Swept off his feet (literally)
Dick’s wrists are raw from the zip ties, his ribs ache like hell, and there’s a dull throb behind his eyes that probably means a concussion. His captors hadn’t just tied him up; they’d worked him over first. Sloppy work, though. More pain than damage. They wanted him scared, compliant. Didn’t know they were dealing with someone who’s been thrown off rooftops for fun.
The guys guarding him are barely paying attention, scrolling through their phones or just plain sleeping. Dick keeps his breathing steady, eyes half-lidded, playing up the act. Dazed, weak, not a threat. Let them think they have control. Let them get comfortable.
If he times it right, maybe he can—
A blast of force knocks the guard sideways before he can even react, and then—then a figure steps through the wreckage, moving with purpose.
Dick’s mind shifts gears instantly. Tall. Strong. Efficient. Cape—not standard issue. Moves too fast, too precise. Not a hero. Not a cop.
And definitely built like a damn statue.
Even through the haze of pain, Dick notices. Broad shoulders. Ridiculous arms. The cape hides some of it, but not enough. His frame is massive, all coiled strength and sharp edges, and—yep—those arms are just unfair. The way they flex as he grabs the nearest thug and slams him into the ground? It's completely unnecessary.
His brain catches up just as the man turns to him.
"Stay still," the voice orders, low and rough, and too close.
A knife flashes—clean, controlled—and the zip ties snap like thread.
Dick exhales sharply, shaking out his wrists. "Oh, are we doing the whole ‘tall, dark, and mysterious’ thing? Because it's not gonna lie. It’s working for you."
The man pauses for half a second before slicing through the ties on his ankles. "You always talk this much?"
"Only when I’m nervous. Or concussed. Or when my incredibly ripped rescuer is—oh, shit—"
The moment he tries to stand, his leg buckles, pain lancing through his side. The world tilts—he’s falling—except he’s not, because suddenly those ridiculous arms are wrapped around him, lifting him like he weighs nothing.
"Whoa—" He blinks up at the guy holding him. "Okay, sweeping me off my feet? Kinda forward, but I’m not complaining."
A low huff. Almost a laugh. "You’re heavier than you look."
"Rude," Dick mutters, but he can’t exactly argue when the guy is carrying him with one arm and drawing a knife with the other.
His mind is working through the pain, piecing things together. Not a hero. Not a cop. No hesitation, no wasted movement. This guy doesn’t fight like someone with the rules.
Gunfire erupts in the hallway. The man moves before Dick can react—sharp, brutal, relentless. A flash of a blade, a sickening thud, and another body drops.
Dick exhales. "Wow. You really don’t do half-measures, huh?"
The man doesn’t answer, just starts moving again.
"Right, cool. Love that," Dick mutters, wincing as they move. "Where are we going? Because if this is the part where you whisk me away to your secret lair, I gotta say, I’m flattered, but id rather you take me to the hospital."
"No hospitals," the man says, tone final.
Dick hums. Hospitals ask questions. Questions lead to names. And this guy—who hasn’t given his—definitely isn’t the type to answer them.
By the time they stop moving, Dick’s exhaustion is winning. He barely registers being set down—soft, surprisingly, A bed?—before strong fingers press under his jaw, checking his pulse.
Dick forces his eyes open, voice sluggish. "Depends. You still carrying me around like a tragic Victorian maiden?"
A huff. Not quite a laugh, but close.
The bed dips. A gloved hand skims over his ribs, firm but careful, and Dick barely bites back a wince. The man mutters to himself. "Cracked, not broken."
"Wow, look at you," Dick murmurs. "Mysterious, broody, built like a brick wall and medically inclined. What don’t you do?"
"Keep you quiet, apparently."
Dick grins. God, this guy is fun.
But he still has questions. His mind is foggy, but not enough to miss details. Not enough to forget the way this guy fights.
Not a hero. Not a villain. Something else.
His eyes flutter shut, exhaustion pulling at him, but before sleep takes him, he cracks an eye open, voice softer this time. "You gonna tell me your name yet?"
Then—so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it—
And that’s the last thing he remembers before everything fades to black.
