Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Torn Pages

Damian sat at his desk, the room dimly lit by a flickering lamp. The manor was quiet, almost too quiet, but the silence was a welcome refuge tonight. His journal lay open in front of him, the pages filled with sharp, hurried handwriting, the ink still wet. Writing had become his escape—a way to release the flood of emotions that even his combat training couldn't purge.

For as long as he could remember, he had been taught to keep his feelings locked away, hidden behind walls of strength and discipline. But here, in the privacy of his journal, he allowed himself to be vulnerable. To bleed ink instead of the real thing. Each word was a fragment of himself, torn from the parts of him that he couldn't share with anyone, especially not his father.

Bruce didn't understand. He never did. Emotions were weaknesses in Bruce's world—flaws that needed to be ironed out, trained away. But Damian was tired of pretending. Writing was the only thing that let him feel without judgment. It was his only outlet, the only thing that kept him from spiraling further into the darkness that had been creeping up on him since the mission.

He finished scribbling the last sentence, his hand trembling as he snapped the journal shut. The heavy leather cover closed with a satisfying thud, as if sealing away everything inside it—his doubts, his rage, his failures. He slid it under the corner of his pillow, a place where no one would think to look.

But tonight, exhaustion got the better of him. Damian lay down, his body tense as he stared at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on his chest. His mind was still racing, the words he had written swirling in his head. Eventually, sleep took over, dragging him into the depths of uneasy dreams.

When Damian woke, the morning light had already begun to filter through the heavy curtains. His muscles ached from a night of fitful sleep, and his mind was still clouded with the remnants of dreams he couldn't quite remember. He rubbed his eyes and stretched, ready to face another day of silence and avoidance.

But something felt off.

His heart skipped a beat as his hand reached for the journal beneath his pillow—and found nothing.

Panic seized him, and he bolted upright, eyes scanning the room. The desk was empty. The floor was clear. His breath quickened as he frantically pulled back the blankets, searching, hoping he had just misplaced it. But deep down, he knew.

The door creaked open, and Bruce stood in the doorway, holding the journal in his hand, the cover worn and familiar, the pages slightly bent from being opened and read. Damian's heart dropped to the pit of his stomach.

"Damian," Bruce's voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge to it, a tension that set Damian's teeth on edge. "We need to talk."

The air between them was thick with unspoken words, and for a moment, Damian couldn't find his voice. His eyes were locked on the journal in Bruce's hand, his brain screaming at him to snatch it back, to destroy it before any more damage could be done.

"What are you doing with that?" Damian finally managed to ask, his voice cold and sharp, though his hands trembled at his sides.

Bruce stepped into the room, his gaze unreadable. "It was left out," he said. "I thought it was something important. I didn't expect to read what I did."

Damian's chest tightened, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles turned white. "You had no right," he growled, every word laced with venom. "That was private."

"I know," Bruce admitted, his voice steady but distant. "But what you wrote—Damian, this isn't something you can keep to yourself. You're—"