Wayne Manor – 30 minutes later:

Alfred politely held the door open as his two boys entered the house. Dick looked angry and there was a storm brewing on Bruce's face. The butler joined them in the living room, hoping to be the calming presence that would diffuse what was obviously about to become a shouting match.

"Sit down," Bruce commanded.

It was an unnecessary command because Dick was already sitting on the couch. But it showed the other two that Bruce was in complete control of the situation.

"I have several questions, but first I want to hear your side of the story," the man stated, the anger in his tone very thinly veiled. "Go."

Dick had his head in his hands. He couldn't tell his side of the story because he didn't remember any of it. The last thing he clearly remembered was sitting down to get his picture taken at school. Everything after that, up until the weird beam from the reporter's camera, was made up of fuzzy pictures floating in a gray mist.

"Richard."

The word was a warning, like it usually was when Bruce used his real name.

"I don't know," the teenager whispered. "I don't remember."

"Great," Bruce stated sarcastically. "That's a great answer. Do you not remember because you were on drugs?"

"What?!" Dick exclaimed, snapping his head up. "Bruce, I would never…how could you even think that?!"

"Well, let me see," Bruce responded angrily. "The glazed look in your eyes when I bailed you out at headquarters, the fact that you attempted to steal an ancient artifact from the Gotham Antiquities Museum, the fact that you weren't even stealthy when attempting to steal it."

He was ticking things off on his fingers, and Dick's eyes were growing wider with every accusation.

"The fact that you assaulted a police officer," Bruce continued, "the fact that you had no emotions in your eyes – eyes that are never emotionless, the fact…"

"Wait," Dick interrupted. "Why would I try to steal something from a museum?"

"I don't know, Dick, you tell me!"

"Bruce, I swear I don't remember! My head has been fuzzy all day, ever since the school photographer took my picture."

"You do realize that was yesterday, right?" Bruce asked incredulously.

"Are you serious?!" Dick exclaimed quietly. "I lost an entire day?!"

"Dick."

Bruce paused and took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. He joined the teen on the couch, silently counting to ten before continuing.

"I need you to be honest with me. I need your side of the story so we can get this figured out with the commissioner. The last thing we need is you going to court on charges of attempted theft, resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer, and buying drugs."

"I am being honest, Bruce! I don't remember anything after having my picture taken! I swear!"

Bruce clenched his jaw and stood up again. He began pacing, his hands behind his back and an expression of both anger and uncertainty on his face.

"Let's start from the beginning," he stated, stopping in front of Dick and folding his arms across his chest. "You had your picture taken, and then…"

He paused, waiting for Dick to fill in the blank. The teenager closed his eyes, his confused expression morphing into one of complete concentration. Bruce counted to sixty in his head and was not surprised when the boy opened his eyes on the last number.

"I had a headache," he responded softly.

"And?" Bruce asked impatiently.

"Um, I think I took a test in math?"

"You think?!" the millionaire exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air. "What else do you think happened?! You did a lab in science, you wrote a paper in English, you…"

"An essay!" Dick burst out. "I was writing an essay. Maybe," he finished uncertainly.

"You were working on something in your room when I came home," Bruce stated. "You were rather curt when I asked how you were doing."

Dick stared up at him without even a hint of recognition of that incident.

"Uh, sorry?"

"Yes, you're going to be," Bruce muttered as he began pacing again. "Why were you out at eleven o'clock with a bunch of money? Where did you even get a bunch of money?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dick answered wearily. "I have twenty dollars in my wallet, that's it."

"Because you spent everything else on drugs," Bruce accused.

"Bruce!" the teen exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "I don't do drugs! I've never touched a drug in my entire life, except the ones Alfred gives me when I get injured! Why would I do that?!"

"That's what I'm trying to find out!" Bruce yelled.

"Sir," Alfred cautioned softly.

Bruce took another deep breath and sat on the arm of a chair right next to him. Dick took the cue and plopped back onto the couch.

"Okay, let's skip that for now," Bruce said, attempting to control the building fury. "Why did you break into the museum and attempt to steal the Golden Scarab?"

Dick leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. Bruce waited all of ten seconds before repeating the question.

"I don't know, I don't remember doing that," the boy mumbled. "I just…I don't know."

