Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

The Sound of Silence

The clock ticked in the dim light of Damian's room. Each second felt like an eternity, a slow, steady drumbeat marking time in the oppressive silence. The mission had been over for days, but its aftermath clung to him like a suffocating fog. The memory of that night was still fresh—the helpless cries, the smell of blood, the cold realization that he had failed.

Again.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, his fists clenched tight until his knuckles turned white. A wave of frustration pulsed through him, the silence of the manor heavy and unbearable. It wasn't just the quiet that gnawed at him, it was the emptiness. The absence of voices, of action, of any distraction that could pull him from the prison of his own thoughts.

But the Bat family had learned to leave him alone. After years of pushing them away, they finally understood—or maybe they just stopped trying to understand. Either way, no one knocked on his door anymore. No one asked if he was okay.

Because he wasn't.

He hadn't been okay for a long time.

He stood up abruptly, the motion so quick it left his head spinning for a moment. His eyes flickered to the dresser where his phone rested, the screen dark, unused. There were no new messages. No missed calls. Nothing. Not that he was expecting any. Even the Titans had given him space, had learned to give him space. His chest tightened at the thought, the isolation choking him.

It wasn't their fault. It wasn't anyone's fault.

But why did he feel so utterly alone?

The silence crept in again, thicker this time, like a dense fog that dulled his senses. He needed noise—something, anything to drown out the echoes of that night, to chase away the visions that flashed every time he closed his eyes. His heartbeat quickened as his gaze fell on the window. The city lights blinked in the distance, far beyond the walls of Wayne Manor, beyond the reaches of his self-imposed exile.

He could go out. Suit up. Forget.

But no. His father had said not to.

His father. The word alone felt foreign on his tongue. Bruce had barely looked at him since the mission, and Damian hadn't sought him out either. Not that it would help. Bruce never understood—he never had. He thought training harder, working more, was the solution to everything. But the pain didn't go away just because Damian had mastered a new fighting technique.

The memories wouldn't leave him alone just because he could break an opponent's arm in two seconds flat.

Damian's hands shook as he reached into the drawer of his bedside table, pulling out a small, folded piece of paper. His fingers unfolded it slowly, the action almost reverent. His breathing hitched as he stared down at the familiar handwriting—Jon's.

"I know you don't like to talk about stuff, but... just know I'm here. Whenever you need me."

Jon had written it after they'd defeated another villain, as if a note could fix everything. Damian had laughed at the time, shoving it into his pocket without much thought. But now, in the dead of night, when the walls felt like they were closing in, it was the only thing that made sense.

He crumpled the note in his fist, the pressure building in his chest. The silence was overwhelming, a weight pressing down on him until it was hard to breathe. He glanced at the locked door, tempted for a moment to throw it open, to run downstairs, to demand that someone—anyone—talk to him. But the thought was fleeting.

He didn't need them. He didn't need anyone.

His eyes slid over to the bottle of pills on the nightstand. It had been there for weeks now, untouched, but the temptation had been growing stronger with every passing day. It would be easy. Just one or two, maybe more. It would silence the noise in his head, dull the sharp edges of the memories that wouldn't stop replaying.