And I'll never give you up!"

That did it, he thought a little wildly. New tears escaped, following the tracks of the first ones.

One of Bruce's hand slipped up to stroke Dick's hair. The older man had to feel his trembling but Dick couldn't have let go at this point to save his own life, let alone what little pride the boy had left.

"Sh, easy now," Bruce crooned. "I've got you."

"I'm sorry," Dick told him, his voice hitching just a little. "I just don't want to disappoint you again."

Bruce leaned back so that he could look his boy in the eye. "You have never disappointed me," he declared firmly. "Even in your disobedience, you have consistently astounded me with your creativity and ingenuity. And as I watch you work to overcome some of the hardest obstacles you will ever face in your life, I've never been more proud of you than I am right now."

Dick face crumpled. "R-Really?"

"I swear it, Dick," Bruce promised. "I only want you to slow it down a bit. I don't want you to risk losing all that you've accomplished in an effort to prove something to me. I already know how amazing you are."

Dick threw himself back into Bruce's arms. "Y-You still want me, then," he whispered, hoping.

"I will always want you," Bruce assured him.

October 30th . . .

It had been bound to come to a head at some point, but after this, the following days were filled with the same intensive training, but tempered with smiles and even the occasional bouts of laughter. It was a shame that it took a near tragedy to complete the father/son bond so effectively.

Bruce allowed the boy to extend his therapy and training by another half hour, but refused to budge further no matter how much Dick begged to continue. The extra time made the boy feel he had 'won', and Bruce was able to keep him from pushing himself so dangerously hard in the meantime.

It was approximately a week after, the day before Halloween, that breaking point which saw Dick's biggest breakthrough yet.

Bruce was standing at the end of the bars watching as Dick made his way across in record time. He was grinning by the time his son reached him.

"That was your best time yet, chum," he praised.

In fact, he was praising the boy far more often than he ever had when Dick had been Robin. He recognized that the accomplishments, although much smaller in scope in the grand scheme of things, were far more difficult with the boy's current disabilities. Not that Dick hadn't worked just as hard before, but Bruce had known that every new task or achievement then had been attainable. Standing, much less walking, had seemed like only a pipe dream just six weeks ago, and generous dollops encouragement helped prevent the boy from falling back into a depression; something that happened far too easily these days.

"Wait," Dick told him when Bruce moved to reach for him. Pivoting and turning were still things that gave the boy trouble, and Bruce or Alfred's help was required in order to to get him back into his wheelchair safely.

Bruce paused, confused, but Dick was grinning at him.

"Step back," the teen ordered him.

Bruce took a step back, curiously.

Dick rolled his eyes. "I meant further."

Frowning, Bruce stepped back a couple more steps. "How much further?"

Dick narrowed his eyes and bit his lip as he considered the question seriously. "Three more."

"What are you up to, chum?" Bruce wasn't amused, but took the steps anyway. Better to keep the boy's spirits up. Bruce was certain he could still reach Dick in time if necessary should his legs suddenly give out on him.

Dick took a couple of deep breaths and let go of the bars. His hands hovered over the safety of the smooth rails for several long seconds. Bruce's eyes widened and a smile wavered on his lips, but Dick wasn't finished yet. His face tense with concentration, he slid one foot forward, paused, and then brought the other foot up to meet it. One step without any aid? Bruce's mouth dropped open. He started to move towards him before the boy could fall when Dick continued forward another step all on his own.

Bruce understood now, and held his breath. Inside, he was praying hard. It took everything he had in him to keep his hands clenched at his sides and not reach out for the boy.

By the fifth step, Dick was drenched in sweat and panting. He wobbled a little bit, but remained on his feet. Dick stopped directly in front of the older man, and looked up at him. A slow, widening grin appeared on the teen's face. Dick spread his arms carefully out from his sides and made a dramatic pose.

"Ta-Da," the teen practically sang.

Bruce burst out laughing and scooped the boy up; swinging him around.

"That was fantastic," he declared enthusiastically. Then, eyeing the boy in his arms suspiciously, he asked, "Wait! When did you practice this? You aren't practicing walking by yourself in your room, are you?"

Dick shook his head. "No," he promised. "Alfred's watched me try this a few times at the bars and spotted me with the gait belt. I can get almost halfway across without having to grab a hold of the rails!"

Alfred smiled and shrugged when Bruce spun about to gain the elder man's confirmation.

"He wanted to surprise you, sir," Alfred admitted.

Bruce grinned and swung his laughing son about again. "Well, mission accomplished! You both succeeded! Congratulations, Dick! That was amazing!"

