Work Text:
“802 Sprint, report to an alley off the corner of Gaines and Cathedral. Stab wound. 223 Transport, follow up.”
“802 copies.”
“223 copies.”
The call comes over the radio at about 0200 hours. Sydney, the northside Sprint Unit and supervisor that nightshift for Gotham’s Fire and Rescue, is in the area and immediately makes a hard right turn to get to the location.
"Male, approximately thirty years old. Significant blood loss. Patient alert but becoming increasingly lethargic."
She parks her truck and grabs the trauma bag in the passenger seat. As she opens her door, she reaches for her radio to report to dispatch. “802 on scene.”
Sydney kills the siren but leaves the emergency lights flashing, washing the mouth of the alley in alternating red and white. Her eyes sweep the scene automatically.
One patient. Two civilians. No obvious weapon. No active fight.
Scene appears to be secure.
She slings the trauma bag over one shoulder and jogs toward the alley. As she gets closer, she begins to hear snippets of a conversation.
"...and you just keep taking deep breaths for me, okay? That’s right, Kayla, you’re doing great. As long as I keep maintaining pressure on his wound, everything is going to be alright."
She slows.
That was… a kid’s voice.
No, not a kid, per se.
She finds Robin IV and a young woman kneeling over a man—the patient. Robin was pressing gauze firmly to what Sydney presumes was the stab wound in the man’s stomach while the woman sobs, just the slightest touch hysterical.
(While she has no doubt the Bats are all just normal metahumans, Robin is still—indubitably—a child. A highly trained, highly competent, highly lethal child, but a child nonetheless. Sydney never really feels comfortable with children in violent situations like this. She just doesn't think they should be exposed to this shit, if it can be helped.)
“Hey, there,” Sydney says, quickly pulling on a pair of gloves and setting her bag down to dig for more gauze. For some reason, the gauze has fallen to the bottom of the bag and she knocks some equipment out of the bag in her search for it. No matter, the patient was more important. “What’s your name?”
The victim on the floor mumbles something, but it is mostly unintelligible to her. “One more time for me, Sweetie. What’s your name?”
“Ghislain,” he says, a little clearer this time. Sydney smiles and tears open a pack of gauze. She motions to Robin to move his hands and allow her to add more gauze. She found that keeping conversation with the patient was the best way to keep them alert, keep them calm, and also maintain control of the situation.
“And how old are you, Ghislain?”
“Thirty-three.”
“That’s a lucky age.”
“Doesn’t feel it,” Ghislain mumbles.
Sydney laughs despite herself, reaching into her bag for trauma dressing. “Well, I got here in time, didn’t I? And look, Robin’s been takin’ great care of you. In a few minutes, my colleagues will be here to take you to the hospital and you’ll be right as rain.”
She carefully peels one of Robin's hands back just enough to inspect the wound. The gauze is already soaked through. Good. That means he'd never lifted it to "check on it."
She slides another dressing over the top instead, maintaining constant pressure.
"You've been keeping pressure the whole time?"
Robin nods. "Since I found him."
"Good." She pauses. "...Really good."
Sydney reaches for another pair of gloves, but stops. Robin's already wearing some. Not his usual green gloves—those are tucked into his duty belt—nor are they the cheap latex kind you'd find in a first-aid kit, either. Proper nitrile gloves, snug against his hands.
He isn't crowding the patient or fidgeting nervously. He's kneeling on Ghislain's uninjured side, keeping steady pressure on the wound while speaking just enough to keep him awake, but not so much that he overwhelms him.
She has to remind herself that she's looking at a teenager.
Most bystanders either freeze completely or try to do too much. They poke at wounds, lift dressings to "check" the bleeding, or insist on moving the patient somewhere more comfortable. Robin has done none of that. Whoever taught him emergency medicine knew exactly what they were doing.
Or... whoever taught him had done this far too many times before.
(The thought sends an uncomfortable shiver down her spine.)
“So, Robin,” Sydney says, finally addressing the young vigilante by name. She’s seen him out and about before, of course. It’s something of an initiation ceremony among the emergency service workers to see The Bat or one of his sidekicks close-up on a job. But this is the first time Sydney has ever been in such close proximity to one of them. “I'm Sydney. What’s the rundown?”
“Attempted robbery. Single assailant fled on foot. Batman is in pursuit. Single penetrating stab wound to the left lower abdomen, seems to be fairly shallow. Airway patent. Increasing diaphoresis. GCS fifteen on arrival, currently fourteen."
"Right," she says, momentarily forgetting the rest of the questions she'd intended to ask. That was… surprisingly succinct yet very comprehensive. That isn't the sort of report she expects from a teenager. Hell, it isn't the sort of report she gets from some rookie EMTs.
"Any allergies?" she manages eventually.
