AN: 

Trigger warning on this one... 

Gritting his teeth, Dick slowly pushed himself out of the wheelchair and onto the floor of his closet. The manor was quiet today, what with Bruce at work, Damian working down in the Batcave, and Tim studying. It was the perfect atmosphere to attempt activities that the others would most certainly not approve.

They had removed the lock on his door before bringing him home from the hospital, but the closet door still locked. And, like all bedrooms in the Wayne Manor, the attached closet in his room was massive; large enough to start training his wreaked body, that was for sure.

"Titus, don't look at me like that." Dick mumbled, reaching out to scratch the dog's chin as the animal whined at him. "I know Bruce wants me resting. Trust me, I know. But I need to see what I can do... I can't... I can't just accept spending the rest of my life in that stupid chair. I used to be able to fly..."

The dog whined again, dark eyes clearly judgmental.

Dick huffed. "If it's too difficult, I'll stop." He told the dog, stretching out his legs and reaching for his toes. His flexibility had definitely gotten worse, and Dick hated it with a burning passion. In fact, he hated everything about his current situation. He felt so incredibly weak.

He was weak.

He had always been too weak, and now... well... now he would live as a burden on his family forever. Dick was not about to just sit by and let that happen. Even if he did have to actually sit by because of being stuck in a wheelchair.

Although, if his secret closet exercises worked, then maybe he would not be wheelchair bound permanently.

Slowly, Dick reached for the wall, using it to brace himself as, inch by inch, he slowly rose to his feet. Even that seemingly simple movement left him wheezing, chest tight and lungs aching. His heart was racing in his chest, vision blurring and legs shaking as he leaned against the wall, struggling to remain upright.

It hurt.

It hurt so, so much.

And then, his knees were buckling and his hand on the wall was slipping and he toppled back down to the floor.

Blood rushing through his ears and muffling Titus' whines, Dick gasped for air, frustration and sadness waring within him as he let out a soft cry, tears almost painful as they traced their way down his cheeks.

If he could not even manage to stand, how would he ever be able to fly again?

How would he ever be able to be Robin again?

How would he ever be able to be useful again?

Curled up into a ball on his closet floor, Richard Grayson cried. Because truly, he was not fine. He would never be fine again. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how slow he went, no matter how careful he was, Dick knew deep down that things would never truly be the same.

He would always be weak.

"So, Dick, what have you done today?" Bruce asked, reaching across the table for a dish of potatoes.

Dick glanced up from his plate, shoulders rising and falling in a tired shrug. "Not much." There was no way Bruce could know about his... closeted activities... right? Dick had checked for cameras and everything.

Bruce simply smiled at him. "You know, if you start getting bored you could always head down to the cave. I'm sure Damian could use some help with researching."

"I could, actually." Damian agreed, glancing between the two before returning his focus to his plate. "There's a new drug syndicate that I've been trying to bust for weeks. An extra pair of eyes on it could be useful."

"Thanks and all but... you don't need to try and include me. I know I wouldn't be very useful." Dick mumbled, shaking his head with a soft sigh as he absently poked at his food, pushing a quickly cooling piece of potato around the plate.

Tim frowned. "Dick, of course you'd be useful. You're the best hacker we've got."

Dick snorted softly, shaking his head. "Seriously Tim, cut it out, would you? I'm well aware of the fact that my only helpful skill as Robin was the acrobatics. And I can't do that anymore. Besides, even if I was good at hacking back... back then, I'm probably not anymore. Computers change a lot in three years."

"Dick, you have more to offer than your acrobat skills. Yes, those were useful, but there are other ways that you can help. If you want to help, that is. No one is pressuring you to start being a hero again." Bruce inserted gently, reaching over to place a reassuring hand on Dick's shoulder. "I was just trying to let you know that not being able to be Robin anymore does not mean that you have to completely give up everything. There will always be a place for you on our team. Always."

"Oh yeah. Sure. So what, you want me to sit behind a computer and watch while you guys go off and fight crime together?" Dick asked, tone cold as he flinched away from Bruce's touch, turning away. "I can't do anything anymore. I can't walk, I can't fight, I can't... I can't even have a normal night's sleep. I know I'm useless. You guys treating me like I'm a fragile piece of glass does not help that."