"Richard John Grayson, there is no way you don't remember something as memorable as that. You have an excellent memory, and I refuse to believe that you have no idea what I'm talking about."

"Okay," Dick replied softly.

"Okay," Bruce echoed, disbelief filling his tone. "That's all you have to say for yourself – okay?"

"I don't know what else to say," the teen replied, lifting his head. "I don't remember, but you don't believe me, so there's nothing else to say."

Dropping his head back into his hands, Dick began rubbing his temples. A deep headache was beginning to manifest itself, and the pain was intense. He could handle it – he was Robin – but the stress of the situation was making it worse.

"Then I don't know what to say, either," Bruce responded tersely. "Are you lying because you're afraid of getting in trouble? You're already in a lot of trouble, telling the truth can only help you. But even that can't get you out of this mess you've placed yourself in. The judge is not going to accept 'I don't remember' as an answer. He'll just go with the drug theory and you'll spend some time in the juvenile detention center."

Dick's head snapped up again. Bruce cringed at the look of raw fear on the boy's face. The detention center was a bad memory, one that the millionaire hated to bring up. But it had to be said, because that was what was going to happen, especially if Dick didn't even plead his case by being honest about everything.

"I can't…Bruce, I can't…don't…no, I can't…"

The teenager was beginning to hyperventilate, and Bruce was instantly by his side. He was angry, yes, but Dick was still his boy. Quickly grabbing Dick's hand, Bruce placed it on his own chest and began the breathing exercise they always did when Dick was on the verge of a panic attack.

This time was different. Instead of calm words and instructions, Bruce stayed completely silent. Right now, the man didn't trust himself to keep his voice even, and anger wouldn't help the situation. Dick's breathing sped up instead of slowing down, but Bruce still couldn't control the burning rage flowing through his body. He silently willed the boy to match their breathing, but now Dick's hand was going limp against Bruce's chest.

Dang it.

"Dick, slow down," he muttered.

He could hear the fury in his voice, but he was hoping that Dick was too far gone to recognize it.

"Breathe, chum, breathe with me, come on."

Alfred finally decided to jump in when Dick's torso flopped onto the back of the couch.

"Move, sir," he commanded, placing his deceptively strong hands on Bruce's shoulders and pulling him out of the way.

Kneeling down, the butler grabbed Dick's hand and placed it against his own chest.

"Master Dick, I need you to calm down. I'll count, you stay with me. One. Two."

With each number, Alfred took a deep breath and released it.

"Six. Seven. Come on, Master Dick."

The last sentence was a whisper.

"Nine. Ten."

Dick finally took a gulping breath and was soon able to match Alfred's breathing.

"Fifteen. Sixteen."

The teenager opened his eyes but was too tired to sit up.

"Eighteen. Nineteen."

"Twenty," Dick finished quietly.

"Good job, young sir," Alfred responded softly before standing up and moving back to his spot by the fireplace.

Bruce was sitting on the chair again. Fear had wrapped his chest in an iron grip. Fear that he was about to lose Dick because he couldn't control his emotions enough to calm a panic attack. He had been the one to stop it every time, whether it was Robin or Dick Grayson. But this time he had allowed his anger to get the better of him.

"If you hadn't been here…" he whispered in the direction of Alfred.

The wise butler heard the alarm in his older charge's voice, and he knew that Bruce had just learned a valuable lesson.

"I'm…sorry," Dick stated as he finally sat up.

"I shouldn't have brought it up," Bruce responded stiffly.

"Purple," the teenager commented thoughtfully.

"What?"

"There was something purple. In the parking lot. Why was I in a parking lot with something purple?"

Bruce stayed quiet, hoping the silence would allow Dick to continue remembering. That was what he was hoping was happening; he couldn't really be sure.

"It was an easy climb."

There was a long pause. Dick had returned to his former position, head in his hands and rubbing his temples.

"I got lost," he finally murmured. "In the vents," he clarified to himself. "Why was I in some vents?"

Another long pause. Bruce waited impatiently, feeling like he was about to burst with questions but somehow holding himself back.

"Egypt, someone pushing me against a wall."

