Dick was on his bed, the photo album open in front of him, and staring at the first picture. He couldn't even remember the sounds of his mother's voice or his father's laugh. Did his mom tell him bedtime stories, did his dad play catch with him? Did he have friends in the circus? Where was he born?

The teenager wished that he could remember what had happened. Well, he knew what had happened but he didn't know the circumstances surrounding it. The wires had broken, Bruce had told him that, but what had caused it? Bruce had said they were famous. Had that fame made them rich? Was it a jealous rival that had killed them? And, of all the memories he didn't have, why did he want to remember that?

Dick shook his head as he thought about the way he had reacted downstairs. After that little episode, he was sure that neither man would want to tell him any other details.

With a soft sigh, the boy turned the page. It was a small publicity flyer and his blue eyes widened. The two people in the foreground were his parents and they seemed to fly off the page. They looked so elegant and Dick saw in his mind a glimpse of a man catching a floating woman as she gracefully flipped through the air.

Had he been a good aerialist, too, the teenager wondered as he traced their faces with his right index finger. Bruce had said that Dick had been performing so he knew he had skills. But would he have grown up to be as good as them? What was his part in the performance?

The next picture was almost identical to the one on the flyer, although his parents weren't as clear. It had obviously been taken during a performance; there were various hands in the air in random places of the photo. But whoever had drawn them on the flyer had been able to capture the essence of their abilities. They looked…perfect.

Dick turned to the next page and a question was answered. Yes, he had been good. It was a picture of him tucked in a tight ball in the air. Someone had written a caption in blue ink: Dick practicing his quadruple flip before his first performance.

There was no other picture here. Instead, there was a long note:

Dick – today is March 20th, your ninth birthday, and you are about to make your debut! You haven't stopped talking about it all week; I think your birthday even slipped your mind. We are all excited for you and know you're going to be amazing. I can't wait for the world to find out your signature move: the quadruple flip! You already know this, but you're about to become the only person to successfully complete the move in a performance. Nine years old and you're going to accomplish something that nobody else can do! Your dad and I are so proud of you, Dick. We love you so much and are so happy that you can finally join us in doing what we love most – amazing hundreds of people with our artistry and athleticism. Let's go fly, my little Robin!

The note ended with "Love, Mom" and Dick slammed the album shut. Tears were flowing down his cheeks but anger was pulsing in his veins. He had been happy and somebody had taken that away from him. And now, five years later, all he had was a few pictures and a note. There were no happy memories and he only knew the traumatic ones because Bruce had told him.

Pushing himself off the bed, he carefully picked up the album and took it over to his desk. He opened the bottom drawer on the left side and gently placed the book inside. Then he returned to his bed, grabbed a large pillow and threw it across the room as hard as he could. It hit a lamp on a short table that was next to what he assumed was the closet. The lamp tilted and nudged a picture on the wall.

Dick saw what was coming next and he raced toward the picture. But he was too late; the frame fell off the wall and hit the table. The glass shattered, sending shards in every direction, and the lamp tipped over. Both the frame and the lamp hit the ground but the sounds were cushioned by the carpet.

"No," Dick whispered with a tinge of panic in his voice.

He had already ruined a chair in the – was it called the Batcave? – and had now broken a picture. And, since Bruce was a millionaire, it was probably an expensive one, or one that was really important to the man.

Kneeling down next to the table, and not caring that his bare knees were on broken pieces of glass, Dick carefully turned the frame over. It was a picture of a man and a woman dancing. The faces were unfamiliar but that didn't mean they were unimportant.

A large piece of glass had stabbed the man in the left eye. Dick grabbed the piece and pulled but it was stuck. He narrowed his eyes and pulled again. The only thing he accomplished was slicing open the palm of his hand. Ignoring the pain, he turned the frame over and discovered the source of the shard's immobility. It had plunged itself through the hard wood and hooked itself under one of the clips used to hang the picture on the wall.

With a quiet yell of frustration, the teenager began working on unhooking the glass. Several minutes later it was free but Dick's hand had paid the price. There wasn't a single spot of flesh that wasn't red but, again, the boy didn't care. He had to take care of his mess before either man discovered it.

But he was too late again. Just as he finally pulled the large shard out of the man's eye, Bruce opened the door and walked in.

There was no information on Bookworm coming from any Bat-machine. Batman decided to take a break; it was lunchtime anyway. He strode to his Bat-pole, pushed the Compressed Steam Lever and shot himself up to Wayne Manor.

"Alfred?" he called as he exited the study.

"In the kitchen, Master Bruce," the butler replied loudly. "I would gladly come out there to speak with you but my hands are otherwise occupied. Unless you want burnt chunks of chicken for lunch, you might want to come in here, sir."

Bruce walked through the kitchen door with a grin.

"That is something I definitely don't want," the man stated. "Have you seen Dick?"

"No, I assume him to be in his room, sir. Would you like me to go check?"

"No, Alfred. You work on keeping that chicken far away from crispy and I'll go get him."

"As you wish, Master Bruce."

