Dick was starting to feel more than a little bit claustrophobic. Sure, he was in a fairly large hospital room, but the space seemed incredibly small now that it was crowded with Bruce, Alfred, Damian, and Tim along with three doctors and a nurse. Because apparently Bruce did not trust just one doctor to give a proper prognosis.

This was so stupid.

It had been a day since he had awoken and everything still felt hazy, although, from what Bruce had told him, he should probably be thankful for the haze. Haziness was better than pain.

Tim reached for him, resting a hand on Dick's shoulder and squeezing tightly as the head doctor began to speak.

"I would like to start this off by saying that we have done everything in our power to correct the issues that Mr. Grayson arrived with. That being said, many of the problems cannot be fixed. The human body has limitations in its ability to heal."

Well darn. If that was how the doctor started, Dick was not excited to see how this conversation ended. He glanced up at Bruce, noting how tired and worried his mentor looked. To be fair on Bruce though, the others did not look much better. Dick would just have to do everything in his power not to react to whatever the doctor said.

He could not worry his family even more.

"It's fine. I know I'm probably never going to be the same. Just... just tell me what's wrong." Dick told the doctors, giving Bruce a weak smile when the older male glanced down at him in concern. He needed to be strong for his family. His own worries and fears could be dealt with once he was on his own. There was no need to bother them with it.

The doctors nodded. "Alright. We have done our best to stabilize your heart and major bodily functions, however, your body has undergone severe and lasting strain. Modern medicine can only go so far, and... well... at this point, we are simply delaying the inevitable. The chances of you surviving more than a few months are slim to none. That being said, with the proper care and treatment, that could very well be extended. It is all about monitoring your condition and reacting accordingly."

Tim's hand was tightening on his shoulder, tight enough that the grip was beginning to hurt. Dick reached up, placing a shaky hand atop that of his older brother's. Tim's grip loosened.

"With proper care and rest, what are his chances of living to adulthood?" Bruce asked, tone cold and harsh. Dick knew him well enough at this point to know that Bruce was putting on a mask. There was no way Bruce Wayne would risk breaking down in front of some random hospital doctors... although they probably were not that random.

Without a doubt, Dick knew that Bruce had vetted them carefully and had probably even flown them in from around the world to get him the best possible care. It felt strange, to know these things so easily, to see Bruce's reactions and know the true meaning behind them.

Dick had missed it. He had missed his family so incredibly much. Enough that just having them around him again was enough to take his mind off what the doctors were saying. It would process later. Dick knew that it would. And when it did process, it would hurt.

It would hurt a lot.

But he would handle it then.

Besides... did it really matter if he was destined to die? He deserved to die. He had let himself be possessed and his body had gone on a killing rampage. His death would serve as justice for the thousands that he had killed.

The doctor's next words, "Very slim, I'm afraid," went in through one ear and out the other as Dick slumped back against the bed even more, eyes drifting away from the doctors to focus instead on examining the faces of his family members.

They were so clearly concerned. So clearly worried and terrified and... and Dick hated it.

They should not have to worry about him.

No one should have to worry about him.

He was a villain. He deserved this.

He had been possessed. He had had no control over his actions.

He had killed them all. It was all his fault.

He had fought against the demon as much as he could, at least in the beginning.

His struggles were not good enough. He had been too weak to save them.

Dick did not notice as the conversation wrapped up and the doctors left the room, did not notice as his family huddled together into a conversation, did not notice as Damian stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him, did not notice the tears slipping down Tim's cheeks.

He deserved to die.

He had fought to live.

"Get your hands off him, Drake." Damian snapped above his head, swatting at the hovering Tim as he pushed Dick's wheelchair through the front door of the Wayne Manor.

Tim huffed in annoyance, moving around the chair so that he could walk backwards in front of Dick. "We kept your room the same since before... before it happened. Alfred did rearrange some stuff to make it easier to reach from the chair though. And we cleaned, obviously. Oh! And I moved my room closer in case you need anyone at any time. Dami did too–"

"I told you not to call me that."

"So, you'll always have at least one of us nearby. And Alfred installed a really cool touchpad thingy so you can summon him. It's great. I wanted one too, but he told me that I wasn't special enough, which I just think is kind of rude, but–"

Dick lifted his hand, giving Tim a tired smile. "I'm sure it's all fine, Tim... really... thankyou for putting so much effort in. I... I don't deserve all of this."

