The idea belongs to westcoastsmiles who suggested Dick would have a small relapse of sorts when he heard bones break, flashing back to his parents.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the idea.

When Dick was younger, he only knew of two types of triggers: the right and left ones on his Playstation controller and the kind on the gun that the guy with the funny accent had pointed at his dad. He hadn't liked either. The ones on his controller always stuck and the bad guys would kill him in his games. The one on the gun had contributed in his parents' death.

By the time he was nine, he knew triggers were bad and he wanted nothing to do with them.

Shortly after his parents fell, he learned about the third kind of trigger.

It had been storming outside, pouring what seemed like an ocean onto the Manor which had probed the occupants to put in a movie to try and drown out the thunder. The actual movie's name had been long forgotten, but it had been full of violence, a clear assurance that both Dick and Bruce would be paying attention all throughout.

The younger had been curled up on the left side of the couch with a pillow clutched to his chest and the older had situated himself onto the right side with his fingers tracing over the couch's arm idly, both with their eyes locked on the screen.

The good guys had managed to corner one of the bad guys, holding him up by his throat in an attempt to get the information out of him that they needed.

"That's a dumb idea," Dick had informed his new guardian calmly, "He can't tell them if they crush his throat."

Bruce had chuckled in admiration, giving a soft, "You have a point," before they both eagerly watched on to find out where the main character's wife was being held.

It seemed as if the good guys had taken the nine year old's advice, a sadistic smirk on the taller one's lips as he released the hold on the man's throat and let him drop. Before either of the viewers could question his tactics, he grabbed the man's arm and in a quick move, easily broke it. Two screams sounded from it: the bad guy's and Dick's.

At the scream, Bruce looked over to his ward, rushing to pause the TV on a close-up of their faces as to avoid getting a shot of the bent arm. The concern in his face was above all else and he rushed close, touching a hand to the ebony's shoulder to try and get his attention.

Dick's eyes were basic dinner plates, tears welling alongside the pure hysteria, rough shivers running the length of his body. He tried to cover his eyes, beating on his head with panicked screams before clawing at his ears.

"No, no, no, no, no…" was all he could get out until the word mashed itself in and he was muttering pure terrified nonsense under his breath.

A sob bubbled up his throat and he buried his face in the pillow, fingers grabbing at his hair and pulling until it had to hurt. The man tried to work his tiny grip away, but he couldn't get a finger under the iron grip.

"Dick, what's wrong?" he knelt in front of his ward, keeping his voice calm and turning the movie off for good measure. "I can't help you unless you tell me."

The nine year old could only sob, feet beating viciously into the cushions beneath him, a soft scream muffled by the pillow. Bruce could only listen, fear working itself through his chest. He knew what was happening. This was a relapse. The doctors had told him to expect this, especially for a kid who had just watched his parents fall to their deaths. He just couldn't work out why it was happening now when the kid had been perfectly fine only moments ago.

"Broke… broke… broke…" the ebony seemed to murmuring in his hysteria, fingers drawing a pulse into how he pulled his hair.

Tight. Slack. Tight. Slack. Tight. Slack.

"Broke… broke… broke…"

That was when it all seemed to fall into place. The man's arm had just broken on the screen. The sound of bones breaking must've been the trigger.

"Don't worry… It was just in the movie… you're okay… you're okay… We're going to turn it off. Do you want some hot chocolate?"

The convulsing form wrapped around the pillow gave a small nod, harsh sobs still muffled in the fabric without mercy.

It took three steaming cups to calm the boy back down, and by then, he had cried himself into a state of exhaustion. Bruce had helped him upstairs and quickly urged him to get some sleep, making a mental note to check his movies before showing them now.

It hadn't been until Dick turned fourteen that the situation arose again, causing it to easily slip from his memory and leave his mind. The fall still crossed his mind left him without a dry-eye, but he hadn't broken down like that in a long stretch of time. Of course he'd forget it. He had more important things to remember, like the basic pressure points on a 6'2" man pointing a gun his direction.