"Indeed! Congratulations," a voice came from the door to the gymnasium.

Bruce took several step towards Alfred even as he turned to face the potential threat. If he needed to move quickly, he needed to be close enough to safely hand Dick over to the butler first. But upon seeing the identity of the intruder, Bruce forced the tension out of his body.

"Superman," Bruce acknowledged. "I believe you are aware of the rules of the house. No costumes above ground."

Dick's smile hovered somewhere between happy and nonexistent. His grip around Bruce's neck tightened imperceptively. The billionaire was more than aware that the teen's self-image was tarnished in the boy's own eyes. No one but he and Alfred and Leslie knew the extent of the damage inflicted by his brain trauma. It was another reason the Dick had been pushing so hard during rehabilitation; he hadn't wanted anyone's pity. He wanted people to see him; not his disabilities.

Leslie had tried to encourage him to share his burdens, but Dick had adamantly refused. Bruce was torn down the middle; understanding the views from both sides, but he bowed to the wishes of his son, of course. No one knew. The few times anyone from the Justice League or the Young Justice Team had managed to get a hold of him, Batman had merely stated that Robin was recuperating, and left it at that. To avoid further inquiries, The Batman began screening his calls.

"My apologies, Alfred," Superman acknowledged. "I did my best to avoid windows that faced the front of the property."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "How the hell did you get in here without my being alerted?"

Superman smiled. "I came in through the Batcave," he told him. "I flew in too fast for your sensors and alarms to detect. Your zeta tube appears to be offline, and you're not picking up your phone nor answering your messages."

"I've been busy," Bruce barked. "You are taking big risks with my identity, you know. You don't see Batman stopping by to have coffee with Clark Kent. It would be nice if you extended the same courtesy to me. What if someone saw you and discovered the entrance to the cave?"

"I would have called first if you'd pick up the phone once in a while." Clark waved a hand. "No one saw me, Bruce," he assured him. "I was careful."

"Good. Fine. Now, what do you want?"

Clark ignored the billionaire's rudeness, and smiled warmly as he moved into the room; his gaze already settled on the reason for his visit. "I came to see my nephew. Everyone is wondering how he's doing."

Dick frowned and glanced at Bruce curiously. Because he couldn't remember past the time immediately before his rescue from Crane three years ago, Dick didn't remember meeting the Justice League as Robin. The only hero Robin had ever met before that time, and then only twice, was the big blue Boy Scout who had apparently come by to visit just now uninvited. Dick had only started referring to Superman as 'Uncle Clark" after he had gotten to know the Justice League, so it was likely a little startling for Dick to hear himself referenced by the Man of Steel as his 'nephew'. The boy was probably also wondering who the 'everyone' was that Superman was speaking of.

"You seem to be better than I was led to believe," Clark said to Dick. He glanced curiously at Bruce who had yet to set the boy back on his feet.

Dick smiled hesitantly. "And what were you led to believe," the teen asked politely.

"That you might have died in the interim." Clark sent an accusing glare at Bruce.

As far as glares went, it wasn't half bad, but it didn't compare to a batglare.

"Why didn't you send word that Robin was okay?" Clark demanded to know.

"Because I couldn't fit it into my schedule," Bruce sniped, sarcastically.

Wanting to avoid what was promising to be a huge blow up, Dick answered. "It was my fault, Superman," Dick admitted, albeit, reluctantly. "I asked him to not tell anyone."

Clark looked at the boy, surprised. He noted only now how pale Dick was, with splotches of color splashed over the apples of both cheeks from his 'exertions'? Sweat still dripped off of his face and dampened his t-shirt. Clark could only guess that Dick was in here for a little PT in order to get back into shape from what he suspected must have been a pretty serious injury.

The team had only told him that Robin had been unconscious and covered in blood when Batman had brought him out of Scarecrow's lab. They had said that the boy had gotten sick once during the flight back to Leslie's free clinic, but never woke. Batman had only told them the mission was accomplished and ordered them all back to the mountain with no other explanations nor assurances. They had been debriefed the next day by Red Tornado. No word had ever reached them of Robin's condition, although all of the teens had refused to go home over the next several days as they waited in vain for more information on their injured teammate.

It had finally reached the point that each team member had begged their mentors to find out what had happened to Robin for them. But with Batman refusing to answer his messages or go to the Watchtower, no one was able to get more than the one time message of "Robin's recuperating".

Superman was the only one who dared to risk Batman's wrath, however, and now here he stood. But, it was only to find that the subject of his inquiries, while apparently healthy, was himself unwilling to relieve the minds of his friends. The Dick Grayson that Clark knew had never been so rude or self-absorbed as to worry his friends needlessly. This was behavior he might expect from Bruce, but not the teen that . . . was . . . still . . . in Bruce's arms . . .?

