Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Empty Promises

The Batcave was always filled with noise—keystrokes echoing from the Batcomputer, the hum of gadgets being tested, and the occasional clatter of weapons training. But to Damian Wayne, it often felt like a void. In the dim glow of the monitors, he sat silently, staring at his gloved hands as if trying to find some semblance of meaning in the lines and scars.

"Father," Damian spoke, breaking the tense quiet. Bruce, hunched over the Batcomputer, didn't even glance his way.

Damian's voice held more weight this time, "I need your help."

Bruce paused but didn't turn. "I'm in the middle of something important, Damian. We'll talk later."

Damian clenched his jaw, suppressing the frustration bubbling inside him. Later. The word echoed like a broken promise in his head. It was always "later" or "another time" or "soon." Bruce's responses had become so predictable that Damian had stopped expecting anything different. The weight of those empty promises pressed against his chest like a stone, each one heavier than the last.

The training session that day had been brutal. Damian pushed himself past exhaustion, hoping the physical strain would drown out the emotions he couldn't understand, the ones he didn't dare name. Anger, resentment, disappointment—feelings that had no place in the life of the son of Batman.

But he felt them anyway.

By the time the session was over, Damian was bleeding from several cuts, his muscles ached, and his breathing was labored. It wasn't enough. Nothing ever felt like enough. The hollow sensation inside him wouldn't be filled by any amount of bruises or broken bones.

The truth was that despite being the son of the Dark Knight, despite his rigorous training, despite everything he had accomplished, Damian felt alone. A gnawing sense of isolation wrapped itself around his heart, squeezing tighter with each passing day.

Bruce would see it, wouldn't he? He had to. But the weeks passed, and Bruce remained absorbed in his never-ending crusade. The rest of the Bat-family was equally consumed by their own lives. Dick had his responsibilities as Nightwing, Jason was off chasing his personal vendettas, and Tim, well, Tim was always the golden child in Bruce's eyes.

Damian was left in the shadows.

It was a Friday evening when Damian finally stopped asking for help altogether. It wasn't a conscious decision—it just happened. After months of being let down, he decided it wasn't worth the effort anymore. Why keep reaching out to people who weren't there? Why keep begging for attention, for validation, for anything?

Sitting alone in his room at the manor, Damian flipped through his journal, scrawling down thoughts that felt foreign to him. I'm the son of Batman, he reminded himself. I shouldn't feel like this. I'm stronger than this.

But the words felt empty. Hollow. Like the promises Bruce had made to him time and time again. He closed the journal with a sigh, tossing it onto his desk with more force than he intended.

The loneliness seeped into every corner of his life. At school, Damian noticed the other students in ways he hadn't before. Their laughter grated on his nerves, their carefree lives felt foreign and unreachable. He didn't understand them, and they didn't understand him. And why would they? Damian Wayne was an enigma, even to himself. He felt separate, like he existed in an entirely different world.

He had tried fitting in once. He had tried to make friends, to lower his walls, but it had always ended the same way—with him retreating back into himself. He couldn't connect with anyone, not in a way that mattered. No one really knew him.