"Of course, you deserve this, Grayson. You need to focus on recovering. It is our duty as your older brothers to ensure that all of your energy is channeled into that." Damian reached down, ruffling Dick's hair, the gesture comforting despite his stern tone. "Besides, it will be good for Drake to have someone else to annoy again. He has been a nightmare to handle in your absence."

"Excuse you? Me? A nightmare?" Tim looked genuinely offended, and Dick could not help the faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "If anyone's been a nightmare, it's you, Mister Broody. You're always grumpy and sitting in the dark."

"It's called thinking, Drake. Not that you would know anything about that."

"Oh, it's on, Dami. You're going down." Tim spat, eyes narrowing, looking fully ready to engage in a fight.

Dick's smile grew just a bit more. It was oddly nice to see his brothers fighting again. At least one thing had not changed in the three years that he was gone. He had missed this. He had missed it so, so much.

"Master Tim, Master Damian, what exactly do you think you're doing?" Alfred asked, eyes narrowed judgmentally as he stepped between the angry young men, taking the handles of the wheelchair from Damian. "I will not have you fighting in front of your brother mere moments after his return home. Have you no shame?"

"It's okay, Alfred..." Dick mumbled, snickering softly when both Damian and Tim ducked their heads at the chastisement. "It... it's good to be home."

Alfred smiled down at him, wheeling the chair the rest of the way to Dick's bedroom. "How are you feeling, Master Dick? Are you hungry? Or would you prefer to rest for a while?"

Dick's eyes wandered around the room, swallowing slowly as he took in the painfully familiar surroundings. Tim had been right about keeping things the same. Even the book that he had left open on his bedside table was still there.

But as familiar as it all was, some things had changed. There was an IV pole standing next to the bed, and the bed itself was significantly lower to the ground. In fact, somehow, everything about the room seemed to have moved lower to the ground, making it all more accessible from a sitting position.

It was so familiar, and yet, at the same time, it was so foreign. Everything had moved, and yet, nothing had moved.

"Master Dick?"

Dick blinked, brows furrowing as he shook his head, trying to focus back in on his surroundings.

Right.

Alfred had asked him a question.

"I'm not really hungry at the moment... thankyou though. I'll probably just take a nap."

Alfred nodded, wheeling Dick the rest of the way to his bed. "Alright, Master Dick... just let me or one of the others know if you need anything."

Dick nodded, although he honestly was not paying attention as Alfred showed him how to call him or the others with the new tablet system which everyone apparently had alerts for. He could feel his concentration fading, could feel his mind slipping toward that dark oblivion where it had resided for so many years.

He managed to hang on until Alfred left and the door closed behind the old butler before he let himself start to drift again.

Like had so often happened when Crimson was in control, Dick felt distant from his own body. It was as if he was floating, hovering above himself, conscious of what was happening but at the same time not. He could feel the soft covers of his bed, could see the familiar pattern of shadows on his ceiling, could feel the oxygen tubes pressed against his nose, but it all seemed so distant, so incredibly removed.

And, in that removed state, reality began to slowly sink in.

Because this was his reality.

Never again would he be the same carefree and joyous boy who had last resided in this room.

He was a murder now.

A crippled, sickly, useless, murderer.

Even though he knew it was impossible, the shadows seemed to darken around the room, spreading across the ceiling and pooling in the corners like a menacing force.

It was not safe.

He was still dangerous.

Bruce had said that Zatara had gotten rid of Crimson for good. So... so why did Dick still feel that darkness in his mind, still see flashing images of splattering blood and mangled bodies littering streets?

He was weak.

Weak and stupid.

Dick knew that Crimson was gone. But that did not stop his inner terror, Crimson's dark cackle ringing in his head as his body curled into a fetal position on the bed, hands pressing against his ears.

Closing his eyes did not help.

There was blood everywhere.

Blood on the walls.

Blood in the corners.

Blood on the ceiling.

Blood soaking into his sheets.

Blood coating his hands.

Dick screamed, curling up tighter into a quivering ball.

It did not matter that Bruce soon came in to reassure him that Crimson was indeed gone; that Dick was safe and there was no blood.

No.

All that mattered was that Bruce and the others stay far, far away from Dick.

Because he was a murderer.

Because he was terrified of hurting them.

Because he deserved to just rot away and die alone.