NO WARNINGS . . .

Superman hadn't been happy when he left, taking the zeta tube this time. He had been sent here to gain information about Robin and he had basically just agreed to adopt the Batman's unhelpful reply . . . "Robin's recuperating".

Bruce stared at the place that Clark had been standing only seconds ago. He couldn't help but wonder if seeing the team again would spark some latent memories in Dick's brain or if he would not remember them at all. Kid Flash had been Robin's best friend since the two met when Dick had been eleven; nearly a year after the boy's last memory. Still, Dick had always been a social creature. It would only do him good to be with his friends. Even if he couldn't remember them, the same things that drew them together in the first place were still valid.

He shook his head. After Dick's reaction to Superman, Bruce knew the time was not yet right. The boy would hate to be confronted by a room full of young superheroes while still confined to a wheelchair, no matter whether or not they had been his friends. Dick was obviously not ready for the drama that such a meeting was bound to entail, but soon, he thought.

He would find a good moment to tell the boy about them sometime soon.

November 12th . . .

As Dick grew stronger, his physical abilities seemed to improve almost exponentially. It seemed that his body only needed to be reminded of those connections between his brain and his muscles; that and rebuilding his strength. Again, they were thankful of Bruce's foresight in exercising Dick's limbs and joints until the boy could manage it himself.

He was walking easily on his own two weeks after those first five steps. In fact, he spent a short time each day on the treadmill, increasing his speed until he had reached a steady jog. He still wore a safety harness that he loved to complain about, but it was only two days ago that Dick had lost his balance and fell while jogging. The safety harness saved him a potentially serious setback and had turned the machine off.

Today, he was working on his upper body strength. Dick wore another harness that would keep him from falling should his hands slip on the bar as he did pull-ups.

"Do as many as you can handle," Bruce told him. "But don't push yourself. Pulled muscles are a major setback for you; one that can be easily avoided."

Pushing himself too hard continued to be a problem for Dick. Bruce was forced to remind him each and every day that the results could lay him up for days or even weeks, and then they would be back to the beginning again. Hopefully this afternoon would be as successful as the morning had been.

Dick dressed in a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt all on his own. Only tying his shoes still gave him a bit of trouble.

It was mentally that Dick had discovered his hardest challenges. He spent most mornings being home-schooled by Alfred. They had been excited to discover that most of Dick's lessons over the past three years hadn't been completely lost. What was interesting, however, was learning which areas of studies had been most affected by his injury. Language, predictably, gave Dick the most problems since it was the language centers of his brain that had received the most trauma.

He had developed a mild form of dyslexia; forcing Dick to reread sentences twice or sometimes a third time to understand it. As a good portion of history needed to be relearned; much of his schoolwork involved his reading the subject; kind of killing two birds with one stone. Leslie thought that with enough practice the condition might pass unnoticed as Dick learned to compensate.

Oddly enough, reading was easier than was spelling which they found was the area most affected of all. Dick would misspell every word, but could then immediately recognize that they were misspelled. Unfortunately, he could not necessarily understand where he went wrong. If two versions of a word were placed in front of him, Dick could, after a moment, tell you which word was spelled correctly, but without the correct spelling in front of him, he was lost as to how to fix it. It made writing extremely difficult and frustrating for him. Essays were impossible to grade because they were nothing but gibberish.

His answers to test questions were now allowed to be given orally.

Math and science appeared to be least affected, and Dick's skill in programming and hacking had seemed to make the leap from gifted to child prodigy. But what surprised everyone, including Dick himself, was his musical talents.

Before the injury, he had had none, but a week ago Bruce had discovered Dick in the unused music room strumming a guitar with surprising dexterity when one considered the boy's continuing trouble with shoelaces. When Bruce had asked him if he remembered where he had learned to play, Dick had merely shrugged and told him nowhere; that he had merely been curious and was only messing around. Bruce had then asked him if there were any other instruments that he was merely 'curious' about, and Dick had spent the next couple of hours playing whatever song popped into his head on either the guitar or the piano.

Dick continued to insist that he didn't remember ever even touching the instruments before that day, let alone taking lessons. Bruce believed him as the boy had never, in the five years that he had been living at the manor, shown the least interest in music beyond listening to the radio. Unwilling to allow such latent talent go to waste, Bruce determined to add musical instruction to Dick's regular classwork.

That decision had made Alfred raise an eyebrow. Unless it was core curriculum or directly related to the Dynamic Duo's night work, Bruce placed little value on it. Oh, the playboy often was seen attending a concert or an opera, but while he might enjoy listening occasionally, Bruce didn't see the point of wasting hours learning an instrument when one could spend the time tracking down clues to current cases, or improving one's fighting skills. No one expected Batman or Robin to serenade the criminals, after all.

Bruce had told Alfred that it was still unlikely that Dick would ever return to crime fighting as Robin, and it would be good for the boy to expand his talents in other areas of his life to fill the void that had been left. Alfred had been thrilled at the prospect of music returning to the manor, but despite this dire prediction of Robin's future, Bruce began to reintroduce Dick to the martial arts and basic gymnastics, and spent hours showing him once more how to properly throw a batarang.

November 19th . . .

To say Alfred was surprised to discover Dick twenty-five feet in the air was likely an understatement. He held his breath as the teen caught the trapeze bar like a pro. At the moment, he was merely moving back and forth between the two bars while swinging over a safety net. That area of the gymnasium has sat unused for nearly three months and Alfred had been planning on mentioning to Master Bruce that they disassemble it as the lad would never likely use it again.