Fragments of his unusual night were flashing through Dick's mind. Pieces of a scattered puzzle that he couldn't put together.

"Someone pushed you…"

Bruce stopped mid-sentence and silently commanded himself to shut up. The fact that Dick had been pushed against a wall increased the anger already boiling in his veins, but finding that person was currently not at the top of his priority list.

"I dropped it. He wanted it but I dropped it. Who wanted it? Why did I even have it?"

Dick suddenly lifted his head. He looked exhausted and he was holding his head instead of just rubbing his temples.

"Why would I try to steal something?" he asked, disbelief in his voice.

"Master Bruce, I think a few moments of rest would be best for now," Alfred stated softly.

Bruce nodded and motioned for Dick to lay down.

"But I'm getting some stuff," Dick argued, although there was no anger in his tone.

"And from the look on your face, you probably feel like someone is pounding stakes into your head," Bruce responded, the anger still evident in his tone. "You have a high pain tolerance; you wouldn't be holding your head if it was a normal headache. Alfred's right, take a break."

Instead of laying down, Dick leaned against the back of the couch again. Bruce was right, of course. It did feel like giant stakes were being pounded into every part of his brain. But Dick was right, too. He was remembering things. The pain increased with every small thing he remembered, but the teen would rather have the pain than the threat of the detention center hanging over his head.

"Yellow," he whispered.

"Take a break," Bruce commanded.

"But…"

"Enough!"

Dick closed both his mouth and his eyes. Rest sounded good, but his very real fear of the detention center was making it nearly impossible. Eventually he fell into a restless slumber, the exhaustion of the sleepless night and stress of the day finally taking its toll on his body.

What were you thinking, Dick?

This can't be true.

Eyewitness, though. I'll have to check his story out.

Drugs, Dick? The Golden Scarab is valuable, but it would be too hot to sell right after you stole it. You wouldn't be able to get money for your next hit because nobody would buy it.

What?! This is Dick Grayson, not some drug addict who can't control himself!

But the package.

What if the eyewitness is lying?

Why would an old man lie about something like that?

"Sir?"

Alfred's quiet voice interrupted Bruce's conflicting thoughts.

"What do you make of this situation, Alfred?" the younger man asked, keeping his eyes on his ward.

"I think there is a lot that we do not know, sir."

"Do you think he really doesn't remember?"

"I'm not quite sure, Master Bruce. I do know that he has been out of sorts since he came home from school yesterday, sir, but I have no idea why."

"I don't think I can get him out of this one, Alfred."

The apprehension in Bruce's voice was unmistakable. There was a real possibility that Dick would have to spend some time in the detention center. Attempted robbery, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer, and possibly possession of drugs. If it was just one of those, maybe Bruce could have asked for community service, but there was nothing he could do when they had all happened in one night.

"There's no way out of this," Bruce murmured, moving his gaze from his ward to his butler. "Whether he remembers it or not, he still committed the crimes. I can't…Alfred, he can't go back in the detention center. It will break him."

"Master Dick is strong, sir. We will help him get through whatever the law decides, and if he needs help putting himself back together when he gets out, we'll do that as well."

"I'm going back."

It was a comment, not a question. Bruce turned to look at the sixteen-year-old, attempting to keep his composure so Dick wouldn't see the absolute 'yes' that was swirling in the man's chest.

"There's nothing you or anyone can do. I heard you. You're right; it doesn't matter if I don't remember, I still committed the crimes. I'm going back."

The short speech was supposed to be strong, but Dick's voice faded as memories of the detention center resurfaced. It had been almost six years, but the terror of those sleepless nights and pain-filled days were never far from his mind.

"Dick, I…"

Bruce had nothing to say – there was nothing he could say. There was no disputing the facts that Dick had tried to steal the Golden Scarab and then punched a police officer in the stomach.

"Bruce, I wouldn't do it on my own. I've never done anything like that. I've never even thought about trying drugs, and you know I don't ever carry a 'chunk' of money. How did I get to the museum, and why did I specifically go for the Golden Scarab. It's not even the most valuable thing there! Please, Bruce, you have to believe me! Something happened to me, I just can't remember what it is. There's a fog, and fractured pictures, and splintered memories, and I can't put them all together!" he finished, frustration filling his voice.