Robin glances at the patient. "None known. Denies anticoagulant use. Medical history unknown."
Sydney pauses again. "...Thanks."
“This is his girlfriend, Kayla,” Robin nods over to the young woman, who seems to have regained her bearings a bit now that more medical professionals have arrived to treat her boyfriend. “She called 911 and witnessed the assault. Kayla?”
Kayla flinches and looks up at him.
“They’re here now, okay? They're going to help Ghislain.” Robin reassures her, his voice gentling. “Say ‘hi’ to Sydney, Kayla.”
Kayla blinks.
“Hello, Ma’am,” she says after a few moments.
“Hello, Kayla,” Sydney says in return. Because what the fuck else was she supposed to say?
“223 on scene,” comes the call from over the radio.
Oh thank god, Sydney thinks as she glances up and finds two of her coworkers taking the stretcher out of their large transport truck.
“See, Ghislain? My buddies are here and they’re gonna get you to the hospital. They can also give you the good drugs, if you need it.”
“Might as well, right?” Ghislain grumbles, though the look on his face is one of sardonic amusement. “When else ‘m I gonna get stabbed?”
“Hopefully never,” Sydney says as Ivanova and Johnson pull up to the scene. “Robin, would you mind informing my colleagues of the information you shared with me?”
“This is Ghislain, thirty-three. Attempted robbery,” Robin begins again almost immediately. “Single assailant fled on foot. Batman is in pursuit. Single penetrating stab wound to the left lower abdomen, which seems to be fairly shallow. GCS fifteen on arrival, currently fourteen.” He pauses and glances at Sydney before turning back to the two new EMTs. “No known allergies and no anticoagulants.”
“Wow,” Ivanova says. She’s a stoic woman but her face does look fairly impressed for how little it seems to move. “That was informative.”
“Yeah,” Johnson says as they lower the stretcher to the ground. He’s one of the newer guys—the ones with a lot of energy and passion but not all the right skills yet. “Did Ngyuen teach you all that?”
“I don’t need to be coached,” Robin snaps. “I figured it out all myself.”
“He did,” Sydney confirms, moving out of the way so the stretcher could be brought right to Ghislain’s side.
“We’re gonna lift you up, Mr. Ghislain, alright?” Ivanova says. “It might hurt a little, but I promise you’re gonna feel a lot better soon, alright? Robin, keep applying pressure.”
Robin bobs his head in an affirmative and the three EMTs manage to transfer Ghislain onto the stretcher all while Robin maintains pressure on the wound. He walks alongside the stretcher as they move to the truck.
“How old are you, kid?” Johnson asks. Sydney hopes Robin can tell the ribbing comes from a place of genuine curiosity and admiration, not anything malicious.
“I’m not a kid,” Robin hisses, unaware of how childish it makes him appear. “And that’s confidential.”
“Right… I’m gonna say you’re fifteen, then,” Johnson says. “How the hell does a fifteen year old know what the GCS scale is?”
“I can read.”
“But what kid reads emergency medical protocol for fun?”
“I thought I told you I’m not a kid.”
As Ivanova and Johnson work on wrapping and taping Ghislain’s torso to maintain the pressure during transport, the hissing of pressurized air and the heavy thunk of a grappling hook sounds from above them. Shortly after, Batman lands behind them, scaring the shit out of poor Kayla.
“Robin, report.”
Robin starts his spiel again, and now Sydney realizes why Robin was so prepared with his speech when she first asked it of him. He’s been trained, she realizes. Not just in combat and detective work, but also extensive medical training. He gives succinct reports like a soldier would to a CO, or a nurse to an attending doctor.
Not only that, but he knew to keep talking to Ghislain and keep him awake and alert. He knew keeping Kayla calm was an important step as well, constantly reassuring her and not allowing her to get lost in her own thoughts.
"—GCS dropped to fourteen. Possible grade three splenic laceration—"
Batman immediately cuts in. "Possible. Don't anchor."
Robin pauses, because what the fuck would a fifteen year old know about anchoring bias. Against all odds though, Robin merely nods and says "...Right."
"We don't diagnose in the field,” Batman scolds, though it doesn’t land nearly as hard as Sydney would’ve expected a reprimand from Batman to hit.
"...Understood."
Batman kneels beside the stretcher, placing two fingers against Ghislain's wrist for barely a second.
"Capillary refill?"
Robin immediately reaches for the patient's hand.
"Approximately four seconds."
Batman gives a single nod.
"Continue."
Sydney blinks.
Continue?
It takes her an embarrassing amount of time to realize Batman isn't asking her. He's asking Robin. The young vigilante resumes without missing a beat.
"Patient has become progressively more lethargic since first contact. Radial pulse remains palpable but weaker than initial assessment. Direct pressure on the wound has been maintained continuously since arrival."
