Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Not Good Enough

The mission had been brutal. Damian's muscles ached, his lungs burned, and his uniform was soaked with sweat and blood. It wasn't just any night—it was the kind of night that could have ended in disaster if he hadn't intervened. A gang of heavily armed mercenaries had ambushed them, and Damian had thrown himself into the fray without hesitation.

When the dust settled, the mercenaries were unconscious, their weapons destroyed. Damian had taken more hits than he could count, but they won. He had ensured they won.

The ride back to the Batcave was quiet. Bruce was at the wheel of the Batmobile, his jaw clenched in the way it always was when missions went sideways. But he said nothing—not a word of acknowledgment, no pat on the back. Damian had expected it by now.

Maybe when we get back, Damian thought, he'll say something then.

The cave's lights flickered on as they pulled in. Tim was already there, seated in front of the Batcomputer, analyzing data. Damian's lips curled into a bitter frown. Of course Tim was here—always waiting, always ready to prove himself.

Bruce peeled off his cowl, rubbing his temples. He glanced at the screens where Tim was typing, his expression softening.

"Good work tonight, Tim," Bruce said, a rare warmth in his voice. "Your intel was solid. Couldn't have done it without you."

The words hit Damian harder than any punch he'd taken earlier. His heart sank, a familiar ache settling deep in his chest. Couldn't have done it without you?

What about me?

He had fought through those mercenaries, risked his life—again—and Bruce's praise went to Tim. It always did. No matter how hard he fought, how perfect he tried to be, it was never enough.

Bruce didn't see him. Not really.

Damian clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking. He forced himself to stand tall, to keep his face impassive. But inside, he was cracking.

"Good work?" Damian's voice was low, almost too quiet to hear. But Bruce and Tim both turned toward him.

"What?" Bruce asked, confused by the sudden outburst.

Damian's eyes darkened with something sharp—something dangerous. "I fought those men alone, and all you have to say is good work to him?" He jerked his head toward Tim, the bitterness spilling over. "Do you even realize what I did out there?"

Bruce's face hardened. "We all have a part to play, Damian."

"That's not the point!" Damian snapped, his voice breaking. "I gave everything tonight—everything! And you don't care."

Tim shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "It's not like that, Damian."

"Oh, isn't it?" Damian shot back, glaring at him. "It's always you. You're the one he praises. You're the one who's good enough. No matter what I do, it's never me."

Bruce's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. He didn't deny it.

That silence was louder than anything he could've said.

Damian took a step back, his chest heaving. He swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing down the emotions threatening to burst free.

"I'll never be good enough for you," Damian whispered, his voice raw. "And I'm tired of trying."

Before Bruce or Tim could respond, Damian turned on his heel and stormed out of the Batcave, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space.

The cold night air hit Damian's face as he stepped outside, but it did little to numb the storm raging inside him. He found himself wandering through Gotham's streets, his thoughts circling like vultures.