Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Empty Plates

Third Person

The Wayne Manor was always filled with murmurs—whispers of expectations, legacy, and responsibility. Damian Wayne had grown used to them, the background noise that came with being part of one of the most powerful families in Gotham. But today, the words hit harder than usual.

"I'm telling you, Bruce, appearances matter," Alfred's voice carried through the hallway. "People expect certain things from the Waynes. They look at how you present yourself, how you carry the family name. It's not just about being Batman, it's about being Bruce Wayne, the man behind the mask."

Damian, who had been passing by on his way to the training room, froze. He had heard similar things before, but something about Alfred's tone struck him differently this time. Appearances. Responsibility. Expectations. Those words twisted inside him, fueling the fire of self-doubt he had kept hidden for so long.

He stood still, his hand gripping the edge of the doorframe. He was trained to be strong, the perfect warrior, but lately, every part of him felt wrong—too small, too weak, not good enough. The reflection he saw in the mirror seemed like a stranger, and each glance only deepened his frustration.

"Appearances," he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible.

In the training room, Damian pushed himself harder than usual. He moved through his drills with a ferocity that bordered on reckless. His fists slammed into the punching bag, his feet pivoting with precision, sweat dripping down his face as he went through countless katas. But no matter how hard he trained, it wasn't enough.

He hadn't eaten since breakfast, but the gnawing hunger in his stomach only made him feel more in control. It was like a small victory over his own body, something he could control when everything else seemed chaotic. If he couldn't be stronger, faster, better—at least he could be disciplined. At least he could control what went into his body.

But it wasn't just about food anymore. Every meal felt like a battle. Every calorie was an enemy. And as Damian spiraled deeper into unhealthy habits, he found himself skipping meals, pushing his training sessions to the point of exhaustion, and watching the number on the scale drop as if it were a badge of honor.

The family didn't notice at first. Damian had always been private, keeping to himself when he wasn't on missions with the Titans or training with his father. But eventually, small signs started to emerge. He would turn down dinner, claiming he wasn't hungry after training. He'd disappear for hours, only to come back drenched in sweat, barely able to stand.

One evening, as they sat down for dinner, Dick Grayson finally spoke up.

"Damian, you barely touched your plate," Dick said, his tone casual but laced with concern. "What's going on?"

Damian shot him a sharp glare. "I'm not hungry," he muttered, pushing his plate away as if the sight of the food disgusted him.

Bruce, sitting at the head of the table, raised an eyebrow. "You need to eat, Damian. Training takes energy, and you're not going to perform at your best if you're starving yourself."

"I said I'm fine," Damian snapped, his voice louder than he intended. He could feel the weight of their stares, the judgment hanging in the air like a cloud over his head.

The rest of the meal was silent, the tension thick. Damian felt like he was suffocating. He hated the way they looked at him—as if they saw through the façade he had worked so hard to maintain.

Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, Damian stood in front of the mirror in his room. His reflection stared back at him, and for a moment, he didn't recognize the boy in the glass. His face looked hollow, his skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. He turned sideways, pulling up his shirt to reveal the faint outline of his ribs. There was a sick sort of satisfaction in seeing how much he had changed, but it was fleeting. The guilt came crashing in just as fast, and he quickly pulled his shirt back down, disgusted with himself.

He wanted control. He needed control.

The next day, things only got worse. After another grueling training session, Damian felt his vision blur. His muscles screamed in protest, and his head pounded with a dull ache. He had pushed too far, but he refused to stop. His body had become the enemy, and he would conquer it no matter the cost.

But as he stumbled out of the training room, the world spinning around him, he found himself face-to-face with his father.

"Damian, what the hell is going on?" Bruce's voice was sharp, his eyes narrowing as he looked his son up and down.

"I don't need you to lecture me," Damian muttered, trying to push past him, but Bruce grabbed his arm.

"You're killing yourself," Bruce said, his voice low but filled with anger. "This isn't training. This is self-destruction."

"Maybe that's what I deserve," Damian spat, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "I'm not perfect like you. I'll never be the son you want."

The words hung in the air, heavy and bitter. Bruce's grip on his arm loosened, his expression shifting from anger to something more complicated—something like hurt.

"I never asked you to be perfect," Bruce said softly, but Damian wasn't listening anymore.

He ripped his arm away and stormed off, retreating to the one place where he could be alone—his room. The door slammed shut behind him, and for a moment, the only sound was his own ragged breathing.

He collapsed onto the floor, his back against the bed, his head buried in his hands. The weight of it all was crushing him—his father's expectations, his own insecurities, the constant need to be stronger, better. It felt like drowning, and no matter how hard he tried to stay above the water, he was sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness.

For weeks, Damian spiraled. He skipped meals more frequently, pushed his body harder in training, and isolated himself from everyone. His family tried to reach out—Dick, Alfred, even Jason—but he shut them all out. He didn't need their help. He didn't want their pity.

But then, one evening, after a particularly brutal training session, Damian collapsed.

He had pushed his body too far. His muscles gave out, and his vision went black as he hit the floor with a sickening thud. When he woke up, he was in the infirmary, hooked up to an IV. His father was sitting beside him, silent but watching him with a mix of anger and worry.

"Damian," Bruce began, but Damian cut him off.

"Don't," Damian muttered, his voice weak. "I don't need a lecture."

"This isn't a lecture," Bruce said, his tone softer than usual. "This is me telling you that you don't have to do this alone."

But Damian couldn't bring himself to respond. The shame, the guilt, the overwhelming feeling of failure—it was too much. He turned his head away, staring at the wall as tears pricked the corners of his eyes.

For the first time in his life, Damian felt completely and utterly powerless.

- 10/09/2024