Batman glances toward the dressing. Robin’s hands are still maintaining pressure over the wound, even as he shifts to allow the other EMTs to move about him and tape the gauze down.
"Good."
Robin doesn't smile. He only gives a curt nod, as though that single sentence means more to him than anything else Batman could have said.
Batman finally turns his attention to the EMTs.
"Estimated transport time?"
"Eight minutes to Gotham General," Ivanova answers, finishing up the wrapping and gesturing for Robin to release pressure. "Wayne Trauma Institute has already been notified."
Batman dips his head. In some cases, it would be considered a very shallow bow. "Thank you."
It's such a normal response that Sydney almost laughs.
Batman—the Batman—just thanked them like any worried family member standing beside an ambulance.
"We'll take it from here," Ivanova says.
Batman steps back immediately and begins to head to the crime scene, presumably to investigate. Robin gives the stretcher one last glance before following. He makes it exactly three steps.
"Robin."
He stops.
Batman's cape shifts in the breeze as he looks over one shoulder at his sidekick.
"Good medicine."
For the first time all evening, Robin visibly brightens.
"Thank you, Father."
Father?? Sydney has no time to really ponder the word and all of its implications (Implications?? More like explicitations, or whatever the fuck the opposite of that would be, she's not a linguist) because Johnson and Ivanova are pulling the stretcher into the back of the truck. She helps Kayla into one of the seats and makes sure the poor girl doesn’t have any injuries of her own that would’ve been overlooked in the chaos or unfelt due to the adrenaline. Thankfully, she seems completely unharmed, if maybe a little shook up.
Sydney slams the door shut and the truck is off. She goes to collect her equipment bag, finding Batman and Robin there, seemingly discussing the apprehension of the suspect.
“—and according to Oracle, he’s already in custody.”
“And the weapon? Will it be needed for evidence in the case against the suspect?”
“It was discarded along the way, but retrieved by an officer. Regardless of the weapon being placed in evidence or not, detectives will have enough evidence to prove he was the assailant.”
“...good.”
The conversation brought to a close, Sydney prepares herself to hear the deployment of their grappling hooks as they speed to the next crime scene, but it never comes. Instead, a pair of green gloves appears in her vision as they collect her scattered medical supplies and trash.
“Thank you,” she says.
“That EMT is as insufferable as my brother.”
Sydney immediately knows Robin is talking about Johnson. But also— brother? Did he mean one of the earlier Robins? The ones that went by new names now? Were they all siblings? Did that mean Gotham’s Bats were actually its second royal family? (Second only behind the Waynes, of course.)
“He’s got a good heart, though,” Sydney tells him, zipping up her bag. Like you, she doesn’t say.
She holds out her hand for the gauze and dressing wrappers, which Robin deposits into her open palm. “Undeniably.”
With the bag packed, Robin returns to his father’s side.
“Go help Red Robin with his case on Foxglove Court. He needs a second pair of eyes to look through all the evidence,” Batman orders. “I’ll finish up patrol by myself.”
“Yes, father,” Robin says and pulls out his grappling hook. In the blink of an eye, he was lifted up to the rooftops and gone from sight.
“So…” Sydney begins. She was pretty great at making conversation under normal circumstances, but what does one even say to the Batman. “...does he want to go to medical school?”
“Hm,” Batman says, but it sounds suspiciously like a confirmation.
“He’ll be a terrifying doctor.”
“...Hm.” This one is decisively more affirmative than the first. "I believe he'll be a compassionate one."
He fires his grappling gun, the hook catching somewhere high above the alley. A moment later, he's gone, cape disappearing into Gotham's skyline in the opposite direction that Robin had run.
Sydney stands there for another second, medical bag hanging at her side. She thinks about the way Robin had rattled off a trauma report better than some EMT students she'd precepted. The way he kept his calm and consistently made the right medical choices, making the same decisions she'd expect from an experienced provider. The way Batman had corrected his clinical reasoning instead of his medical terminology. The way the kid had visibly brightened at two simple words: good work.
Mostly, she thinks about the way he knew Ghislain and Kayla by name. The way his voice had gentled when he spoke to Kayla. How he kneeled on the asphalt and held pressure on a stranger’s wound rather than do the more glorious thing and chase down the bad guy with Batman.
Sydney has met brilliant doctors before. Surgeons who could perform miracles, doctors who had invented lifesaving procedures and equipment, Nobel Prize winners. The ones patients remember—the ones they love—are the compassionate ones. The ones who knew their names.
She snorts, turning and heading back to her truck.
"Nope, he’ll be a terrifying doctor," she mutters again.
Then she climbs into her truck and clears the call.
“802 Sprint ready for assignment.”