The millionaire left the kitchen and climbed the stairs. He stopped at Dick's bedroom door and knocked. There was no answer so he tried again, a little louder.

"Dick? Hey, chum, I'm coming in," the man said loudly. There was still no answer so he turned the knob and walked in the room.

What he saw shocked him. Dick was on the far side of the room, kneeling by the table that used to have a lamp on it. There was red, a lot of red, all around him and he was holding a picture frame in his left hand. In his right was a long piece of what looked like broken glass. Bruce couldn't be sure, though, because it was mostly red instead of clear.

Dick looked back at Bruce with wide eyes. The boy looked like a deer caught in the headlights, if deer had flecks of red on their cheeks and fresh tears filling their eyes.

"What happened?" Bruce shouted as he raced across the room.

"I'm sorry," Dick said softly, his voice trembling. "I didn't mean to. It was an accident, I'm so sorry. Are they…important to you?"

The boy glanced down at the picture and Bruce's eyes followed. He almost burst out laughing. It was a frame that hadn't received a real photo yet; the picture inside was a generic one that could be found in almost any normal frame.

But laughing wouldn't help the situation and the picture wasn't the most important part of the scene anyway. Dick's right hand was covered in blood and there were glass shards surrounding him. The piece Bruce had seen earlier had been dropped to the floor and the man could see a deep slice in the boy's palm. There were smaller cuts on some of his fingers but they disappeared when Dick squeezed his hand shut.

"Let me see your hand, chum. We need to stop the blood and then work on removing glass, if there is any."

"I'm so sorry," Dick whispered again. "Are they your…parents?"

The last word was full of both fear and shame. Bruce shook his head and reached out to take his ward's hand.

"I have no idea who they are, Dick," he stated while gently forcing the hand open. "We need to stop the bleeding."

Bruce stood and pulled the boy up with him. He put on hand on Dick's back and gently guided him toward the bathroom. Glancing back, he was dismayed to see a trail of crimson on the light carpet.

"Sit down," the man commanded, not unkindly.

The teenager obediently sat on the edge of the tub and Bruce grabbed the pristine, white towel off the rack.

"Sorry, Alfred," he murmured as he wrapped his ward's bloody right hand with the soft towel.

Bruce found the source of the rest of the blood when he stepped back. There were pieces of crushed glass in Dick's knees and shins. He made a mental list: tweezers, gauze, medical tape, a new towel and a small bowl to collect the glass.

"Stay here, chum. I'm going to go get some supplies but I'll be right back. Please just sit here and keep that towel wrapped around your hand."

"Shouldn't I fix the frame first? I mean, I'll probably get cut a couple of more times so why clean everything up when I haven't finished?"

Bruce crouched in front of his ward. "Dick, you're not going to fix it. The picture is meaningless and the frame wasn't being used. It doesn't matter. Promise me that you will just stay here."

"I always keep my promises?" the boy asked quietly as he dropped his eyes to the ground.

"Always, kiddo."

"Then I promise," he said as he lifted his head and looked into his guardian's eyes.

With a grateful nod, Bruce stood up and went in search of medical supplies. To his surprise, Alfred was standing outside the door.

"I heard you yell, Master Bruce, and then you didn't answer me. Is everything okay?"

Sighing, Bruce replied, "Dick accidentally knocked a picture frame off the wall. He was trying to fix it and sliced himself up pretty badly."

"Oh, dear," the butler murmured. "What do you need?"

Bruce rattled off his mental list and Alfred immediately walked down the hall.

"Give me two minutes, Master Bruce."

Nodding, although he knew Alfred didn't see it, Bruce turned around and went back to the bathroom. Dick was sitting in the same spot but was hunched over and crushing his right hand against his chest. The teenager's eyes were closed, his face was pale and he was mumbling to himself.

"Idiot, can't look at dumb pictures without crying, can't get angry without breaking something, can't even remember what a trapeze feels like."

"Dick, it's okay to be upset."

The comment startled the boy and his eyes flipped open. At the same time, he unconsciously straightened up and lost his balance. His head went back, his feet went up and there was a loud 'thunk'.

"Dick!"

Bruce had lunged for the legs that had flown into the air and caught the slim ankles. But some part of his ward's body had hit the bottom or side of the bathtub. Frowning at his failure, Bruce looked over the side of the tub. Dick was lying on his back, desperately trying to pull air into his lungs. His eyes were clear and there was no blood behind his head and Bruce released a sigh of relief.

Gently, Bruce grabbed Dick's upper arms and pulled him up. He began rubbing the teen's back, hoping to restore his breathing quickly. It worked; air easily began flowing in and out of his body after only a few seconds.

"Are you okay, chum?"

"Yeah, sorry."

"It was my fault, I startled you."

"You were just so quiet! I didn't even hear you come in!"

"You can do that, too," Bruce stated with a slight grin. "Sometimes Batman almost doesn't even hear Robin during patrol. And you're good at sneaking up on criminals."

"Okay," Dick said with a shrug.

"The floor might be a better spot," Bruce commented.

Dick slid off the edge of the tub and Bruce sat down beside him.

