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Dick isn’t sure how, he’s not sure why everytime he sets himself on enjoying a day, it always ends up with him being in agonising pain.
He’s not even sure he wants to know why, he’s not sure if he’s done something so horrible in his past life that he’s now paying the price for it.
He glances around at the other hostages, prone on the floor, hands behind the head. The kids have all been locked behind the glass door, trapped, an armed, masked gunman pacing in front of them.
“Nobody fucking move.” screams another, right above Dick.
He rolls his eyes.
Nightwing could beat these guys in a minute at most. He could knock them all out and tie them up hanging from the ceiling with the now-drawn curtains.
But Dick Grayson can’t.
He’s a civilian now, there’s no kevlar protecting his vital organs, there’s no escrima sticks strapped to his back– just a plain shirt and bluejeans, and keys that he could use as a weapon, but can’t, and won’t.
Dick had immediately alerted Batman by swiftly pressing the distress beacon in his heel, taking advantage of the fact that he had to get on his knees first before laying down flat– he’d been quick enough not to be seen by the attackers.
A whimper catches Dick’s attention.
He glances at his side, noticing a young teen trembling from head to toe, struggling to breathe as their hands grip at their hair, pulling at the strands frantically, eyes not tracking.
“Hey,” he hums, quiet, like he does when he’s Nightwing, “it’s going to be okay. Try to breathe.”
The teen doesn’t seem to hear him. They look awfully pale, and Dick’s eyes only then trail down their rattling and spot a thin, transparent tube and, ah, fuck.
When the gunman is far enough, Dick slowly scoots closer to the teen, and nudges at them with his foot.
They startle, eyes wide.
“Hey,” he whispers, again, voice soft, “sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. What’s your name? Mine’s Dick. Are you okay?”
He nods at the insulin pump with his chin.
“I–” the teen starts, voice shaky, “I’m Ellis. H-hyper.”
Fuck.
“Is the pump not working?”
A shake of the head, frantic, a thick layer of sweat on their forehead. “I c-came here to get it f-fi-fixed up.”
Dick nods. He scoots back to his original position, glancing at the gunman who’s now walking his way back towards him, looking seemingly bored.
Negotiations are never fun, not for the hostages, nor for the police, nor for the attackers, apparently.
“Hey.” he calls, loud enough that the guy’s eyes bore into him instantly, rifle raised.
“No talking.”
“This kid here,” he nods at the teen “needs immediate medical attention, and–”
“Shut up before I make you.” the attacker snarls.
Dick sighs. “Police require proof of life. The kid needs an ambulance immediately, or else, they won’t make it until the negotiations are over. Please.”
His tone is calm, level.
As Nightwing, he’s handled dozens of these situations, but as Dick Grayson only, as a simple civilian, never, not like this, anyway.
The gunman crouches in front of Dick, grabbing a fistful of hair to hold his head up. “Another word and I’m putting a bullet between those pretty blues of yours.”
A loud gagging sound catches their attention as both men’s heads snap towards the teen, vomit leaking from their nose and mouth, face lying in it.
“They’re diabetic,” Dick supplies before the gunman can ask, “if you call an ambulance now, the EMTs from Gotham General could be here in three, four minutes. Please.”
Two more armed men make their way towards Dick.
“What the hell’s happening?” one of them asks, gripping at his rifle. “Got a problem, pal?”
Another gunman, significantly taller than the others, is at the teen’s side, standing as they use a foot to roll the unconscious body over unceremoniously. “This one’s dead already?”
“No.” the first one supplies, the grip on Dick’s hair releting, “But the guy here says the kid needs an ambulance because they’re diabetic and shit.”
“Turn them back face down, you don’t want them to choke on–” Dick supplies, and barely a second passes before a foot sets itself between his shoulder blades, heel digging.
The barrel of a gun pressed against his skull– Dick throws up in his mouth a little, before swallowing the bile back.
He groans, air knocked out of his lungs when the guy lifts his foot and slams it down again.
“Shut your fucking mouth, we ain’t talking to you.” the gunman hisses, then back at the others, “What the hell do we do now? If the kid dies, the police will want our heads. Or worse– that freak with the red helmet will. I ain’t playing games with that psycho.”
“I heard he chopped off a guy’s nuts.”
“Ew, dude!”
“I swear!”
Dick would roll his eyes in amusement at the mention of Jason, if not for the ache in his ribs.
“Okay, first of all, the kid ain’t going to die.” one of them replies, “And if they do, it’s just one kid. Blame it on natural causes.” the tall one reasons, “No bullet, no blame.”
“I–” Dick starts, and the heel digs deeper.
“Are you deaf or something? Shut it.”
Dick shakes his head. “Just call an ambulance. You don’t have to let the EMTs in here, you could take the kid out to them, or let me do it. I try anything funny, you shoot me, fair and square. Call an ambulance before it’s too late.” he breathes out, struggling to breathe as the pressure on his back increases.
The tallest one seems to be pondering the possibility for an instant.
“What if he’s lying?”
“We shoot him.”
“What if he dodges it?”
“Who do you think this guy is– the fucking Flash? He ain’t dodging a bullet to the skull.”
