Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Paper-Thin

Third Person

The Batcave was silent except for the rhythmic tapping of computer keys and the hum of the Batcomputer. Damian Wayne sat at the training console, reviewing footage from the previous night's patrol. His face was as sharp as the lines of his suit, every muscle tense, every fiber of his being locked in a state of high alert. He hadn't slept properly in days, but that didn't matter. Sleep was a luxury, not a necessity. The same went for food.

A bowl of untouched oatmeal sat on the desk beside him, long cold. He ignored it. Damian's mind was a fortress—trained, disciplined, unbreakable. He had been trained by the League of Assassins, after all. Weakness was a sin. Food was unnecessary. He could push through anything.

But lately, something was off.

His body was beginning to betray him. His muscles ached in ways that even training couldn't explain. His hands shook, ever so slightly, when he stood still too long. He'd catch his reflection in a passing mirror and see the hollowness in his eyes, the way his cheekbones seemed sharper than before, the gauntness of his skin stretched too tightly over his bones.

But he told himself it didn't matter.

"I'm fine," Damian muttered under his breath, as if speaking the words out loud would make them true.

The Bat-Family had started to notice something was wrong, but Damian was an expert at hiding. Even from his father, even from them. Every time Tim or Dick asked if he was alright, he brushed them off with sharp words or silence.

"Damian, you've barely touched your dinner," Alfred had remarked one evening, concern threading his voice as he looked down at the nearly untouched plate of food.

"I'm not hungry," Damian had replied coolly, as if it were nothing. His eyes didn't even lift from his book.

"Master Damian, you've said that every night this week," Alfred pressed gently. "Your training regimen demands proper nutrition."

Damian's jaw tightened, irritation flashing across his face. "I said I'm fine," he snapped, pushing the plate away. He stood up abruptly, ignoring the slight dizziness that rushed over him as he did so.

"Very well," Alfred had replied, stepping back, though his eyes lingered on Damian for a moment longer than usual.

It wasn't just Alfred who had noticed. Tim had seen it, too. Damian was slower in training, his hits not landing with the same force. He was sweating more, out of breath faster than before. Even his timing during missions was off—just a little, but enough for someone as precise as Damian.

"Damian, you've been off lately. Are you okay?" Tim asked after a particularly tough night on patrol, where Damian had nearly gotten caught by a gang member he should've easily taken down.

"I'm fine," Damian replied, his voice clipped. He stormed off before Tim could ask anything else.

But he wasn't fine. He hadn't been fine for a long time.

As the weeks dragged on, Damian's routine became harsher, more punishing. He trained harder, pushed himself further, and slept less. Food became an afterthought, something he could control in a world that felt increasingly out of his grasp. If he could push his body to its limits, he told himself, he could become better, stronger, unstoppable.

But his body had different ideas.

During a sparring session with Dick, Damian felt his legs give out from under him after barely twenty minutes. He stumbled, falling to one knee, breathless and dizzy. Dick, who had been holding back to give Damian a challenge, immediately dropped into a crouch beside him.