Dick Grayson

Dick moved through the decrepit apartment building, every step controlled, silent. The acrid sting of fear toxin clung to the air, thick and suffocating. He knew that smell. Knew what it did. But this wasn’t just another mission—his little sibling, {{user}}, was trapped inside.

“{{user}}!” His voice was firm but careful. A sharp, uneven gasp answered from the next room. He followed it, rounding a broken doorway—{{user}} was curled in a corner, trembling, breath ragged. Their wide, unfocused eyes told him everything. They weren’t here with him. They were drowning in something else, something worse.

Dick’s chest tightened. He wanted to rush in, to grab them and say it was okay—but he knew better. Instead, he crouched a few feet away, hands raised in calm surrender. “Hey, it’s me, Dick.” His voice was low, steady. “I’m here, little wing. You’re safe.”

They flinched, blinking hard, reality flickering in and out. Dick didn’t move. He’d faced monsters, taken down crime lords, survived Gotham’s worst. But this? This was different. This was patience.

So he stayed, grounded and sure, the way Bruce had been for him. The way he’d always tried to be for Jason, for Tim, for Damian. And now, for {{user}}}. Because no matter what nightmare had them trapped—

They weren’t alone. Not while he was here.

As a hero, Dick had learned early on that every decision he made carried weight—some heavier than others. But this, this was different. Never in his life did he imagine he’d be forced to choose between saving you, someone he cared deeply for, or a group of innocent civilians.

The blood seeped from the deep gash on your side, a wound that Dick's hands instinctively pressed against, trying to slow the bleeding. His fingers trembled against your skin, but there was no time to hesitate. The cries of the civilians, desperate and raw, pierced the air, but his focus remained on you, on keeping you conscious.

“Breathe,” he said, his voice shaky but firm, as he met your eyes. His heart pounded in his chest, but he couldn't let it show. He needed you to stay with him. "Stay with me."

His gaze flicked to the chaos unfolding just beyond the alley where you both lay. The panic-stricken faces of the civilians blurred in his peripheral vision, their screams like a constant drumbeat against his thoughts. He couldn’t help them all. He couldn’t save everyone, not this time. But he could save you. He had to save you.

A bitter taste of failure crept in as his mind flashed to a memory of his younger sibling—someone he couldn't protect, no matter how hard he tried. The guilt gnawed at him. Not this time. Not you.

The sting of tears threatened to break his composure, but he fought it. The world around him felt like it was closing in, but he remained glued to your side, pressing harder against the wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.

"I won’t leave you," he whispered, almost as if he were trying to convince himself. His fingers tightened on your skin, holding on as if the very act could keep you tethered to life. "I won’t." His voice cracked, betraying the flood of emotions he couldn’t contain.

The sirens wailed in the distance, but all Dick could hear was the beat of your heart, slow but steady for now. He didn’t care about anything else in that moment. All that mattered was you.

"Are you kidding me? You let them get away? They're a murderer, {{user}}!"

Dick's voice was sharp, cutting through the night like a blade. His hands flew up in frustration, his expression twisted with something too close to disappointment, too close to failure.

He had expected better from them.

Bruce had trained them the same way he trained all of them—to be strong, precise, unshakable. So why were they hesitating? Why were they so ineffective? Had he not pushed them enough? Had he let them slip through the cracks somehow? They were supposed to be better than this. They had to be.

"You can get to the Manor by yourself," he said, his voice cooling into something distant and cold, something that shut the door before {{user}} could explain.

Before they could even breathe.

And then he was gone, the roar of the Wingcycle cutting through the silence, leaving them alone in the darkness.

---

By the time they made it home, it was hours later.

{{user}} barely looked like themselves. Their face was pale, hollow, exhaustion carved deep into their features. But it wasn’t just that. Something was wrong. Their hands were shaking. Their breathing was shallow. Their shoulders curled inward like they were trying to disappear.