And that makes Dick shiver.
No, not now, Dick. Yes, Dick. Not Ric, nor– whatever fuckery you’re thinking, Grayson. It’s just Dick, okay? Okay.
He forces himself to take a shaky inhale, hold, and release.
“I won’t run.” Dick explains, calm, “As soon as the EMTs are in sight, I’m guiding the kid to the ground and coming straight back here, hands up and all.”
Another pause. Then, a nod.
One of them steps away– he crouches next to another weeping hostage and pats her back pocket, before pulling out her phone and dialling what Dick hopes to be 9-1-1.
He grunts. “Hey, send someone over to Gotham Medtech– yeah, the one by Gotham docks. We got a diabetic kid dying over here and– I don’t fucking know, okay? Fifteen, sixteen, whatever.” he snarls, audibly pissed.
“I don’t– hey, the kid breathing alright?” he asks, looking at the other gunmen.
The one whose foot is not on Dick’s back crouches next to the teen, a finger under their nose. He stands.
“Barely.”
The one on the phone clicks his tongue.
“Barely.” he repeats to the operator, “Enough with this bullshit, send an ambulance.” he seethes, before he ends the call and tosses the phone against the nearby wall. The owner shakes, shrieking under her breath.
Exactly four minutes pass before the blaring of ambulance sirens pierce the air.
“We’re not fucking around.” the tall one says to Dick, snapping his attention back from the teen, passed out and pale, “Breathe in a way we don’t like and you’re dead.”
“I understand.” he says, “Can I stand up?”
The foot pressed down between his shoulder blades move, replaced by a hand that grabs the collar of his shirt and forcefully yanks him upright– and Dick’s got to hand it to the guy, he’s strong.
“Here’s how this is gonna go,” the tall one says, “you grab the kid, make your way out of the building slowly, set the kid on the last step, and come back here. Not a word to the cops, not a word to the EMTs either. If the negotiator asks you anything, tell them to come inside only after you’re already back in here. Nothing less, nothing more. Got it?”
Dick nods, “Got it.”
He gently crouches down, hands mid-air, “I’m going to move my hands to cradle them.” he explains, “I’m checking their pulse and breathing first.”
Tachycardic. Shallow breaths. Clammy skin. Fuck, this is not–
“Enough, grab them and go!” the tall one snarls, and Dick nods, frantic.
He gently cradles the teen in his arms, bridal-carry, and adjusts their head so that it’s tilted sideways– because the last thing he wants is for them to start convulsing and subsequently choke on their own puke.
“I’m going.” he says, walking slowly, movements meticulous and purposefully easy to read.
It takes a minute to reach the automatic doors at that pace, and as soon as they slide open, a bout of fresh air almost knocks Dick to his feet, fresh oxygen alleviating his dull headache instantly, thoughts clearing up.
And– Batman and Red Robin are there. Among the cops, Dick spots Bruce, suited up, and Tim with his bō, ready to strike, a tight smile on his face.
Of course, Dick pretends not to acknowledge them, and gently makes his way down the stairs– twenty steps exactly. It takes two good minutes, but he eventually reaches the last one.
The EMTs are waiting for him, but they don’t speak, they know he can’t answer. A whole squadron of SWAT is also there, shields tight in their hands, ready to attack.
Dick swallows the lump in his throat and gingerly lowers the teen towards the concrete, muttering a hushed apology as he stands back again, arms up high, and turns back around.
And as soon as he’s facing the building again, all hell breaks loose. He hears the sound of glass shattering– SWAT soldiers breaking through the glass ceiling, rifles pointed immediately in the direction of the three attackers, while another dozen charges towards the entrance.
Dick is almost thrown to the floor by the sheer force of the unit collectively moving to regain control of the situation– and it only takes a minute and a whole lot of shouting and, surprisingly, no shooting, for the SWAT team to capture the three gunmen and free the hostages.
The ambulance with the teen on it has long left, but more EMTs are there, now, tending to the hostages– the wounds are mostly emotional, but a shock blanket wrapped around the shoulders and a juice pouch have never hurt anyone.
Only when the three attackers are led out the building, handcuffed and with black bags on their heads, Dick lets himself sink to the floor. And only then does he realise that he’s been shaking incessantly for the past five minutes or so.
“Dick!”
He whirls around, eyes wide–
“Bruce?”
A nod, gentle, “Hey, how are you feeling, kiddo?
Dick blinks, then shakes his head, “B-Batman?”
Bruce chuckles, eyebrows drawn together, “He must have left before I got here. I heard RR was with him.”
Then, he gently wraps his hands around Dick’s trembling arms and hoists him up, a hand then slinging around his son’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug.
“Sorry.” Dick whispers shakily, eyes wet, “I think I’m– th-they held a gun to my h-head.”
The hug tightens. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Dick lets his eyes slide shut, before the sound of light, frantic footsteps has him opening them again.
“Dick! I came as soon as I heard.” Tim says, fanned, loosening his tie.
Dick whines, burying his face in Bruce’s chest.
Tim’s tightens. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? What’s wrong with him?”
“Let’s get him home first, hm?” Bruce speaks, kind, “Come on, kiddos, let’s go.”