What the hell? Clark was getting suspicious now that something more was going on here than was obvious.

"And why would you do that," he asked the boy he thought of fondly as his surrogate nephew.

Instead of answering him, Dick sent a panicked look at Bruce.

Bruce glared at Clark in response to that silent plea. "Go," he barked. "I'll meet you in the cave. You shouldn't be up here in your costume and that neon beacon you call a cape anyway."

Clark narrowed his eyes. "I don't understand. What is going on? Why won't you just answer the question? This isn't brain surgery, you know." He crossed his arms and spread his stance to indicate he wasn't moving until someone spilled.

Bruce's lips lifted into a snarl, but before he could insult the man again, Dick patted his shoulder and shook his head.

"It's okay, Bruce," Dick murmured softly. "He was bound to find out eventually. I'm not going to be able to hide this forever."

Bruce frowned at the boy. "Are you sure? It's your choice, you know. Whatever you decide goes."

Dick sighed unhappily. "I was just hoping to be further along, but perhaps I'm setting my goals too high. This might be the best I can hope for. It seems silly to keep it a secret when this might be my reality for the rest of my life."

Clark watched Bruce's jaw tighten. It didn't take super-vision to see that he didn't like what Dick was saying.

"Don't talk like that, chum. You are progressing by leaps and bounds. Leslie will be astounded when she hears what you accomplished today," Bruce chided the boy gently.

Clark's eyebrows lifted. Bruce was softer than Batman for certain, but then again, even iron was softer than Batman. Still, it was unusual to hear Bruce speak so warmly while in the presence of others, even to Dick, unless the boy was ill. But despite his pallor, the boy seemed reasonably healthy. So . . . Was there something else wrong here that he was missing?

"It's okay," Dick repeated. "Set me down."

At that point, Alfred moved up beside Bruce with a wheelchair. Some superhero he was . . . Clark had forgotten the butler was still in the room. That's quite an accomplishment considering his super-vision and super-hearing. But then, Clark had long suspected that the butler was far more than Bruce's majordomo and the guy who cleaned the Batcave.

Bruce turned away and set Dick gently into the chair.

Clark frowned. The Team didn't indicate that Robin had broken any bones. Dick wasn't wearing a cast. He looked more closely at the boy's legs and noted that the bones were fine with no evidence of any recent breaks. So, why was he in a wheelchair?

Dick's pallor fled with a flush of warm color. He was embarrassed about something.

"I-I had a h-head injury," he stuttered, unwilling to meet Clark's gaze.

Superman eyes snapped up to the boy's head. He saw evidence of a previous traumatic head injury that he knew came from his abduction by the Scarecrow three years ago, but there was a small fracture healing very near the original scarring point. It was hardly noticeable, but Clark was well aware that any injury capable of causing even the smallest crack in the skull would likely have devastating results on the brain within.

"Oh . . . no," Clark breathed.

He felt like face-palming over his recent faux pas. He just had to make that stupid remark about 'brain surgery', didn't he? He had obviously just opened his super mouth and shoved in both boots. No wonder Bruce had been practically foaming at the mouth . . . Well, shit.

Bruce took over, saving the boy from explaining himself further.

"He was in a coma for three weeks," Bruce admitted. "The first three days he didn't wake up at all, and we had no idea if he ever would. Needless to say, when Dick finally did wake up completely," he sighed. "There were consequences." Bruce ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath in frustration; his other hand settled on the boy's shoulder in silent support.

Clark was startled . . . Bruce didn't generally allow his frustrations to show on principle alone. That he did so now seemed to indicate, even more graphically, how very serious Dick's brain trauma was; far more so than his words did!

"He's had to relearn practically everything," the other man told him.

Clark glanced over at the parallel bars with new understanding. The boy hadn't been showing off a new gymnastic routine before Clark had barged in uninvited. Dick had been relearning how to walk! He felt his own cheeks become warm.

"And you were holding him because . . ." Had the boy fallen?

Bruce cut him off with a small smile. "We were celebrating!"

Clark blinked. "So then, congratulations really were in order?"

"Master Dick managed to walk five steps by himself without any aid," Alfred volunteered. The pride in the elder man's voice was strong.

If anything, Dick seemed to blush harder. He shook his head morosely. "It was nothing," he muttered, his eyes lowered to his lap. "Five steps is nothing . . ."

Bruce flashed a look at Clark that should have burned him to ashes. Apparently, the boy had been proud of his accomplishment before having some super-powered idiot's invulnerability shoved in his face.

