Damian Wayne One Shots

Fading Out

The city of Gotham stretched out beneath Damian Wayne as he sat on a ledge of a building, his sharp eyes scanning the streets below. The night was quiet, but his mind was anything but. He felt the wind biting at his skin, cold and unrelenting. It mirrored the chill that had settled deep in his chest—an emptiness that had been gnawing at him for weeks, growing worse with each passing night.

It had all started with the nightmares.

At first, Damian brushed them off. He had seen far worse things in his life than the images that flashed in his mind while he slept. The nightmares were just echoes of his past, reminders of his time with the League of Assassins—blood, pain, and the sound of his mother's voice, harsh and demanding. Talia's words always lingered: "You're my perfect soldier, Damian. My perfect weapon."

But as the nights wore on, the nightmares became more vivid, more real. Each night was a new torment—failing his father, losing his friends, becoming the very monster he had fought so hard to escape. His heart pounded each time he woke, his body covered in cold sweat. And then there was the insomnia. It started as a few restless nights but soon became a full-blown battle with sleep. He was too tired to think clearly, but too wired to fall asleep. His mind raced constantly, replaying every mistake, every moment where he wasn't enough.

The Bat Family hadn't noticed. Or maybe they did, but they didn't care. Bruce was always caught up in missions, disappearing for days without so much as a word. Dick was busy with Blüdhaven, and Tim was wrapped up in his own world. It felt like Damian was just a ghost passing through, forgotten in the shadows of the Batcave. Even Alfred, who usually noticed everything, seemed too preoccupied with Bruce's endless crusade to see how much Damian was struggling.

So, Damian did what he had been trained to do—he pushed through it. He refused to let his weakness show, keeping up appearances during missions and training. But inside, he was crumbling.

The nightmares returned that night, more vivid than ever. Damian found himself back at the League's headquarters, surrounded by the cold, unfeeling walls. His mother stood before him, her eyes burning with disappointment.

"You were supposed to be the perfect son," she hissed. "But look at you now. Weak. Useless. A failure."

Damian tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond. He was frozen in place as shadows swirled around him, closing in. He looked down and saw his hands stained with blood—blood that wasn't his own. He turned, and there was Bruce, standing at a distance, his back to Damian.

"Father, wait!" Damian called out, but Bruce didn't turn. He kept walking away, leaving Damian behind in the darkness.

The shadows closed in, suffocating him, until he woke with a start, gasping for breath.

He sat up in bed, his heart racing, the image of his father's back still burned into his mind. It was always the same—no matter how much he fought, no matter how hard he tried, he was never good enough for Bruce. He would always be the son of Talia al Ghul, a weapon forged by the League. Maybe that's all he was ever meant to be.

Damian swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the weight of exhaustion pull at him. He hadn't slept more than a few hours in days, and the toll it was taking on his body was becoming harder to ignore. He felt weak, slow—like a shadow of the fighter he used to be.

He couldn't keep going like this.

The Batcave was eerily quiet as Damian descended the staircase, his boots making soft thuds against the stone. He knew no one else was down here. Bruce was out on a mission, and the others were scattered across the city, dealing with their own problems. It was better that way. Damian didn't want to see them. He didn't want to face the questions, the looks of concern that felt more like pity.