“Hey—hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

Dick’s voice was laced with panic as he lunged forward, just in time to catch you before you hit the mat. One arm wrapped around your back, the other cradling your head carefully.

His heart was thudding in his chest, pounding so loudly it nearly drowned out everything else, the distant thump of the punching bag still swinging, the soft scuff of his own boots against the padded floor. Training had been going fine until this. One second you were sparring, and the next, you just...dropped.

It scared him. More than he wanted to admit.

“Here, drink some water.” He fumbled for his bottle, uncapping it with trembling fingers and guiding it gently to your lips. “Come on, just a sip. You don’t have to finish it, just—something.”

After a few moments, he set the bottle aside and brushed the sweat-matted hair away from your forehead. His movements were delicate, tender, the kind that only came from someone who cared.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, lowering you gently onto your back and then shifting so your head rested on his lap. “You’re okay, alright? You’re safe.”

His gloved fingers hovered uncertainly for a second before he placed the back of his hand gently against your forehead.

“Do you think you can sit up?” he asked softly, almost afraid of the answer. His voice had dropped to a near-whisper now, like if he spoke too loud, you might slip away again. “Or...no, no, don’t push it. Just stay right here, just breathe. I’ll call Alfred if I have to. Or Bruce. Or both. I could call both."

Dick knew he was asking too many questions, peppering you with them, but he needed to keep you engaged. He needed you to stay awake. Stay present. Stay with him. He exhaled slowly, grounding himself, trying not to let his mind spiral.

Because in that moment, Dick Grayson wasn’t Nightwing. He wasn’t a hero. He was just a big brother, a best friend, maybe something more. And seeing you like this twisted something deep in his chest. “I'll call Bruce.” he mumbled.