Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Scars

Third Person

The Batcave was quiet, save for the steady hum of the computer monitors and the soft clinking of weights in the far corner where Damian Wayne trained. The large, cavernous space usually felt like home to Damian. The smell of machinery and the cool, damp air provided a strange comfort, like the cave itself was a shield against the outside world. But tonight, the atmosphere felt suffocating. Every breath Damian took felt heavier, as if the walls were closing in on him, tightening their grip.

He had been going through the same set of motions for the past hour—punch, kick, dodge, repeat. His muscles screamed in protest, but he pushed through the pain, letting it fuel him. Pain was something Damian was used to. Pain was something he could control. It wasn't the physical ache that bothered him—it was the other kind, the kind that gnawed at him from the inside out, the kind that he couldn't punch or kick away.

Bruce, standing silently at the computer across the cave, was keeping a watchful eye on his son. He didn't say anything, didn't acknowledge Damian's presence, but Damian could feel his gaze every now and then. Damian had been distant lately. More than usual. And Bruce, though concerned, didn't know how to approach him. They had always been like this—two islands, circling each other, never fully connecting.

The guilt that had been festering in Damian's chest over the past few weeks had grown into a relentless storm. He had made a mistake. During a mission, one that should have been straightforward, he had miscalculated, allowing a thug to get the upper hand. It wasn't like him to make such errors. He was supposed to be perfect—he was trained to be perfect. But instead, the mission had gone south, and while they had managed to escape, the weight of that failure had clung to Damian like a second skin.

So now, he trained. He pushed himself past his limits, hoping the pain would drown out the guilt, the shame, the anger that churned within him like a dark, stormy sea. But nothing seemed to help. The darkness in his mind was louder than the sound of his fists hitting the punching bag. It whispered to him, taunted him with his inadequacies.

After another round of kicks and punches, Damian paused, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes, but he barely noticed. His hands ached, the knuckles bruised and raw, but that wasn't what caught his attention.

It was the scars.

He had rolled up his sleeves earlier, not thinking much of it. But now, as he looked down, the thin, white lines on his forearms seemed to glow under the harsh lights of the Batcave. They weren't new scars—at least, not most of them. They were a collection of marks from months ago, from nights when the pain inside had been too much, when Damian had needed an outlet for the frustration he couldn't express. They were his secrets, his silent cries for help, hidden beneath layers of armor and bravado.

But Bruce saw them.

In the stillness of the cave, Bruce's voice cut through the air like a knife.

"Damian."

Damian froze, his heart skipping a beat. He didn't turn around. He didn't want to face Bruce, not now. Not ever. He felt his father's footsteps approach, the sound echoing off the stone walls, growing louder with each step.

"What is that?" Bruce's tone wasn't soft. It wasn't concerned. It was sharp, cold, almost accusing.

Damian clenched his fists, the shame burning in his chest like a wildfire. His mind raced, searching for an explanation, but there was nothing he could say that would make this right.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" Bruce demanded, his voice edged with frustration. "You're better than this. You're reckless."

Reckless. That word cut deeper than any blade ever could.