At that moment, Alfred walked in with his arms full of supplies.

"I included a bowl of water, sir, and washcloths. I'll be…nearby…if you need me."

The butler glanced once at Dick, placed the supplies on the floor for Bruce then left to clean up the mess in the bedroom.

"Alright, kiddo, let's patch you up," Bruce stated.

Dick instantly held out his right hand. The towel wrapped around it was soaked with blood. Shaking his head, Bruce unwound the material and dipped a washcloth in the bowl of water. The teenager flinched when the man began cleaning the wounds but didn't make any noise that indicated pain.

"You were at the circus, right?" the boy suddenly asked. "When it happened, I mean?"

Bruce nodded as he dropped the washcloth and grabbed the tweezers. He was focused on the small hand but he could hear the sadness in his ward's voice.

"Did I…"

There was a long pause. After pulling a tiny piece of glass out of the boy's thumb, Bruce looked up and waited for Dick to continue.

But the teen didn't. He was staring at the wall above Bruce's head, a faraway look in his eyes, and unconsciously chewing on his bottom lip.

The man decided to let it go, something he wouldn't have done if Dick was his old self. He looked down at his ward's hand again and grimaced. The next shard was the largest and was going to hurt.

"Sorry," he murmured as he grasped the piece of glass with the tweezers. It was stuck in the boy's palm, where the deepest slice was, and Bruce couldn't decide whether to pull it out quickly and get it over with or take it slow.

A single, wheezing word made the decision for him.

"Go."

Swiftly, the man slid the crimson fragment out. Dick drew in a sharp gulp of air and tried to pull his hand in to relieve the pain. Bruce, however, kept a firm grip. The smaller pieces of glass would move around if the position was altered. Since he already knew where most of them were, Bruce wanted his patient to remain still.

"Did I…" Dick began again and, again, the man looked up at the boy's face.

"Just ask, chum."

"Did I get to fly?" he asked quietly after another lengthy pause. "Mom said…" Dick choked on the words and stopped talking.

"Yes, kiddo, you flew. You were amazing, you looked perfect and the entire audience was on their feet."

"She said…it was my debut?"

"It was, Dick. The night I went was the first night the circus was in town. While the three of you were climbing the ladders to the platforms, the ring master announced that it was the debut of both you and your signature move. His voice was full of pride and all the other performers had gathered around the outside of the ring to watch."

"Did I do it? My signature move?"

Bruce grinned as he stared into his ward's eyes. The light-blue circles were full of pain but outlined with curiosity.

"The quadruple backflip," the man replied. "I didn't think it was possible. I even counted the revolutions, just to be sure. You made it look so easy and your timing was perfect. Right after you completed your fourth rotation, you straightened your body, reached toward your dad and latched onto his wrists without a hitch. It was amazing."

Bruce returned his gaze to Dick's hand and continued picking out the tiny shards of glass. He heard a quiet sniffle but decided to let that go, also. Bruce Wayne bottled up emotions but Dick Grayson needed to let everything out. So, he ignored the soft gasps of sadness and, several minutes later, pulled out the last piece.

"Legs," the man commanded lightly, and the boy straightened them out.

Before using the tweezers on Dick's shins and knees, Bruce used the gauze to wrap his ward's entire hand. The gasp he heard this time was full of pain instead of sadness.

"Sorry," the man murmured again. He finished wrapping and looked at the boy's face.

"There aren't very many pieces in your legs, chum. We can do it quickly or we can wait for the pain in your hand to recede. Either one is fine with me."

"Let's just get it over with," Dick sighed. "Sorry about this – the frame, the glass, taking valuable time away from…whatever you were doing."

"You have no reason to apologize. I wasn't doing anything important."

That was a lie, Batman had been searching for any leads on Bookworm, but Dick didn't need to know that. Bruce had been coming up for lunch anyway so it was actually a half-truth, not a complete lie.

"Is that why I chose Robin?"

Dick abruptly changed the subject and Bruce was a little confused. Did the boy not know…of course he didn't.

"The note…she said…I mean…"

"Your mother called you her 'little Robin'," the man answered when Dick stopped talking. "When you became a crime-fighter, you chose that name to honor them. Is that what you were asking?"

He received a nod but nothing else. Turning his attention to Dick's legs, Bruce began picking out the glass. The process was completed in less than three minutes and there were only a few places that needed to be covered with gauze.

"Thanks," Dick whispered as Bruce finished taping the last piece on the boy's knee.

Looking up again, the man stated, "You're welcome. Ready for lunch?"

Dick shrugged in response and ran his uninjured hand through his messy hair.

"I can bring you a tray and you can eat in here, if you want."

"No, I don't want to be anti-social," the boy replied with a half-grin.

His attempt at humor fell flat but the man answered anyway.

"That, kiddo, has never been in your nature," Bruce commented with a slight smirk.

He stood up, grasped his ward's left hand and pulled him to his feet. Then, the man who could induce fear into a criminal with a simple glare, carefully slung his arm around the boy's shoulder, squeezed once, and led him out of the room.