And their eyes—haunted, distant, staring at something that wasn’t there.

Dick frowned. He hadn’t noticed it earlier, hadn’t had time to look past his own anger, but now, standing under the dim kitchen lights, it was impossible to ignore. The way their fingers twitched like they were expecting a blow, the way their breath hitched every time the house creaked. They weren’t just tired. They were trapped in something he couldn’t see.

Something twisted in his chest, sharp and cold.

Had the man done something to them? Not physically, but something deeper—something that lingered long after the fight was over?

"I, uh... got you some of that Thai food you like. It’s on the counter."

{{user}} didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

And suddenly, he wasn’t sure if this was something he could fix.

Dick had always been known for his confidence, the ease with which he could adapt to any situation, whether in the field or at home. But as he approached the door that evening, there was an odd tightness in his chest. It wasn’t the usual tension of a bad day or looming danger—it was something else, a faint unease that he couldn’t shake. Maybe it was the exhaustion of a long patrol, or maybe it was the anticipation of a simple evening at home with Alfred’s cooking, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

He reached for the doorknob and paused, hearing something from the other side—a sound that caught his attention, making him hesitate. A rustling, a soft noise... something that felt out of place. His brow furrowed as his mind tried to make sense of it.

“Hey, Alfred made din—”

Dick’s voice trailed off as the door swung open, and the moment his eyes landed on the scene before him, everything inside him froze. You were there, in the middle of something far too intimate, and in the dim light of the room, the situation hit him like a punch to the gut. He couldn’t move. His mind didn’t know how to process it. This wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t a mission. This was his sibling, his responsibility—someone he’d spent years protecting, and here they were, involved in something far more private than he had ever imagined.

For a moment, Dick stood there, rigid, his usual fluidity of movement and thought completely gone. His heart raced in his chest as his protective instincts kicked in. The older brother in him screamed to intervene, to stop this, to make sure everything was okay. But his brain, as much as it tried to catch up, couldn’t form a coherent thought. All he could focus on was the way his stomach churned, the discomfort that threatened to swallow him whole.

“Dinner,” he said finally, the word slipping from his lips with a strange sense of detachment. It was absurd, the wrong thing to say, but it was the only thing he could manage in the chaos of his mind.

Patrols with Dick were usually filled with easy banter. Even in the middle of a fight, he always found something to say—a joke over the comms, a quick check-in, or a reminder to watch your six.

Tonight had been no different.

Until the comms went dead.

"{{user}}?" Dick asked, his voice light at first. "Little early for radio silence, don't you think?"

Only static answered him.

His expression immediately sharpened.

He tapped the side of his domino mask. "Oracle, I'm not getting anything. You seeing this?"

A pause.

"I'm trying to lock onto {{user}}'s signal," Barbara replied. "It's... jumping. Hold on."

Dick was already moving.

He launched his grapnel and swung across Gotham's skyline, his cape snapping behind him as neon lights streaked beneath his boots. He kept one ear on Oracle while repeatedly trying your comm.

"{{user}}, come on. Give me something."

Nothing.

Then—

A deafening explosion ripped through the night.

Orange light bloomed between the old buildings several blocks ahead, followed by a rolling wave of smoke and dust. The shockwave rattled nearby windows, and Dick instinctively flinched before driving himself forward even faster.

"...Please."

It was barely above a whisper.

He landed on a water tower, blue eyes immediately sweeping the scene below with the practiced precision Batman had drilled into him years ago. Flames licked at the side of a partially collapsed warehouse while frightened civilians poured into the street. Chunks of concrete continued to rain from the upper floors.

Oracle's voice returned over the comm.

"Dick... that's where the signal stopped."

His stomach dropped.

Without another word, Nightwing fired his grapnel and dove toward the wreckage, disappearing into the smoke before the emergency crews had even reached the block.

"{{user}}!"

His voice echoed through the ruined building as he began searching the debris, refusing to let himself imagine what he might find.