Apparently, he was wrong.

"He's looking good, isn't he?"

Alfred was afraid to look away from the boy to his elder charge who had moved over to stand next to him.

"I never thought to see that again," Alfred murmured. He blinked rapidly to dispel the mistiness gathering in his eyes. "But do you think this is wise, sir?"

"What do you mean, Alfred? Haven't you been watching him spar or on the uneven parallel bars? It's like nothing had ever happened. His muscle memory is phenomenal! He doesn't even have to think about it, Alfred! He just does it!" Bruce's voice was filled with excitement and more than a little awe.

Alfred had to agree; at least in the gymnasium the young master was still rather awe-inspiring at that. It would seem that one couldn't keep a Grayson on the ground; even one who had suffered tremendous debilitating injuries.

"What are you playing at here, Master Bruce?" Alfred's voice hardened. It was a tone he seldom ever used, at least not since Bruce was a teenager.

The younger man recognized it, and turned to look at the man who was so much more than a servant; a man who was much more like a father to him.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Alfred," Bruce answered him; his own voice being kept carefully neutral. "I promised Dick to help him regain as much of his former abilities as possible. He was a world-class acrobat. I would be derelict in my duties should I neglect this part of his reeducation. And dereliction of duty was something that you lectured me on not so many weeks ago, if I remember correctly."

"This was not what I was talking about, and you know it," Alfred finally turned to face the younger man. Anger colored his words. "You think he can be Robin again, don't you?"

"I never said that," Bruce countered, but he refused to meet the elder man's eyes. "I never promised him that. We've been working steadily towards Dick attaining some semblance of a normal life; nothing more, nothing less."

"Since when has life in this house ever been normal, Master Bruce?" Alfred replied with heavy sarcasm. "Hasn't Robin taken enough from him already? He's lost his childhood, his parents, and at least three years of recent memories! If he goes back out there, who knows if the next time we might lose him completely! I beg you, sir; I have never overstepped my bounds when it came to your parenting the boy. I have kept my council and even assisted in the madness of Batman taking on a child apprentice . . ."

Bruce scoffed. "You have ever always overstepped your bounds, Alfred, and have never once held your council when you felt I was being a fool . . ."

"And a fat lot of good it has done me, sir; either of us for that matter since you seldom see fit to take such excellent advice," Alfred snapped.

Bruce finally turned in order to gape at the man more efficiently. Granted, they had all been under an extreme amount of stress lately, but Alfred had never before taken anything other than a respectful tone of voice with him. Even when Robin had been 'born', and the elder man had taken exception to the idea of a child vigilante, he had ever kept his voice cool and level. Not so, now.

"I beg your pardon if I remind you once more of your foolishness concerning the health and wellbeing of that child!" Alfred's voice rose almost an entire decibel.

"I will not . . ." Bruce began.

"Hey! Did you see that? Did you see?" Dick's happy voice broke into what had promised to be a magnificent row. Both men turned back to the young teen swinging on the trapeze far above their heads.

"Watch this," The boy cried out excitedly.

He swung his legs to increase the arc of his swing and after a few moments, Dick let go. But instead of a simple transfer to the other bar, the boy tucked his body tight, did a beautiful somersault, and stretched out with perfect timing to catch the other bar easily. His laughter echoed around the gym as he flipped over to hold the bar with his knees as he continued to swing from the upside-down catcher's position.

"Oh, my word . . ." Alfred gasped, his heart in his throat.

Bruce took several steps forward. "Dick! I thought we agreed no tricks this time out," he yelled up to the boy.

But the boy's face showed no remorse; only joy. "But it wasn't a difficult one," he grinned. "I wasn't taking chances, I promise."

"Your idea of not taking chances and mine are very different, young man," Bruce growled. "We don't break promises in this house."

Finally, Bruce's upset had broken through the boy's natural exuberance. It almost broke an old man's heart to see all that happiness fade away and a frown take its place. Dick grabbed the bar and flipped back into his original position. He swung once, twice, and then let go; allowing himself to fall down into the net below.

Alfred practically felt Bruce's tension as the boy bounced a few times and then crawled to the edge of the net and flip to the mat below with the ease of an expert in his field. Both men jogged to where the boy stood with his head bowed; obviously waiting for his punishment.

"Dick, whatever possessed you to try that for the first time without a catcher," Bruce barked; his fear making his response sound angrier than it likely was.

Dick looked up, confused. "But it wasn't the first time," he said. "I've done that before. A lot, in fact, when I was Robin."

Tension seemed to drain from Bruce's body like water from a tap. He kneeled in front of the teen and place his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Dick, I meant for the first time since your injury. We have to build you up to the harder stuff; just in case. Do you understand?"

"Yes," his answer was so soft as to nearly be inaudible. "But it wasn't hard," he murmured quietly.

Bruce pursed his lips in thought, but didn't say anything else. He tousled the boy's hair lightly, as he stood up. Dick glanced up at him with hopefulness that he was forgiven. Bruce's lips twitched upward and the boy grinned.

"Go on with you," he told him. "Hit the showers. It's almost dinner time."

Dick didn't need to be told twice and took off at a run; totally oblivious to the grimacing expressions of the two men he left in his wake. The boy's improvements were astounding, but his natural gracefulness had not returned in full force . . . yet.

Alfred agreed with Bruce and Leslie that based upon what they had seen thus far, there would be little physically that the boy had done before that he wouldn't be able to return to with the same amount of competence. It was both a relief and a worry for the manor's majordomo.

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