The millionaire made a decision, one he would later regret.

"I want to believe you, Dick, but there is no evidence of an accomplice."

"Did anybody test me for drugs?!" the teen suddenly burst out.

"I…"

Bruce paused, and then felt like an idiot. He hadn't even asked the police about that.

"Not that I know of," he finished lamely.

"Then how would anyone know that I was on drugs if nobody even tested me? I wasn't, by the way."

"Well, we can't test you now. Anything you took will already be out of your system."

"I didn't take anything! Gosh dang it, Bruce, why are you even able to consider the idea that I took drugs?! I have never done anything that would make it easy for you to believe that!"

"Okay, let's back off the drugs for a moment. If you didn't want money for drugs, why did you try to steal the Golden Scarab?"

"I have no idea!" Dick yelled. "I don't remember anything, Bruce, I've lost an entire day of my life! Isn't that worrisome to you? Don't you think that could be an important thing for us to check out?"

"Us?"

Dick looked like he had just been hit with a right hook from Joker. Pain filled his eyes, and his expression went from anger to shock.

"Master Bruce!"

Alfred was aghast at the younger man's flippant comment. Bruce glanced over at his butler but immediately returned his gaze to the teenager.

"There is no 'us' right now, Dick. Robin is grounded."

"So it's me against everyone, you're not even going to try," the sixteen-year-old stated.

Alfred's heart cracked when he heard the deep sorrow in Dick's voice. It reminded him of the first day they had brought the boy home from the detention center. Dick had been scared of everything, and the thought that there might be people who cared about him had never entered his young mind. The only people who loved him had died, and everybody after that had been either physically or emotionally abusive for almost a month.

Where Alfred heard sorrow, Bruce heard defiance. It reminded him of the way Dick had reacted yesterday, when the man had merely asked if everything was okay. Dick had practically snapped at him, and Bruce had detected a hint of fury in the boy's tone. Bruce had been wrong; Dick had just been irritated with himself because he couldn't remember anything about his day. But the millionaire didn't know that.

"That's not what I said," Bruce responded curtly.

"You said there's no us," Dick reminded him.

"I didn't mean it like that," the man stated angrily. "I'm going to do the best I can, but there's no way you're getting out of this without spending some time in the center. You committed too many crimes, and the only thing that will happen is that maybe – maybe – I can get you a reduced sentence."

Dick closed his eyes again, refusing to allow either man to see any hint of weakness. He was going to be put in juvenile detention, and he was going to deal with it, and when he got out he wasn't going to return to Wayne Manor. It was obvious that Bruce didn't want him anymore, anyway.

There is no us.

That phrase began playing on a loop in the sixteen-year-old's mind. Bruce Wayne didn't want Dick Grayson anymore, and Batman had never really needed Robin. So, there was nothing left for him here. Should he tell them now, or just disappear when he was released from the center?

"Don't wait for me."

Both Bruce and Alfred were taken aback, and neither one had an immediate reply. The silence was deafening, and Dick was sure that the men were using their eyes to talk to each other about him.

"Dick…"

"Master Dick…"

"Don't wait for me," the teenager repeated as he opened his eyes.

Pushing himself off the couch, Dick walked out of the room. The men heard him climbing the stairs and then heard the 'slam' of a door, although it was not a forceful one.

"You should not let that idiotic comment simmer in his young mind, Master Bruce," Alfred said stiffly. "He is sixteen, and terrified, and now he thinks you are giving up on him."

"I'm not giving up on him!"

"Sir, you specifically said, 'There is no us' right to his face. It's now Dick Grayson against the world, because Bruce Wayne has already given up."

"I meant 'us' as in Batman and Robin, not Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson! Alfred…"

"With all due respect, sir, I am not the one you should be talking to. Good luck fixing this one. As if you don't have enough to fix already."

The last sentence was so soft that Bruce almost missed it, but he knew his butler had said it just loud enough for him to hear.

"Six years may seem like a long time, Master Bruce," Alfred suddenly continued, "but you are not the young boy who was stuck in jail with a group of teenagers because your social worker didn't like your background. You said going back there would break him, sir. I'm afraid your vague, dismissive comment may have taken care of that."

With that, Alfred left the room.