Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

A Cry for Help

Damian Wayne leaned against the cold, damp wall of the Batcave, his heart racing as he replayed the events of the night in his mind. The echoes of fists colliding with flesh and the grunts of pain from his enemies still reverberated in his ears. The violent encounter had pushed him to his limits, igniting a chaos within him that he couldn't quite understand. He felt a darkness creeping in, swallowing the parts of him that still believed in heroism.

He glanced around the cave, half-expecting to see his family. Bruce was probably off on another mission, and the others were scattered throughout Gotham, dealing with their own battles. But tonight, Damian needed someone. He needed to talk about the rage that clawed at his insides, the guilt of hurting others, and the fear of losing control.

Tim was in the training room, running through drills on the combat simulators. He was focused, as usual, the beeping sounds of the machines punctuating the silence of the cave. Damian took a deep breath and stepped forward, determined to reach out to his brother.

"Tim!" he called out, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

Tim turned around, a look of surprise flashing across his face. "Hey, Damian! What's up?"

Damian hesitated. This was Tim, the brother he looked up to, the one who always seemed so steady and reliable. But tonight, he felt vulnerable, and the words caught in his throat. "I... I wanted to talk about what happened earlier."

Tim's face softened, but he quickly glanced back at the simulator. "Can it wait? I'm in the middle of something."

"No, it can't wait," Damian insisted, his voice rising slightly. "I'm feeling—"

"Look, Damian," Tim interrupted, his tone dismissive. "I really don't have time for this right now. Just toughen up, okay? You're a Wayne. You can handle it."

The words hit Damian like a punch to the gut. He felt a familiar sting of frustration mixed with disappointment. Tim had always been the one to help him navigate through the chaos, but now he felt rejected, invisible. The emotions swirling inside him were intense, and he felt as if he was being crushed under the weight of his brother's indifference.

"Fine," Damian said, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with hurt. "I guess I'll just figure it out myself."

He turned away, the sting of tears pricking at his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Instead, he headed back to his room, feeling more alone than ever. He needed to escape the confusion and pain. In the darkness of his thoughts, a familiar and dangerous idea began to take root.

Once in the solitude of his room, Damian sat on the edge of his bed, his mind racing. The disappointment in Tim's eyes echoed in his head, and he felt like he was drowning in a sea of anger and hopelessness. How could he feel this way when he was supposed to be the strong one? The assassin, the son of Batman? He was supposed to be tougher than this. But the truth was, he felt weak.

Desperate to regain some sense of control over his emotions, he reached for the small blade he kept hidden beneath his mattress. It was a habit he had tried to break, but the urge to hurt himself had become more frequent since he began to feel the weight of expectations bearing down on him.

He took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. As he pressed the cool metal against his skin, he thought about Tim's words. "You can handle it." Maybe he couldn't. The darkness within him felt insatiable, and for a fleeting moment, the pain of the blade felt like the only thing grounding him.