Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Beneath the Surface

Damian Wayne slouched against the cold, wet stone of Gotham's waterfront, his head tipped back as rain drizzled down from the sky. The night was heavy with silence, except for the distant hum of the city—a broken lullaby of sirens, honking cars, and muffled conversations that never quite stopped.

He exhaled slowly, watching his breath mix with the fog rolling off the bay. In his hand, a cigarette smoldered at the tip, sending thin trails of smoke into the night air. He hadn't told anyone when he started smoking. It had just happened—something to calm his nerves when meditation didn't work and the ache in his chest got too hard to bear.

Damian inhaled again, letting the burn fill his lungs before releasing it in a long, slow stream. The world felt distant here, quieter than the chaos of Wayne Manor or the endless streets of Gotham. For a brief moment, the noise inside his mind dulled. But not enough. It never was enough.

He had screwed up. Again.

It didn't matter how hard he tried—how many nights he spent patrolling, how many villains he put behind bars. In the end, he always felt like he was one step behind. Not smart enough, not fast enough. Never enough.

Bruce was never cruel—just silent in the way that stung worse than any insult. Damian could live with insults. But the silence? The silence was unbearable.

A part of him knew that his father didn't mean to make him feel this way, but Bruce was impossible to please. No matter how hard Damian fought, it felt like he was always trying to fill a void—some invisible standard set by his predecessors. By Dick. By Tim.

And God, even Jason, with all his anger and baggage, had found a way to belong again. But Damian? He wasn't sure he ever truly belonged.

The cigarette burned low between Damian's fingers, and he stared at the glowing ember, his mind drifting. It was so easy to think back to the moments that had gutted him the most—the times he needed someone, only to be met with indifference.

There was the first time Bruce left him behind on a mission, saying, "You're not ready." The disappointment in his father's voice had been quiet but cutting, like a dull knife pressed against his heart.

Then there was the time Dick left Gotham for Blüdhaven, and Damian begged him—actually begged—to stay. Dick had tousled his hair, told him he'd visit, and then walked away without looking back. He'd kept his promise, sure, but those visits felt like obligations more than brotherly love.

And Alfred... He was the closest thing Damian had to a real constant. But even Alfred's affection couldn't soothe the deeper wounds—because it wasn't enough to have a surrogate grandfather. He needed a father. A family.

Instead, he got people who loved their idea of him, but not him.

The tip of the cigarette brushed his lip again. His hands trembled slightly, and he wasn't sure if it was from the cold or the weight of everything pressing down on him.

He flicked the cigarette away, watching it hiss as it hit the wet pavement. The taste lingered on his tongue, bitter and sharp.

A part of him wondered what it would be like to walk away from it all.

No more expectations. No more failures. Just... silence.

But even that wasn't an option. There was no escaping who he was.

I'll always be a disappointment, no matter what I do.

The thought hit him harder than he expected, and for a moment, it was hard to breathe. He curled his hands into fists, pressing them against his knees as if that would hold him together.