Bullets were being fired, making his memory quite a bit of a haze, a groan tearing his lips open as one chipped his stomach. The Kevlar stopped it, but he'd be lying if he said it hadn't hurt.

"We don't have time for this, Rob! Hit the guy and let's go!" Kid Flash zipped past him, snatching the gun and chucking it at the head of a gunman aiming his way. "The girls are upstairs with Jack Nicholson. We are not losing them before I get some numbers."

Dick gave a laugh, pressing his domino mask better into the folds of his face before running forward. Leave it to his best friend to be concerned with picking up chicks on a search-and-rescue mission. He did have a point though—they didn't have the time for him to try and paralyze the guy. It would have to be a rough hit, enough to knock him out. Easy.

He ran forward with what he considered his trademark cackle and ducked the quick flying fists, managing a kick to the back of the baddie's knees. As he slipped, he rushed and landed a fist as hard as he could to the man's stomach.

The ebony had expected to hear a groan of pain.

He heard the uneven crack.

Little-by-little, the gunman became his father, body being loaded onto the stretcher. His neck became horizontal, bone protruding sharply from his knee, elbow on backwards. The dark blue eyes once so full of laughter were glazed over and empty, lips parted to let the blood pass through.

"No," Dick whimpered, darting back with wide eyes, "It's not… y-you're not…"

A knot pushed up through his throat and tears welled behind the mask, a tremble running his athletic frame.

"You're not real… Just a… I'm on a mission… th-there… there are girls upstairs who need my help… Not real… Just a… baddie… I-I…" his hands worked up to his hair and knotted into the dark locks, pulling as sharply as he could.

His knees threatened to give out, lips parted as he choked on his words, breath becoming huskier as he struggled to push it out. All of the exercises he had been taught that would help him calm down were far from his mind and all he could do was gasp for breath.

"Mission… m-mission… n-not… not…"

Kid Flash managed to see his struggling and dart over, catching him just before he collapsed, eyes darting anxiously over his friend's frame to try and find a cause.

"Dude," his voice dropped to a breath, the concern near over-whelming, "What happened? Did he get you?"

Dick shook roughly, fingers working down from his hair and now grabbing at the redhead's shoulders desperately. The contact helped, but he still couldn't see past the black haze.

"Broke… his… there was a… snap… broke…"

The windows to his mask were about as wide as they could get, drawing complete need for the redhead to dismiss the mission for the moment.

"Were you hurt?" the speedster emphasized the words to get them across, moving one hand to get a hold on the teen's face, grabbing for his attention.

"M'fine," the ebony managed, breath filtering easily at what would be considered hyperventilation. "F-Fine… ga… go save… save the… girls… please…"

Kid Flash shook his head, easing the Boy Wonder from his feet and holding him to his chest.

"Can't leave you here. Scratch that—won't leave you here. Take some deep breaths, buddy. I'm here. None of that is real. Hold as tight as you need."

At the invitation, Dick clung about as tight as he could, fingers running along the tight spandex, trying to focus on the quick paced heartbeat beneath his ear as the speedster ran them along. The bends and turns were clearly for the ebony's benefit, almost like rocking an infant, and he was breathing normal again before too long.

"Thanks," he gasped out when he could get a word in over the roar of the wind, earning him a warm smile from his savior.

"Of course. What triggered it?"

The redhead ducked a beam, tightening his hold as he did, quicking a glance around. When he saw they were relatively safe, he halted and touched the fourteen year old down to his feet again, running his fingers comfortingly through the disheveled black locks.

"I think broke one of his ribs," Dick leaned into the touch, seeing that it seemed to calm him down just a bit, "The sound… gah, hate it."

He bit back a shiver, touching a hand to his utility belt and pulling up his grappling gun.

"Now come on, we have some numbers to get you," he gave a wink, taking aim and firing.

These are based off of my panic attacks, roughly. Your experiences may have differed and I offer my apologies for that.

-F.J. III