"Grayson, no one is treating you like th–"

Dick held up a hand, eyes narrowing as he glared across the table at Damian. "Being an acrobat is in my blood. I can't just... you can't just... I can't move on from that. If you cared about me at all, you would never have even suggested me coming back to hero work." He snapped, setting his fork down and powering on his wheelchair, steering it away from the table and out of the kitchen.

"Dick!"

"Leave him be, Tim. He'll be okay. He just... he just needs time."

Yeah, right.

As if time would fix his broken body.

As if time would let him fly again.

As if time would bring back all the people he had murdered.

Bones crunched and snapped as blood flew in wide arches, the crimson fluid painting the streets as creating some kind of horrific modern art instillation.

There was so much blood, it seemed as if the buildings themselves were bleeding, the steady drip, drip, drip echoing in his ears.

All he knew were shadows, blood, and terrified screams of the innocent victims.

The innocents that he had killed.

His body was moving without his consent, his lips tugged up into a cruel smile, his vocal cords vibrating with an eerie cackle.

He did not want this.

He did not ask for this.

There was no communicating with the creature inhabiting his body, no attempt at negotiations and bargaining.

Dick had tried.

He had tried everything.

But still, he tried again, pushing his consciousness forward, fighting for control even as his body continued to move, continued to send shadows out, continued to kill.

And then, suddenly, Dick had full control of his eyes. Watching firsthand as his hands moved up unbidden, the form of a pregnant woman pulled forth from the shadows.

She was struggling, screaming, but no matter how hard he struggled, how hard he fought, he could not gain control.

He was useless.

"See, boy? They will all die. You cannot stop me." His lips parted and the words spilled forth, his own voice twisted and evil, the cruel tone so incredibly strange and foreign. Dick would never speak like that.

He had never spoken like that.

The woman screamed louder, but the demon simply laughed, hand reaching up, shadows following the motion as he brought it down in a quick slashing gesture.

Blood spurted out, red droplets falling into his face and coating his clothes as suddenly he once again had control over his limbs and the shadows were gone.

He knelt by the woman, tears blurring his vision as he gazed down at her mutilated and bloodstained body. Except the face staring back at him was not one of a stranger.

It was his mother.

He had killed his mother.

He had killed cities worth of people.

Soft whines filtered through the horrifying reality, something wet and scratchy touching his face.

He jolted awake, breaths coming in sharp gasps, eyes darting around the room in terror.

No one was there.

It was okay.

Except it was very much not okay.

At least he had not screamed this time.

"Thanks, Titus." Dick mumbled, gently petting the dog who was shifting nervously in front of him, whining and pawing at his side. "I'm good."

Except he was very much not good.

This could not keep on happening. He could not continue to bother his family like this.

He had already hurt everyone enough.

He was weak. He was useless. He was broken.

He was a burden.

With a trembling hand, Dick yanked open the drawer in his bedside table, rummaging frantically until his fingers grasped around a bottle at the very back. He pulled it out, breathing erratic as he attempted to unscrew the lid. It took several tries, but finally, finally, he got the cap off.

The sight of the red pills was enough to calm his racing heart.

Was this really what he wanted?

Was he really going to do this?

Titus whined softly, pawing gently at Dick's side, the large brown eyes sad.

Dick looked away.

"Sorry, bud." He whispered, pouring the pills out into his open palm.

How many would be enough?

Should he just take the whole bottle?

If he was going to do this, he needed to do it well.

So, with one last deep breath of air, Dick tilted his head back and swallowed the pills. It took several rounds before they were all gone, the bottle dropping from his hand as he leaned back against his pillows.

This was it.

Now all he needed to do was wait.

Titus whined louder, nuzzling Dick's face and pawing harder at his side.

As numbness slowly overtook his body, Dick let out a tired breath of air, eyes drifting closed. This was for the best.

Dimly, he was aware of Titus howling next to him, the sound met with pounding footsteps and shouting voices.

Hands pushed and pulled at his body, but Dick was already too gone to care.

He would no longer be a burden.

THE END.