Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Too Little, Too Late

Damian POV

Gotham City was alive with the hum of activity, but for Damian Wayne, every sound felt muted and distant. He sat alone in the shadows of Wayne Manor, the walls around him echoing with the laughter and chatter of family and friends, but he felt like a ghost—a silent observer in a world that had moved on without him.

The echoes of his past haunted him. Once, he had been the confident son of the Batman, a fierce warrior trained to take on the world. But now, doubt crept into every corner of his mind, whispering lies that chipped away at his self-worth. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was a disappointment—not just to his father, but to everyone who had ever believed in him.

Each night, as he lay in bed, the darkness closed in around him, suffocating and oppressive. He tried to push away the thoughts that tormented him: the memories of his mother, Talia al Ghul, who had vanished from his life like a fading shadow. She was a part of him, a haunting presence he could never escape, and without her, he felt adrift, lost in a sea of uncertainty.

Damian spent countless hours training in the Batcave, pushing himself to the brink. He believed that if he could just become stronger—if he could just prove himself to his father—then maybe, just maybe, he could silence the pain that gnawed at him. But no matter how hard he tried, the voices of self-doubt always returned, more insistent than before. He trained with Tim Drake and other members of the Bat-family, but even their camaraderie felt like a thin veil over the growing abyss within him.

"Damian, you need to focus," Tim said during one training session, noticing the flicker of distraction in his partner's eyes. "You can't let your mind wander. We're in the middle of a fight here."

"I'm fine," Damian replied, his voice sharp. But he knew he wasn't fine. Each blow he delivered felt heavy with frustration, each parry fueled by anger that he couldn't articulate. He had become a ticking time bomb, and the pressure was building.

As the days turned into weeks, Damian withdrew further into himself. He stopped sharing his feelings with his family, convinced that they wouldn't understand. They had their own battles to fight; they didn't need the burden of his struggles. Instead, he wore a mask of indifference, forcing a smile when necessary, but inside, he felt like he was drowning.

One evening, as he sat in the Batcave, he glanced at the screens displaying the city's crime statistics. Gotham was a city steeped in darkness, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was a part of that darkness. He remembered the look on his father's face the last time they had spoken, the disappointment etched into Bruce's features. Damian had lashed out in anger, unable to convey the despair that churned within him.

"I'm not weak!" he had shouted, frustration spilling over. "I don't need your help!" But deep down, he knew that was a lie. He needed help more than ever, but the idea of asking for it felt like admitting defeat.

Days passed, and Damian felt more isolated than ever. He wandered the halls of Wayne Manor, a specter among the living. His heart ached for connection, yet he pushed everyone away, convinced they would only see him as the failed son. It became easier to retreat into his own mind, where the fantasies of a better life played out—a life where his mother had never left, where he was still the hero everyone expected him to be.

One night, as the rain fell heavily against the windows, Damian sat on his bed, the weight of the world pressing down on him. He had tried to push away the thoughts of self-harm, but they clawed at his mind, persistent and unyielding. "Maybe it would be easier," he whispered to himself, tears streaming down his face. "Maybe everyone would be better off without me."