Damn it! If only Bruce would have given someone a head's up! Clark sighed.

He stepped over to the wheelchair and knelt in front of it.

"Dick," he said. "Could you walk those five steps unaided two months ago?"

Dick frowned, but didn't look up from his lap. His hands were tugging nervously at his pant legs; fidgeting. He shook his head.

"I was still unconscious two months ago," he admitted quietly.

"Could you walk them a month ago?"

Dick frowned harder. "No! I couldn't even stand without Bruce or Alfred's help a month ago."

"And what about last week? Could you walk those five steps alone and unaided a week ago," Clark asked softly.

Dick glanced up at the Man of Steel. "No." He shook his head again. "I still needed to hold on to the bars a week ago."

"Then I would say that congratulations are in order. That's quite an achievement! You should be proud of what you have accomplished in such a short time." Clark told him.

"I used to be Robin," Dick said unhappily.

The pain he heard in those five little words cut into Superman's heart as smoothly as any piece of Kryptonite. The sympathy he felt for the boy extended to Bruce. This had to be the worst kind of hell for a father to have to endure.

"You know, I can't see the future or anything like that," Clark told him quietly. "But if I would have to guess I would say that no matter what happens, you will always be Robin."

Dick bit his lip and a look of cautious hope crossed his face.

"Do you think so, Superman," he asked in a tone of a much younger boy.

Clark answered quickly; not hesitating in the least. "I sure do, kiddo!" He patted Dick's leg gently before lifting his hand away uncertainly. "Oh, um . . . Can you feel that?"

The boy shrugged. "I can feel just fine," Dick told him. "My body just has trouble doing what I'm telling it to do."

He couldn't help but notice, through the material of his sweats, that the boy's musculature was less developed than it should have been. The sweatpants made it less noticeable to the casual observer. Clark hadn't looked at the muscles earlier; only the bones. But if he knew anything, it was that Dick would have been in far worse shape right now had his adopted father been anyone other than The Batman. Bruce would have made certain the boy had had every opportunity and advantage he could give him to help Dick recover as much of what he had lost as possible.

His curiosity was peaked, however. There was more to this, he thought. His reporter's instincts were screaming at him. Clark stood up and stepped back. His eyes met Bruce's purposely.

"I hate to interrupt your celebration. I will wait downstairs where my neon cape won't disturb anyone. It's great to see you're doing so well, Dick," he said.

Dick smiled once more. "Would you like to stay?" He asked politely. "I bet Bruce has some clothes that might fit you."

Clark suppressed a wince at the impersonal tone in the boy's voice. He was being treated like a stranger still, and he didn't like it. He missed the warmth of his and Dick's relationship, and was growing worried over whatever had caused the change.

Although he topped Bruce by two inches and was bulkier than the human, Dick was right. There were clothes in his size kept at the manor for him to wear. Alfred made sure of it. This was something that Dick should know, and so Clark had questions. While he was in a hurry for answers, not so much so to risk harming Dick's obviously fragile self-esteem. He would wait below.

Besides, just knowing that Superman was snooping about in his precious cave would bring Bruce running downstairs in short order.

"That's okay, Dick," Clark grinned. He started to ruffle the boy's hair playfully, but hesitated. He didn't want to hurt the boy, and he wasn't certain what was allowed at this point in Dick's recovery. He lightly tapped the boy on the nose instead. "I have to be going soon. I just had to ensure you were still alive for the team."

Dick frowned. "The team?" His face cleared suddenly as he made the connection. "Oh, you mean the Justice League! Sure, I guess that's okay. It's nice that they're taking an interest." Dick threw an amused glance at Bruce, and teased him. "You must be making friends, after all!"

"Uh, yeah, apparently so," Clark agreed softly as Bruce remained silent, but a blind man could have interpreted the look of warning the billionaire sent in Superman's direction.

It appeared that they had much to talk about, indeed.

REACTIONS?

Emotional fluxuations are common after a severe head injury apparently. So, too, is personality changes. A lot of patience is needed and tons of encouragement throughout the grueling physical and occupational therapies, as well as through the therapies that are meant to improve speech and memory. A good attitude is paramount, and depression is common when improvement appears slow.

Seriously . . . It had been two whole months! The only surprise is that someone hadn't shown up sooner. But, then again, who would want to show up uninvited to the Batcave and incur the mighty wrath of The Batman? One does not get in between a Bat and his Robin without there being consequences . . .

Ever notice how everyone tends to depend upon Superman to deal with Batman? And even Superman gets intimidated now and again. ;D